Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
He soon obtained the information
which he sought; and an old sailor, to whom he had addressed himself, not only
hinted that the vessel in question was suspected, when in the harbor, to be of
piratical character, but also declared that he himself had seen a lady conveyed
on board during the night preceding the departure of the ship. Further
inquiries convinced Wagner that the lady spoken of had been carried by force,
and against her will, to the corsair vessel; and he was now certain that the
demon had not deceived him, and that he had indeed obtained a trace of his lost
Nisida!
His mind was immediately resolved
how to act; and his measures were as speedily taken.
Guided by the advice of the old
sailor from whom he had gleaned the information he sought, he was enabled to
purchase a fine vessel and equip her for sea within the space of a few days. He
lavished his gold with no niggard hand, and gold is a wondrous talisman to
remove obstacles and facilitate designs. In a word, on the sixth morning after
his arrival at Leghorn, Fernand Wagner embarked on board his ship, which was
manned with a gallant crew, and carried ten pieces of ordnance. A favoring
breeze prevailed at the time, and the gallant bark set sail for the Levant.
The
reader may perhaps be surprised
that Fernand Wagner should have been venturous enough to trust himself to the
possibilities of a protracted voyage, since every month his form must undergo a
frightful change—a destiny which he naturally endeavored to shroud in the
profoundest secrecy.
But it must be recollected that
the Mediterranean is dotted with numerous islands; and he knew that, however
changeable or adverse the winds might be, it would always prove an easy matter
to make such arrangements as to enable him to gain some port a few days
previously to the close of the month. Moreover, so strong, so intense was his
love for Nisida, that, even without the prospect afforded by this calculation,
he would have dared all perils, incurred all risks, exposed himself to all
hostile chances, rather than have remained inactive while he believed her to be
in the power of a desperate, ruthless bandit. For, oh! ever present to his mind
was the image of the lost fair one; by day, when the sun lighted up with smiles
the dancing waves over which his vessel bounded merrily, merrily; and by night,
when the moon shone like a silver lamp amidst the curtains of heaven’s
pavilion.
His was not the love which knows
only passionate impulse:
it
was a constant, unvarying tender sentiment—far, far more pure, and therefore
more permanent, than the ardent and burning love which Nisida felt for him. His
was not the love which possession would satiate and enjoyment cool down: it was
a feeling that had gained a soft yet irresistible empire over his heart.
And that love of his was nurtured
and sustained by the most generous thoughts. He pictured to himself the
happiness he should experience in becoming the constant companion of one whose
loss of hearing and of speech cut her off as it were from that communion with
the world which is so grateful to her sex: he imagined to himself, with all the
fond idolatry of sincere affection, how melodiously soft, how tremulously clear
would be her voice, were it restored to her, and were it first used to
articulate the delicious language of love. And then he thought how enchanting,
how fascinating, how fraught with witching charms, would be the conversation of
a being endowed with so glorious an intellect, were she able to enjoy the faculty
of speech. Thus did her very imperfections constitute a ravishing theme for his
meditation; and the more he indulged in dreams like these, the more resolute
did he become never to rest until he had discovered and rescued her.
Seven days had elapsed since the
ship sailed from Leghorn; and Sicily had already been passed by, when the
heavens grew overclouded, and everything portended a storm. The captain, whom
Wagner had placed in charge of his vessel, adopted all the precautions
necessary to encounter the approaching tempest; and soon after the sun went
down on the seventh night a hurricane suddenly swept the surface of the
Mediterranean. The ship bent to the fury of the gust—her very yards were deep
in the water. But when the rage of that dreadful squall subsided, the gallant
bark righted again, and bounded triumphantly over the foaming waves.
A night profoundly dark set in;
but the white crests of the billows were visible through that dense obscurity:
while the tempest rapidly increased in violence, and all the dread voices of
the storm, the thunder in the heavens, the roaring of the sea, and the gushing
sounds of the gale, proclaimed the fierceness of the elemental war. The wind
blew not with that steadiness which the skill of the sailor and the capacity of
the noble ship were competent to meet, but in long and frequent gusts of
intermittent fury. Now rose the gallant bark on the waves, as if towering
toward the starless sky, in the utter blackness of which the masts were lost;
then it sank down into the abyss, the foam of the boiling billows glistening
far above, on all sides, amidst the obscurity. What strange and appalling
noises are heard on board a ship laboring in a storm—the cracking of timber,
the creaking of elastic planks, the rattling of the cordage, the flapping of
fragments of sails, the failing of spars, the rolling of casks got loose, and
at times a tremendous crash throughout the vessel, as if the whole framework
were giving way and the very sides collapsing!
