Dungeon Rock; OR THE PIRATE’S CAVE, AT LYNN.

BOSTON: C. M. A. Twitchell, Printer, 50 Bromfield St., Boston. 1885.

Copyright by MRS. S. P. AMES. 1885.

To Mrs. Hannah Lucinda Marble, widow of the late Excavator, and at the present time the person most interested in this romantic spot, I dedicate this book.

S. P. A.

5

HISTORY OF DUNGEON ROCK.

Dungeon Rock is as yet only half known. More than “two hundred years ago,” when first the foot of civilization pressed the unturned sod of New England’s rock-bound soil, a man, past the prime of life, having lost his place in England, determined on seeking a new name in a new country. Accordingly, he embarked with his only earthly treasures, his wife and the family coat of arms, and, after a dangerous voyage, reached Plymouth Rock, only to encounter more dangers. And there, in that lonely home, away from all that makes life desirable to childhood, did the little William first see the light of day, and began the battle of living without love. None but those who have experienced it can tell how deep and terrible is the sternness of a disappointed man.

Ben Wallace—for this was the adventurer’s name—had acquired a morbid hate for everything bright and beautiful, and lived, like most of New England’s early settlers, for the stern realities of life, expecting nothing but hardships, and therefore seeking nothing. No wonder, then, that the aristocratic blood of English ancestry, coursing through the child’s veins, rose against the injustice of being a dependent where he should have been a pride; and, even in his baby days, when the6 garden was his play-ground, the unrooted stumps his rocking-horses, and the strips of painted basket material, which he now and then received from the Indian children in the neighborhood, represented to his childish gaze the flags and banners of ancient heraldry, which his mother pointed out to him upon the coat of arms,—even then he defied his father’s commands, and turned from his stern reproofs to whisper the childish longings of his own heart to the birds and the dancing stream. “I hate it,” he said passionately, when he had arrived at the age of fourteen; “I hate the strong

fence that keeps me from finding other people’s homes! I hate to be confined to work that I detest, just for the sake of getting food from day to day. I will not do it. The world shall know that William Wallace was not born for no purpose. I will help some one, if it is savages and wild beasts.”

Thus spoke the stripling in his lonely home. For six long years did he cherish that one bright thought. It was all the hope he had to stimulate him when labor was his only portion, and life was scarcely worth the danger of preserving it. At last he refused to bear it any longer, and, one pleasant night in early spring, he dressed himself as near like a native as he could, gathered his own clothes into as small a compass as possible, sprang lightly over the garden fence, and carefully threaded his way through the almost pathless wood to the nearest Indian camp. From there it was an easy task to go further, and he soon began his plans for himself. These were, to get as far from Plymouth7 as he dared, and still be somewhere in the region of civilization. It was before the foundery was started in Saugus, when only a few stalwart men were discussing the probability of extensive mines in that direction. But Wallace liked the sea-shore; so he built him a residence miles and miles away from any human habitation, determined to assist the first suffering creature

that came within his reach. Custom soon came. Little clubs of men often repaired some worn-out canoe, left by the Indians upon the sand, and embarked in it upon the dashing billows to try their luck in procuring fish for food. Almost invariably there would some mishap befall them; and every night the bold young Wallace went to rest with a proud and happy smile curving his delicate lips, and a feeling of true unselfish generosity nestling in his heart. He was happy in his honest calling, and wished for no greater reward than what he received from the natives, and the rough but kind-hearted settlers.

For a short time he lived thus, and his whole soul was in his work. But a change came at last. One fearful stormy night, when the waves rolled far up on the dark sand, and the rain and the wind chanted their wild music, he heard a low moan, instantly followed by a loud cry of agony, and quick calls for help.

He was used to scenes of danger, and, merely supposing that another frail boat had consigned its precious charge to the watery god, and that more human beings were in need of help, he arose, unbarred the low door, and bade the strangers welcome.

