by Mary Shelley
Thus the boy attained his fifteenth year, never having joined his father in any of his perilous expeditions. He looked up to him with reverence, as youth does to experience, and regarded him with filial attachment, notwithstanding his habitual roughness and occasional severity. There was a buoyancy in the youth’s spirit, a fearlessness and a fortitude which the father prided himself on, as rendering him doubly fit for tasks of danger. Yet (so contradictory is human nature) in spite of pride, in spite of the bitter scorn that gnawed at his heart, when it was represented to him that his was an example to be avoided by his son, he felt a secret satisfaction in yielding to his wife’s entreaties, and an unacknowledged reluctance to meet the disapproving glance of integrity and innocence. Charles adored his mother. He stored up her moral and religious lessons with pious care. To assist, to console, to caress her filled his heart with gladness — and his bright smile, elastic step, and cheering voice did console her — and spread a sun-light over her darkened life, which it was agony to imagine might ever be eclipsed.
Another year had elapsed in this way, when on a morning — a fair morning, — a light breeze just rippling the blue plains of ocean — father and son launched their fishing-boat, as usual, and put out to sea. Jane watched them while in the offing they were preparing to throw their nets; when suddenly their sail was again set, and she saw them directing their course round the promontory that shut in the little bay. The poor woman knew that the rendezvous for the smugglers lay round that point. She uttered a cry, as if her feeble voice, calling “Stop!” would be heard across the dividing waves, and she rushed to the water’s edge—”He does not hear me,” she cried in anguish, “he will not hear — nor the sea, nor the winds — nor God — all are deaf, and my Charles is lost for ever! What — what can it mean?” —
Her husband had returned from an expedition of peculiar length and peril but the night before, and had, kissing his wife’s wan cheek — bid her “not fret, for that soon, with God’s blessing, he would give up the trade, and be well to do.” In the morning he had told her emphatically that he should but cast his nets and return. Had he deceived her; — or did some signal direct his movements? — It was all one.
She saw, as from a tower, the end of all — her boy the associate of vicious lawless men, exposed to hardships which the human frame could scarcely endure — painful nightwatches — apprehensions wrought to agony — and combats which, end as they would, in triumph or defeat, were attended by two-fold crime and danger. With eyes streaming with tears, she gazed upon the departing sail — the sun shone, the breeze was balmy — the waves danced and glittered beneath the bright sky, while a dark tempest loured over her foreboding soul.
Her younger son seeing her cry, immediately began an accompaniment; while Charley’s dog, who was lying asleep in the sun, got up and shook himself, and stood looking as with inquiring eyes, on the disappearance of the well-known skiff; and as it was lost behind the headland, turned to his mistress with a sorrowful whine: “True, poor fellow!” said Jane, “it is evil work they are going upon.” The poor animal came up to her, and licked her hand, and returned to stretch himself on the beach.
Charley’s dog was an especial favourite with his mother. During an inclement winter, when wrecks were but too frequent on the coast, the fisherman and his son had put off to give their adventurous aid to the crew of a small schooner, which had struck on a sunken reef. As they approached the vessel, each vast wave threatened to overwhelm them, and as they rose and fell in the trough of the sea, it seemed as if the deck of the vessel was absolutely deserted; yet a cry was borne to them, mingled with the roar of the surges — it seemed a human cry, and Charles, though then a child, strained every little nerve to hasten to the succour of his fellow-creature in distress: it was no human being — the deck was absolutely vacant; but a dog stood on the poop, whining fearfully. The fisherman was unwilling to endanger himself to save a dog, but Charles prayed hard, and the animal seeing them near leaped into the sea; the waves dashing over him deprived him of every power of swimming, but they bore him towards Charles; he caught him up, and the half-strangled thing slowly revived when out of the water. The poor fellow seemed quite aware of his mighty debt of gratitude, and strove to pay it in love and fidelity. The first time Charles had put to sea afterwards, the dog’s terror and resistance were something beyond instinct — he wailed — he pulled his new master back by his coat; and when he saw that his endeavours were vain, that his preserver was embarked, and was pushing from shore, as if resolved to share his fate, with a short sharp bark he plunged into the water and swam after them.
He was grown old now, and was usually left at home, the guard of the cottage and the playmate of the children. Still he could seldom be enticed in doors when his master was at sea; his usual post was on the beach; during calm weather he stretched his lazy length on the sands, but when the day was stormy, he perpetually watched the tumult of the waves, and his bark gave the first token of the well-known skiff having hove in sight.
The sea was tranquil, and nothing now called forth his disquietude, while Jane unable to calm her agitation, or to turn her thoughts elsewhere, stood, her eyes fixed on the point of land round which the boat had disappeared. The unclouded sun reached the zenith — Jane was obliged to occupy herself with her children — yet at every moment she was at the door of the cot, in fearful, restless expectation. The sunny summer day melting into evening, — the flow and then the ebb of the mighty flood — the light surf left glittering on the shingles — the cliff glowing with sunset hues, and her own quiet home, seeming with every other object, to repose in peace beneath the placid eye of heaven — all of beauty and of good was so much misery to Jane. The hours passed so slowly — so slowly had high water mark been gained, and then more slowly deserted; a ship or two rose on the horizon, and sunk again — the sea birds sought their nests in the rocks, but no light sail skimmed the blue surface, nor tiny hull speckled the laughing deep. Jane ascended the cliff: with her glass she visited every nook of the watery circumference; the moon rose as daylight faded, and “wove her chain upon the deep” — her chain of light and beauty; the flickering beams sometimes presented deceptive visions to the anxious mother’s eyes — her heart swelled, and then sunk within her, as hope and expectation failed.