And amidst those various noises
and the dread sounds of the
storm,
the voices of the sailors were heard—not in prayer nor subdued by terror—but
echoing the orders issued by the captain, who did not despair of guiding—nay,
fighting, as it were, the ship through the tumultuous billows and against the
terrific blast.
Again a tremendous hurricane
swept over the deep: it passed, but not a spar remained to the dismantled bark.
The tapering masts, the long graceful yards were gone, the cordage having
snapped at every point where its support was needed—snapped by the fury of the
tempest, as if wantonly cut by a sharp knife. The boats—the crew’s last
alternative of hope—had likewise disappeared. The ship was now completely at
the mercy of the wild raging of the winds and the fury of the troubled waters;
it no longer obeyed its helm, and there were twenty men separated, all save
one
,
from death only by a few planks and a few nails! The sea now broke so
frequently over the vessel that the pumps could scarcely keep her afloat; and
at length, while it was yet dark, though verging toward the dawn, the sailors
abandoned their task of working at those pumps. Vainly did the captain endeavor
to exercise his authority—vainly did Wagner hold out menaces and promises by
turns; death seemed imminent, and yet those men, who felt that they were
hovering on the verge of destruction, flew madly to the wine-stores.
Then commenced a scene of the
wildest disorder amidst those desperate men; and even the captain himself,
perceiving that they could laugh, and shout, and sing, in the delirium of
intoxication, rushed from the side of Wagner and joined the rest. It was
dreadful to hear the obscene jest, the ribald song, and the reckless
execration, sent forth from the cabin, as if in answer to the awful voices in
which Nature was then speaking to the world. But scarcely had a faint gleam
appeared in the orient sky—not quite a gleam, but a mitigation of the
intenseness of the night—when a tremendous wave—a colossus amongst giants—broke
over the ill-fated ship, while a terrible crash of timber was for a moment
heard in unison with the appalling din of the whelming billows. Wagner was the
only soul on deck at that instant: but the fury of the waters tore him away
from the bulwark to which he had been clinging, and he became insensible.
When he awoke from the stupor
into which he had been plunged, it was still dusk, and the roar of the ocean
sounded in his ears with deafening din.
But he was on land, though where
he knew not. Rising from the sand on which he had been cast, he beheld the
billows breaking on the shore at the distance of only a few paces; and he
retreated further from their reach. Then he sat down, with his face toward the
east, anxiously awaiting the appearance of the morn that he might ascertain the
nature and the aspect of the land on which he had been cast. By degrees the
glimmering which had already subdued the blackness of night into the less
profound obscurity of duskiness, grew stronger; and a yellow luster, as of a
far-distant conflagration, seemed to struggle against a thick fog. Then a faint
roseate streak tinged the eastern
horizon,
growing gradually deeper in hue, and spreading higher and wider—the harbinger
of sunrise; while, simultaneously, the features of the land on which Wagner was
thrown began to develop themselves like specters stealing out of complete
security; till at length the orient luster was caught successively by a
thousand lofty pinnacles of rock; and finally the majestic orb itself appeared,
lighting up a series of verdant plains, delicious groves, glittering lakes,
pellucid streams, as well as the still turbulent ocean and the far-off
mountains which had first peeped from amidst the darkness.
Fair and delightful was the scene
that thus developed itself to the eyes of Wagner; but as his glance swept the
country which rose amphitheatrically from the shore not a vestige of the
presence of man could be beheld. No smoke curled from amidst the groves, no
church spire peeped from amongst the trees; nor had the wilderness of nature
been disturbed by artificial culture.
He turned toward the ocean; there
was not a trace of his vessel to be seen. But further along the sand lay a dark
object, which he approached, with a shudder, for he divined what it was.
Nor was he mistaken; it was the
swollen and livid corpse of one of the sailors of his lost ship.