8

Before they entered the house its inmates—consisting of a young Scotchman, his fair, pleasant-looking English wife, and their daughter, whose years had been spent in luxury until now that ten summers had passed above her head, her beauteous home had gone, and she too was destined to a life of labor—were all astir, and the warm fire lighted in the heavy grate.

A tall, well-formed man first entered the room, with a thick frock of shag enveloping his person, confined at the waist by a broad belt, into which was thrust an unsheathed dirk-knife, and a short sword hung suspended by his side. His hat was dripping with water, and his broad shoulders and powerfully-built frame made him look, in his unique costume, like a representation of Hercules; while his black hair and eyes and burlesque manner and motions, gave him the appearance of what he really was, a pirate and a plunderer.

“Give us the most comfortable place in the house,” he said, with a careless glance around. “If it had not been for this accursed storm, and the woman aboard, we should not have been obliged to come at all.” And he strode out again into the darkness, followed by Jamie Burns, the Scotch emigrant, who was resting there until he could find a home for himself.

“Alice,” said the mother, nervously, as she saw the child walk firmly to the open door, “do keep away all you can. If we are all to be murdered, we might as well be cautious about it, as to run into danger with our eyes wide open;” and, turning from9 the beating rain, she drew the rough oaken chair to the fire, and arranged a fleecy lamb’s-wool blanket, which she had brought from home, about its comfortable cushions.

They soon returned. Veale, the first comer, bore a slight girlish form in his arms, enveloped in satin and ermine; her fair pale face forming a strange contrast with the deep crimson hood which fell back from her high white brow, revealing the sunny-hued curls which hung over her rich dress.

There were four other men, in the same dress, and having the same general appearance as the first; and, from the noise outside, Wallace concluded there were several more to come.

The men took very little notice of each other, and the lady was beginning to revive under the kindly care of Mrs. Burns, when the voices again approached the door, and, after a short consultation there, three kept on across the beach, and another entered the house.

This last was called Harris, by the lady and the men within, who seemed to look up to him as their captain, or, rather, their leader. He appeared the youngest of them all; but there was a lofty look of daring in his dark hazel eyes, and an unfaltering determination in his small mouth, that seemed to quell each motion of familiarity. He looked kindly at the little group huddled around the fire, and gazing so suspiciously at his band of followers. He was rather tall, but very slightly formed, and his dark green10 frock and crimson sash set off his wild beauty to peculiar advantage.

“Is it far to where you are going, lady?” said Alice, timidly.

The pale face lighted up a moment with pleasure, and, as she turned toward the child, and laid her white dimpled hand on Alice’s brown hair, she looked quite like a living being. “I do not know, little one,” she answered; “I never was this way before. I wish I did know where we are,” she continued, sadly, with a wistful glance at the half-closed door.

“It is only a little way from here,” said Harris, soothingly; “see, the moon is coming out already, and we shall soon be on our way.” And taking a small compass from his pocket, he adjusted it in the window frame, as if to shape the course he should take when he left. “Go and unfasten the boat,” he said, peremptorily, to one of the men, “and bring up my mantle for your mistress. Quick, man,” he added, as the man hesitated; “are you afraid of the moonshine?” and, impatiently opening the rough door, he gazed upon the hurrying clouds and the straggling moonbeams, that half lighted the broken rocks near the dwelling.

The man returned from the water with a large, heavily-embroidered mantle, the deep gold-tipped fringe almost sweeping the floor as he threw it over his shoulders to see if it was uninjured. At last they left, just as the gray dawn was breaking. Veale, who seemed to be chief assistant, gave a signal, and the11 four men marched rapidly down to the water. Harris threw a purse of gold upon the table, and followed Veale, who bore the lady from the house wrapped in the rich mantle.

Wallace looked after them with a dubious, thoughtful look clouding his honest brow. It was long before he heard again from the mysterious visitors, but he kept a more vigilant watch for passing vessels, and answered more readily to unexpected calls than before.