Two endless wearying days passed thus, and a long wakeful night. She had retired to rest again on the third, when the dog’s bark roused her — she heard the splashing of the waters and steps upon the strand; soon her husband and son entered the hut: she cast a hasty inquiring glance on the first, and then fixed a long look of scrutiny on the latter. They both seemed overworn — drooping with fatigue. But little was said, except that her husband demanded supper. She placed food before them: Charles endeavoured to eat, but after a few vain efforts, he suddenly left the room. Little Tommy, who had got up to see his brother, was sent after him, and brought back word that he was gone to bed. Jane looked wistfully at her husband, but he was gloomy, and only said, “The best thing for him! We have had a hard bout of it — I shall turn in too.”
Deep sleep soon came over the weary seaman; but Jane remained up, and as she listened in the stillness of night, she heard a deep sigh in her son’s room: she stole in softly, and kneeling at his bedside, as he turned his open eyes away from the light, she said, “Are you ill — can I help you?”
He did not answer; and she said again—”You have not asked my blessing, Charles, to-night.”
“Do not speak to me, Mother,” said the lad; “I cannot speak to you, nor pray — I don’t believe I ever shall again” — and then half starting from his bed as if terrified, he cried, “If I could only sleep — if I could only not see — do leave the light with me, Mother — I see something so terrible in the dark! I am afraid — I never was a coward before!”
His voice quivered; and Jane, in an agony of tears threw herself on his neck, crying—”Sinful woman that I am, I have brought you to this!”
“Then you know — Why, why did you
not warn me?” Tears suffocated him as he spoke; he rested his head on her bosom, while his burthened spirit found relief in passionate weeping.
He had a direful tale to tell, which with some difficulty Jane extracted from him. She resolved to know the worst; and as he went on, her sympathy and consolation lightened the weight of his unhappiness.
It would seem that, during their last expedition, the smugglers had collected a booty of more than usual value, at less than the usual cost. This they had stowed in a cavern prepared and enlarged by them for that purpose, and had hastened to give notice of the cargo to the dealers with whom they were accustomed to traffic. They expected a golden harvest, and Jane’s husband, for the first time, solaced himself with the perspective of an honester livelihood and more peaceful days. That morning he had gone to sea with a blithe heart, and looking on his son, he felt a throb of pleasure to remember that he had been brought up innocently. At that moment glancing towards the point of cliff selected by his associates for their signals, he beheld one indicative of urgent danger and pressing need of his assistance. Such are our good intentions when resting neither on principle nor truth. This man’s short-lived sense of right vanished, and without another thought, save on what danger might threaten his friends, he bid Charles put the boat about, and, seizing the rudder, he steered for the place of rendezvous.
The men believed themselves to be either tracked or betrayed — at least they felt sure that they were discovered, and only not attacked on account of their numbers, and they knew that a reinforcing party had been sent for with all speed. Their immediate employment was to transfer their goods to other hiding places — to bury a part, and to hide the rest under the more desolate cliffs along the coast, — they were ready to throw it all into the sea, or destroy it in any way rather than it should fall into the hands of their enemies. Charles and his father landed, they scrambled up the rocks and entered the dark-browed cavern; its atmosphere was impregnated with the fumes of tobacco and spirits: the boy marked even in the gloom, the fierce hard faces of the men within — their garb set off by fire-arms; the bales of goods scattered about; and young, untaught, and unsuspecting as he was, the truth flashed on him at once, while the glad welcome given to “Jem Harding” revealed to him that his father was one of them.
This pen would utterly fail in its task were it to attempt to record the rough foul language of these men; their oaths, their imprecations, and their slang, in which fortunately poor Charles was no adept. His father replied in the same evil phrase, and equipped himself in all haste with arms, while one of his comrades handed a pistol to the boy, saying, “Stick this i’ thy belt, youngster.” Charles recoiled, and the man, with a yell of a laugh and an oath, asked if he was afraid it would bite him.
All hands now fell to work, and the day was passed almost uninterruptedly in the task of removing their goods. They knew that there were scouts about, and they adopted various expedients to mislead them. They transported a part of their ware inland, and such part as would not be injured by wet, they reserved to sink in a hole of the rocks covered at high water. Charles was obedient and worked hard among them, lending his ready aid without a murmur, so that he heard his father reproached several times for not bringing so handy a lad among them before.