Wagner’s first impulse was to
turn away in disgust, but a better feeling almost immediately animated him:
and, hastening to the nearest grove, he broke off a large bough, with which he
hollowed a grave in the sand. He deposited the corpse in the hole, throwing
back the sand which he had displaced, and thus completed his Christian task.
During his visit to the grove, he
had observed with delight that the trees were laden with fruit; and he now
returned thither to refresh himself by means of the banquet thus bountifully
supplied by nature. Having terminated his repast, he walked further inland. The
verdant slope stretched up before him, variegated with flowers, and glittering
with morning dew. As he advanced, the development of all the features of that
land—lakes and woods; hills undulating like the sea in sunset, after hours of
tempest: rivulets and crystal streams, each with its own peculiar murmurs, but
all of melody; groves teeming with the most luxurious fruit of the tropics, and
valleys carpeted with the brightest green, varied with nature’s own embroidery
of flowers—the development of this scene was inexpressibly beautiful, far
surpassing the finest efforts of creative fancy.
Wagner seated himself on a sunny
bank, and fell into a profound meditation. At length, glancing rapidly around,
he exclaimed aloud, as if in continuation of the chain of thoughts which had
already occupied his mind, “Oh, if Nisida were here—here, in this delicious
clime, to be my companion! What happiness—what joy! Never should I regret the
world from which this isle—for an isle it must be—is separated! Never should I
long to return to that communion with men from which we should be cut off! Here
would the eyes of my Nisida cast forth rays of joy and gladness upon everything
around; here would the sweetest transitions of sentiment and feeling take
place!
Nisida would be the
island queen; she should deck herself with these flowers, which her fair hands
might weave into wildly fantastic arabesques! Oh! all would be happiness—a
happiness so serene, that never would the love of mortals he more truly
blessed! But, alas!” he added, as a dreadful thought broke rudely upon this
delightful vision, “I should be compelled to reveal to her my secret—the
appalling secret of my destiny: that when the period for transformation came
round, she might place herself in safety——”
Wagner stopped abruptly, and rose
hastily from his seat on the sunny bank. The remembrance of this dreadful fate
had spoiled one of the most delicious waking dreams in which he had ever
indulged; and, dashing his hands against his forehead, he rushed wildly toward
the chain of mountains which intersected the island.
But suddenly he stopped short,
for on the ground before him lay the doublet of a man—a doublet of the fashion
then prevalent in Italy. He lifted it up, examined it, but found nothing in the
pockets; then, throwing it on the ground, he stood contemplating it for some
minutes.
Could it be possible that he was
in some part of Italy? that the ship had been carried back to the European
Continent during the tempest of the night? No; it was impossible that so lovely
a tract of land would remain uninhabited, if known to men. The longer he
reflected the more he became convinced that he was on some island hitherto
unknown to navigators, and on which some other shipwrecked individual had
probably been cast. Why the doublet should have been discarded he could well
understand, as it was thick and heavy, and the heat of the sun was already
intense, although it was not yet near the meridian.
Raising his eyes from the doublet
which had occasioned these reflections, he happened to glance toward a knot of
fruit trees at a little distance; and his attention was drawn to a large bough
which hung down as if almost broken away from the main stem. He approached the
little grove; and several circumstances now confirmed his suspicion that he was
not the only tenant of the island at that moment. The bough had been forcibly
torn down, and very recently, too; several of the fruits had been plucked off,
the little sprigs to which they had originally hung still remaining and bearing
evidence to the fact. But if additional proof were wanting of human presence
there, it was afforded by the half-eaten fruits that were strewed about.
Wagner now searched for the
traces of footsteps; but such marks were not likely to remain in the thick rich
grass, which if trampled down, would rise fresh and elastic again with the
invigorating dew of a single night. The grove, where Wagner observed the broken
bough and the scattered fruits, was further from the shore than the spot where
he had found the doublet; and he reasoned that the man, whoever he might be,
had thrown away his garment, when overpowered by the intensity of the heat, and
had then sought the shade and refreshment afforded
by the grove. He therefore
concluded that he had gone inland, most probably toward the mountains, whose
rocky pinnacles, of every form, now shone with every hue in the glorious
sunlight.