At last they came again. It was night, as before; the pale full moon was shedding its pure radiance over the sleeping earth. He was not startled this time. He was alone in the house, and three heavy knocks were heard upon the outer door. They soon entered the house. Four strong, dark-looking men, bearing a huge box that seemed heavy with something more than its own weight, or the strong irons that bound it, and, as it reached the floor, a dull ring from the inside told a strange tale of darkness. But the men spoke not, except in monosyllables, and Wallace forebore to question them.

As soon as they had found a place for the box, they left, and, after being gone some time, returned with another, corresponding in size with the first, but apparently lighter and less firmly secured. As they placed it upon the floor the spring (for there were few locks in those days) flew open, revealing rich dark silks, with heavy gold lace trimmings, small wrought cases of ebony or ivory, and beautiful ornaments of all kinds. They appeared to be not in the least disconcerted,12 but closed the box again with a loud noise, just as Harris entered with a stranger clad in Spanish citizen’s dress. There was a striking contrast in their looks, as Harris raised the elegant bandit cap from his high, white brow, and passed his delicate fingers through the short, clustering curls, and the stranger flung his heavy slouched hat upon the floor beside him, and stroked his thick, black moustachios with his sun-browned hand.

“We must arrange this matter as quick as practicable,” said Harris, in an undertone, apparently continuing their former conversation. “If you have any papers of consequence, I shall expect you to give them up. You can take a small tract of land somewhere near here, or when we go back to the continent you can return; but you will be obliged to keep it constantly in your mind that dead men tell no tales, and living ones are not allowed to; do you understand?” and the youthful leader of that strong band looked fearlessly upon the dark face beside him.

A low mutter of dissatisfaction escaped the swarthy Spaniard as he said, “I want none of your bribes; I want my honest pay.”

“Ah! and how much?” said Harris, carelessly.

“Four thousand roubles, which will just pay my forfeiture, and let me back to my own country,” was the gloomy reply.

A quick look of intelligent forethought passed over Harris’ face, but he only replied, calmly, “You shall have it;” then, turning from the warm fire, he commenced13 an animated conversation with Wallace concerning his position and its profits.

“Where are your men?” suddenly exclaimed the stranger, rising from his seat, and drawing the heavy folds of his Spanish cloak more closely about his short figure.

“They have gone up the river in the boat, and will soon return,” replied Harris.

“Do you reside near here?” asked Wallace.

Harris laughed. “Our traffic is such that it requires us to be constantly on the wing, and we have chosen this as our stopping place,” he answered.

Wallace did not notice the reply; he was looking thoughtfully at the heavy chests, and wondering what they contained. Harris saw it; he knew that suspicion was worse than a knowledge; so carelessly continuing the conversation, he said, “We have a great deal of merchandise to transport, and such cases as these are very useful. This,” he said, pushing the spring to one of them, “contains clothing for my wife, Lady Morrillo, which is my native name.”

“But these are Spanish goods, I take it,” said Wallace, with an earnest look at the nicely-packed box.

“They are,” was the reply; “they come from the capital. I had an opportunity to procure them easily; and, besides, I like the Spanish costume for a lady; especially when travelling. See,” he continued, raising a delicate jewel case, and turning the flashing diamonds to the light, “this is of native Spanish workmanship,14 and there is more beauty than durability to it, I expect.”

“Yes,” said the stranger, rousing himself from the drowsy sleep into which he had fallen, “yes, that came from the queen’s boudoir. I tried hard to save them, but it was no use; the robbers were too strong for us.” And with a heavy sigh the man leaned his head against the back of his large chair and appeared to sleep.

A dark thought flashed across Wallace’s mind, but Harris laughed so unconcernedly, and handled the brilliant ornaments with such natural, careless ease, that he forgot his suspicions in their beguiling talk.

“Why do you have the chests made so strong?” Wallace asked, after awhile.

“O, we need it,” he replied, “lifting them in and out the boats; and sometimes we have articles of value to carry. Now, that case has all our most important papers in it. So it is necessary that it should be made strong.”

