Mr. Midshipman Easy by Frederick Marryat (reading tree .TXT) 📖
- Author: Frederick Marryat
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“I came to tell you this news,” said Don Philip, “as I thought it would please you; the sooner you are now well the better. I mean to propose your being both removed to my father’s palazzo, and then you can recover your lost ground during the confessor’s absence.”
“And I have the means,” replied Jack, showing the friar’s letter. Don Philip read it with astonishment, but was still more surprised when he heard the whole story from Jack. He was for a time silent: at last he said,—
“I am sorry for your poor black.”
“Why so?” replied Jack.
“You will never see him again, depend upon it. A thousand dollars would sign the death warrant of a thousand blacks; but there is another reason-they will put him out of the way, that he may not give evidence. Where is the powder?”
“Mesty has it; he would not part with it.”
“He is a shrewd fellow, that black; he may be too much for the friar,” replied Don Philip.
“He means mischief, I’m sure,” replied Gascoigne.
“Still I feel a great deal of alarm about him,” replied Easy; “I wish now that I had not let him go.”
“Are you sure that he went?”
“No, I am not; but the friar told him that he should take him to the mountains as soon as it was dark.”
“And probably he will,” replied Don Philip, “as the best place to get rid of him. However, the whole of this story must be told both to my father and my mother; to the former, that he may take the right measures, and to my mother, that it may open her eyes. Give me the copy of the letter you wrote to the friar, and then I shall have it all.”
The report of the accident which had occurred to Easy and Gascoigne had been spread and fully believed throughout Palermo. Indeed, as usual, it had been magnified, and asserted that they could not recover. To Agnes only had the case been imparted in confidence by Don Philip, for her distress at the first intelligence had been so great that her brother could not conceal it.
Two days after Don Philip had made his parents acquainted with the villainy of the friar, the midshipmen were transported to the palazzo, much to the surprise of everybody, and much to the renown of the surgeons, who were indemnified for their duplicity and falsehood by an amazing extension of their credit as skilful men.
After their arrival at the palazzo, Don Rebiera was also entrusted with the secret, but it went no farther. As now there was no particular hurry for our hero to get well, he was contented and happy in the society of Agnes and her parents; the old lady, after she had been informed of the conduct of Friar Thomaso, having turned round in our hero’s favour, and made a vow never to have a confessor in the house again. Jack and Gascoigne were now as happy as could be; all their alarm was about Mesty, for whose return they were most anxious.
To Don Rebiera, Jack made known formally his intentions with regard to Agnes. He fully satisfied him as to his qualifications and his property, and Don Rebiera was fully aware of his debt of gratitude to our hero. But all he required was the consent of Jack’s father, and until this was obtained, he would not consent to the marriage taking place. Jack attempted to argue the point; his father, he said, had married without consulting him, and therefore he had a right to marry without consulting his father. But Don Rebiera, not having any acquaintance with the rights of man and equality, did not feel the full force of Jack’s argument, and made it a sine qua non that his parents should write and consent to the alliance before it took place.
In which Mesty should be called throughout Mephistopheles, for it abounds in black cloaks, disguises, daggers, and dark deeds.
ON THE FOURTH EVENING after the removal of our two midshipmen to the palazzo of Don Rebiera, as they were sitting in company with Agnes and Don Philip in their own room, a friar made his appearance at the door. They all started, for by his height they imagined him to be Friar Thomaso, but no one addressed him. The friar shut the door without saying a word, and then lifting up his cowl, which had been drawn over it, discovered the black face of Mesty. Agnes screamed, and all sprang from their seats at this unusual and unexpected apparition. Mesty grinned, and there was that in his countenance which said that he had much to communicate.
“Where is the friar-Mesty?” inquired Easy.
“Stop a little, Massa-suppose we lock door first, and den I tell all.”
Taking this precaution, Mesty threw off the friar’s gown, and appeared in his own dress, with the bag of dollars slung round his body.
“Now, Massa Easy, I hab a long story to tell-so I tink I better begin at the beginning.”
“It is the most approved method,” replied Jack, “but stop when I hold up my finger, that we may translate what you say to the lady and Don Philip.”