Yet none of their labours was performed without danger and stratagem. At one time they discussed the eligibility of taking prisoner a man, who in the guise of a countryman was perpetually hovering about. The horrible mutterings and unintelligible language in which this discussion was carried on, hid much of their meaning from the tyro in their art; but their oaths, their dark looks, their hands frequently in gesticulation touching the weapons at their sides, awoke worse terrors in his imagination. He fancied that they meditated murder, and his blood curdled — the hair on his head seemed to stand on end, and his knees knocked together in horror. He drew a step or two nearer his father, but he was loudest in counselling the most desperate measures: the man, as if warned by instinct, appeared no more; but each time they drew near the place where he had been seen, Charles’s heart beat loud, and his limbs were paralysed by fear. At another time it was necessary to mislead a person who was bent on accompanying them. Charles, as the least suspicious looking of the groupe, was to perform this task. He who in the loneliness of his home and habits of frankness with his sweet mother, had never, during his life, said the thing that was not, was now, with brazen front, boldly to assert a lie. His brow flushed, shame sat on his cheek, and his tongue refused its office. Yet he felt the necessity of fulfilling the directions given him, even for the stranger’s own sake — it was done, the falsehood uttered, which appeared to him to taint his whole future life, and to render heaven itself his enemy!
All this was playing idly on the threshold of horrors. Night came on — soft balmy night, and the tranquillity of the ocean and the fair beams of the gentle moon were dressed as betrayers of their work: they were now employed in transporting several casks across a creek to a dark cleft in the rocks; two or three times had they visited it in safety — one voyage only remained, when, on nearing their destination, suddenly the sea seemed alive with boats — a file of men appeared on the cliff above — in every way they were surrounded. They threw their freight into the sea; they took to their oars; shots were fired, and a yell of voices raised that filled the very air with terror. The smugglers sought only to make good their escape; their assailants were desirous of assuring the capture of their goods, so that the struggle, though fierce, was short; and in gaining the open sea, the smugglers found that they were not pursued. At one moment — one terrible moment — a revenue officer had thrust his pistol close to Charles’s breast; his father dashed it away and fired his own; the man fell heavily into the water — the boy saw the body with its distorted death-struck face float past: in a minute more the sail which his associates had contrived to set was filled by the land breeze, and they were wafted beyond the cutters of their enemies: the shouts, the voices, late so loud and dread, died away, and they found themselves free and safe in the wide and misty waters. Still the woman-taught boy fancied that the dead man floated near — his face upturned on the weltering sea. He dared not lift his gaze to the moon-lit sky, for there dwelt the Eternal One, so grievously offended. Terror had been in his heart, remorse and despair succeeded; and meanwhile he sickened to hear the imprecation and the revilings of the crew — his father loudest and fiercest among them.
All that night and the next day they did not dare approach the shore.
They had but two or three biscuits with them, which had been greedily devoured on the first sensation of hunger, and a very small portion of one had fallen to Charles’s share; nor had they any thing except spirits to allay their thirst. With these some stupified themselves; others grew noisy and unruly; one man fell overboard, but the calm was such that he was easily picked up, and the accident served but to augment the loud squabbling on board. Charles turned with disgust from the maddening draughts; — sickening with hunger, and exhausted with fatigue, he stretched himself at the bottom of the boat, believing he should surely die — now crying as he thought of his dear mother — now rocked into disturbed slumbers by the waves. Towards the close of the day they drew near shore; at night-fall they landed. Charles and his father found their own skiff in the sheltered cove where they had left it, and here too they found water: a little refreshed, and yet overworn, they piloted themselves back to their well-known beach and peaceful home.
It was a difficult task for Jane to soothe and comfort her son; but by degrees his troubled thoughts grew calmer — his heavy eyes closed, and slumber crept subduingly over him. Jane watched by him and wept the while, not daring to regard the future, and seeing in the present the realization of her worst fears. Grey morning dawned: Harding awoke; he rose, and, not speaking to his wife for very shame, he went down to the beach to prepare his boat for sea. In a short time his voice was heard calling for his son. Charles had already risen, he had eaten of the breakfast set before him by his mothe
r, but he also was silent and thoughtful. Jane’s heart beat fast when she heard her husband call him; but still the lad said nothing, and walked down to the water’s edge.
Soon however the unhappy woman perceived that there was strife between the father and son. Charles stood on the sands, and, unmoved in gesture, seemed with firmness but respect to assert his resolves, while Harding, with loud voice and inflamed face, poured forth a torrent of abuse; his hand too was raised, and before Jane, rushing down to stay it, could reach him, he felled his son to the earth. Charles rose again and stood as before firm and collected. Harding, not wishing to encounter his wife’s reproaches, leaped alone into the boat, heaping curses on his child’s head — wishing that he had suffered him to be shot, and swearing that he would himself murder him, if he found him sneaking about the house on his return — the blood fall on his head if he ever saw him more! With these last words he pushed the boat from shore, while Charles, embracing his mother, said, “Do not grieve; it must be so — I must leave you for a little time: he will be kind to you when I am gone; and soon, when I have got into a good service, I will send for you, and he too will leave this wicked trade.”
“He wanted you to join them again?” asked Jane.
“Do not speak of it, Mother,” said the boy; “it could not be my duty to obey him, and I would not. I will go where I can earn an honest livelihood; and we shall meet again and be happy together.”