“Yes,” said the stranger, again, with more energy than before, “the papers and all that money belong to the Spanish government. It was an infernal mean scheme letting those banditti into the banquet, but little Cristelle was wilful, and fancied their handsome clothes covered honest hearts.”

“Come, Don Jose,” said Harris, gayly, “do try to wake your sleepy ideas before you talk any more. I presume,” he added, turning to Wallace, and noting the dark foreboding that again crossed his brow,15 “that he refers to some valuable pieces of plate in our possession. You remember when the last rebellion took place the capital was said to have been robbed. At that time the insurgents placed some of their spoils in trust in our hands, and we still retain them. Don Jose is confused tonight; what with the sea-sickness, and the change from cold to warm air, he is nearly insensible,” and he laughed a careless, merry laugh, at the same time casting a look of stern, contemptuous reproof upon the cowering Spaniard.

At this stage of affairs the sound of heavy voices, and the tramp of measured steps, told that the men had returned. Don Jose sprang from his seat with a quick, nervous motion, drew his hat over his dark, flashing eyes, and waited impatiently for further motions. Wallace opened the door; and, as he supposed, the same four men that brought the boxes entered to remove them. He was deceived, however, by their dress; the whole band, consisting of between thirty and forty members, dressing alike, excepting the five leaders and Harris, who, although he had not yet reached the twenty-second year of his age, was universally acknowledged as leader of the whole; his father having held that place until his death, which occurred two years before.

And now the tangled thread of our history leads us back, three long and changing years, to a small thatched cottage in Italy, where all day long the air is heavy with perfume, and the sun goes down at eventide in a sea of purple, and crimson, and gold.

16

“Mother, you do wrong to judge Morrillo so harshly,” said a low, sweet voice, one mid-summer night. “True, he wears the bandit frock and cap, but I know they hide a noble head, and shield a generous heart. Besides, he is so young now that his father’s will is the only law he knows; he never had a mother to tell him how to live.” And the voice was low and sad, and the slight form of Arabel Ortono glided away from the drooping vine she was trailing, and sought her favorite retreat in the shaded veranda.

Her mother soon sought her there, and paused a moment in the low, arched doorway to contemplate the picture before her. Arabel was kneeling in a shaded niche, her fair young face flushing and paling alternately, her long golden-brown curls sweeping over the closely fitting spencer of darkest hue, and her eyes raised to catch the brightest moonbeams as they struggled through the thick vines.

“Well, Arabel,” said the mother, at last, interrupting the girl’s reverie, “you have argued the young pirate’s cause pretty faithfully; now let me hear you protect your own. Tell me how and why you first became interested in those most lawless of all unlawful men, and I will try to be reasonable with your wild fancies.”

Proudly the young Venetian rose from her lowly place and stood beside her mother. “Almost,” said the mother, playfully measuring the girl’s height with her eye, “almost as tall as I.”

“Yes, mother,” answered the girl. “I am at least17 large enough to know how to talk reasonably,” and a light, scornful smile flitted over the fair, pale face.

The mother noticed it, but only answering, calmly, “I am ready now,” she seated herself upon the long rustic bench and prepared to listen.

“Fourteen years ago today,” Arabel commenced, in a low, hurried voice, “my father died, and left you with three small children, myself the youngest, and for that reason most fondly cherished. ‘You must teach them how to live, Clarette,’ I heard him say, one bright, moonlit evening, when you was weeping by his bedside in our palace home, and we were nestled on the low divan in the deep windows, trembling and terrified. I remember every incident of the dark and dreadful days that followed, as well as though it were but yesterday. The heavy pall, with its silver trimmings, the jet-black horses, and the dark and solemn hearse. Then our house was barricaded, and even you, mother, will not dare to say that the noble band of Morrillo’s followers did not help us more than all the Venetian police. I saw them then on that fearful day, and I honored the bandit badge which bound them to each other. It is to them we owe all we have here to remind us of our former home; and even if they have in their possession the most valuable of our family treasures, it is better so than that

our enemies should have them, is it not?” and the girl paused and looked calmly into her mother’s eyes.