“Dat all right, sar. Friar and I get on two mule as soon as it quite dark. He make me carry all tousand dollars-and we ride out of town. We go up mountain and mountain, but the moon get up shine and we go on cheek by jowl-he nebber say one word, and I nebber say one word, ‘cause I no speak his lingo, and he no understand my English. About two o’clock in de morning, we stop at a house and stay dere till eight o’clock, and den we go on again all next day, up all mountain, only stop once, eat a bit bread and drink lilly wine. Second night come on, and den we stop again, and people bow very low to him, and woman bring in rabbit for make supper. I go in the kitchen, woman make stew smell very nice, so I nod my head, and I say very good, and she make a face, and throw on table black loaf of bread and garlic, and make sign dat for my supper; good enough for black fellow, and dat rabbit stew for friar. Den I say to myself, stop a little; suppose friar hab all de rabbit, I tink I give him a lilly powder.”
“The powder, Mesty?” exclaimed Jack.
“What does he say?” inquired Don Philip.
Gascoigne translated all that Mesty had communicated. The interest of the narrative now became exciting. Mesty continued:-
“Well, Massa Easy, den woman she go for dish to put stew in, and I take de powder and drop it in de pot, and den I sit down again and eat black bread, she say good enough for black man. She tir up de stew once more, and den she pour it out into dish, and take it to friar. He lick urn chops, by all de powers, and he like urn so well he pick all de bones, and wipe up gravy with him bread. You tink it very nice, Massa Friar, tink I; but stop a little. After he drink a whole bottle of wine, he tell me bring mules to de door, and he put him hands on de woman head, and dat de way he pay for him supper.
“The-moon shone bright, and we go up all mountain, always go up, and ‘bout two hour, he get off him mule and he put him hand so, and set down on de rock. He twist, and he turn, and he groan, for half an hour, and den he look at me, as much as to say, you black villain, you do this? for he not able to speak, and den I pull out de paper of de powder, and I show him, and make him sign he swallow it: he look again, and I laugh at him-and he die.”
“Oh, Mesty, Mesty,” exclaimed our hero; “you should not have done that,-there will mischief come from it.”
“Now he dead, Massa Easy, so much less mischief.”
Gascoigne then interpreted to Don Philip and Agnes, the former of whom looked very grave, and the latter terrified.
“Let him go on,” said Don Philip; “I am most anxious to hear what he did with the body.”
Mesty, at the request of our hero, proceeded: “Den I thought what I should do, and I said I would hide him, and I tink I take his coat for myself-so I pull off him coat and I pull off all his oder clothes-he not wear many-and I take the body in my arm, and carry him where I find a great split in de rock above all road. I throw him in, and den I throw plenty large pieces rock on him till I no see him any more; den I take de two mules and get on mine wid de dollars, and lead de other three four mile, till I come to a large wood-take off him saddle and bridle, turn him adrift. Den I tear up all clothes all in lilly bits, hide one piece here, noder piece dere, and de saddle and bridle in de bush. All right, now, I say so I put on friar cloak, hide my face, get on my mule, and den I look where I shall go-so I say, I not be in dis road anyhow, I pass through wood till I find nother. I go ‘bout two mile-moon go down, all dark, and five six men catch hold my bridle, and they all got arms, so I do noting-they speak to me, but I no answer, and nebber show my face. They find all dollars (d-n urn) fast enough, and they lead me away through the wood. Last we come to a large fire in de wood, plenty of men lie about, some eat and some drink. They pull me off, and I hold down my head and fold my arms, just like friar do. They bring me along to one man, and pour out all my dollar before him. He give some order, and they take me away, and I peep through the cloak, and I say to myself, he that d-n galley-slave rascal Don Silvio.”
“Don Silvio!” cried Jack.
“What does he say of Don Silvio?” demanded Don Philip.
Mesty’s narrative was again translated, and he continued.
“Dey led me away about fifty yards, tie me to tree, and den they leave me, and dey all drink and make merry, nebber offer me anything, so, l hab noting den to eat; I eat de ropes and gnaw them through and den I stay there two hour until all go asleep, and all quiet; for I say to myself, stop a little. Den when dey all fast asleep, I take out my knife and I crawl ‘long de ground, as we do in our country sometime-and den I stop and look ‘bout me; no man watch but two, and dey look out for squarl, not look in board where I was. I crawl again till I lay down alongside that d-n galley-slave Don Silvio. He lie fast asleep with my bag thousand dollars under him head. So I tink, ‘you not hab dem long, you rascal. I look round-all right, and I drive my knife good aim into him heart and press toder hand on him mouth, but he make no noise; he struggle little and look up, and den I throw off de head of de gown and show him my black face, and he look and he try to speak; but I stop dat, for down go my knife again, and de d-n galley-slave dead as herring.”
“Stop,
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