The Pilot: A Tale of the Sea by James Fenimore Cooper (reading diary txt) 📖

“Useless!” repeated Manual; “there is much good service to be got out of twenty-three well-drilled and well-chosen marines: look at those fellows, Mr. Griffith, and then tell me if you think them an encumbrance in the hour of need.”

Griffith smiled, and glanced his eye over the sleeping group,—for when the firing had ceased the whole party had again sought their repose,—and he could not help admiring the athletic and sinewy limbs that lay scattered around the gloomy vault, in every posture that ease or whim dictated. From the stout frames of the men, his glance was directed to the stack of firearms, from whose glittering tubes and polished bayonets strong rays of light were reflected, even in that dark apartment. Manual followed the direction of his eyes, and watched the expression of his countenance with inward exultation; but he had the forbearance to await his reply before he manifested his feeling more openly.

“I know them to be true men,” said Griffith, “when needed, but—hark! what says he?”

“Who goes there? what noise is that?” repeated the sentinel who was placed at the entrance of the vault.

Manual and Griffith sprang at the same instant from their places of rest, and stood, unwilling to create the slightest sounds, listening with the most intense anxiety to catch the next indications of the cause of their guardian's alarm. A short stillness, like that of death, succeeded, during which Griffith whispered:

“'Tis the Pilot! his hour has been long passed.”

The words were hardly spoken, when the clashing of steel in fierce and sudden contact was heard, and at the next instant the body of the sentinel fell heavily along the stone steps that led to the open air, and rolled lifelessly to their feet, with the bayonet that had caused his death projecting from a deep wound in his breast.

“Away, away! sleepers away!” shouted Griffith.

“To arms!” cried Manual in a voice of thunder.

The alarmed marines, suddenly aroused from their slumbers at these thrilling cries, sprang on their feet in a confused cluster, and at that fatal moment a body of living fire darted into the vault, which re-echoed with the reports of twenty muskets. The uproar, the smoke, and the groans which escaped from many of his party, could not restrain Griffith another instant: his pistol was fired through the cloud which concealed the entrance of the vault, and he followed the leaden messenger, trailing a half-pike, and shouting to his men:

“Come on! follow, my lads; they are nothing but soldiers.”

Even while he spoke, the ardent young seaman was rushing up the narrow passage; but as he gained the open space, his foot struck the writhing body of the victim of his shot, and he was precipitated headlong into a group of armed men.

“Fire! Manual, fire!” shouted the infuriated prisoner; “fire, while you have them in a cluster.”

“Ay, fire, Mr. Manual,” said Borroughcliffe, with great coolness, “and shoot your own officer: hold him up, boys! hold him up in front; the safest place is nighest to him.”

“Fire!” repeated Griffith, making desperate efforts to release himself from the grasp of five or six men; “fire, and disregard me.”

“If he do, he deserves to be hung,” said Borroughcliffe; “such fine fellows are not sufficiently plenty to be shot at like wild beasts in chains. Take him from before the mouth of the vault, boys, and spread yourselves to your duty.”

At the time Griffith issued from the cover, Manual was mechanically employed in placing his men in order; and the marines, accustomed to do everything in concert and array, lost the moment to advance. The soldiers of Borroughcliffe reloaded their muskets, and fell back behind different portions of the wall, where they could command the entrance to the vault with their fire, without much exposure to themselves. This disposition was very coolly reconnoitered by Manual in person, through some of the crevices in the wall, and he hesitated to advance against the force he beheld while so advantageously posted. In this situation several shots were fired by either party, without effect, until Borroughcliffe, perceiving the inefficacy of that mode of attack, summoned the garrison of the vault to a parley.

“Surrender to the forces of his majesty, King George the Third,” he cried, “and I promise you quarter.”

“Will you release your prisoner, and give us free passage to our vessels?” asked Manual; “the garrison to march out with all the honors of war, and officers to retain their side-arms?”

“Inadmissible,” returned Borroughcliffe, with great gravity; “the honor of his majesty's arms, and the welfare of the realm, forbid such a treaty: but I offer you safe quarters and honorable treatment.”

“Officers to retain their side-arms, your prisoner to be released, and the whole party to return to America, on parole, not to serve until exchanged?”

“Not granted,” said Borroughcliffe. “The most that I can yield is a good potation of the generous south-side; and if you are the man I take you for, you will know how to prize such an offer.”

“In what capacity do you summon us to yield? as men entitled to the benefit of the laws of arms, or as rebels to your king?”

“Ye are rebels all, gentlemen,” returned the deliberate Borroughcliffe, “and as such ye must yield; though so far as good treatment and good fare goes, you are sure of it while in my power; in all other respects you lie at the mercy of his most gracious majesty.”

“Then let his majesty show his gracious face, and come and take us, for I'll be——”

The asseveration of the marine was interrupted by Griffith, whose blood had sensibly cooled, and whose generous feelings were awakened in behalf of his comrades, now that his own fate seemed decided.

“Hold, Manual,” he cried, “make no rash oaths: Captain Borroughcliffe, I am Edward Griffith, a lieutenant in the navy of the United American States, and I pledge you my honor to a parole——”

“Release him,” said Borroughcliffe.

Griffith advanced between the two parties, and spoke so as to be heard by both:

“I propose to descend to the vault, and ascertain the loss and present strength of Captain Manual's party: if the latter be not greater than I apprehend, I shall advise him to a surrender on the usual conditions of civilized nations.”

“Go,” said the soldier; “but stay; is he a half-and-half—an amphibious—pshaw! I mean a marine?”

“He is, sir, a captain in that corps——”

“The very man,” interrupted Borroughcliffe; “I thought I recollected the liquid sounds of his voice. It will be well to speak to him of the good fare of St. Ruth; and you may add, that I know my man: I shall besiege, instead of storming him, with the certainty of a surrender when his canteen is empty. The vault he is in holds no such beverage as the cellars of the Abbey.”