But now, no star can shine, no hope be got,
Most wretched creature, if he knew his lot,
And yet more wretched far because he knows it not.
* * * * * * *
The swelling sea seethes in his angry waves,
And smites the earth that dares the traitors nourish.
GILES FLETCHER
The Buccaneer failed not to inquire relative to the pretended dumb boy,
but without success: he appeared to have vanished suddenly from before
their eyes, and had left no trace behind. After despatching one or two
trusty messengers on some particular embassies, Dalton concealed himself
in the secret recesses of the crag until the evening fell sufficiently
to enable him to get off to the Fire-fly without attracting the
observation of any stragglers, or persons who might be on the watch for
him or his vessel, which he had left, as before, under the
superintendence of Jeromio, with strict orders to move about off
Shelness Point, and the strand at Leysdown, and to be ready, on a
particular signal, to heave-to and cast anchor nearly opposite the
Gull's Nest. Three times had Dalton lighted his beacon on the top of the
ruined tower, and three times extinguished it: the signal was at length
answered, although not according to his directions, which were light for
light. The Buccaneer was, however, satisfied; descended by the private
stair to the shore, and pushed off his little boat, having called in
vain for Springall, whom he had left at Gull's Nest in the morning.
The motion of the oars was but a mechanical accompaniment to his
thoughts, which wandered back to his child, to his next beloved, Walter,
and to the events through which his chequered life had passed during the
last year. Strong as was now Hugh Dalton's affection for his daughter,
it is doubtful if it would have had force enough to make him relinquish
so completely his wandering and ruthless habits, and adopt the design of
serving for a little time under the banner of the Commonwealth, before
he completely gave up the sea, had not his declining constitution warned
him that at fifty-five he was older than at thirty. He had grown a wiser
and a better man than when, in middle age, he ran full tilt with his
passions at all things that impeded his progress or his views. A long
and dangerous illness, off the Caribbees, had sobered him more in one
little month, than any other event could have done in years. Away from
bustle and excitement, he had time for reflection, and when he arose
from his couch, he felt that he was no longer the firm, strong man he
had been. The impressions of early life, too, returned: he longed for
his child, and for England; but when he remembered her mother, he could
not support the idea that Barbara should know him as he really was.
Still his restless mind suggested that occupation would be necessary,
and his busy brain soon fixed upon the only way by which honourable
employment could be obtained. England had been, for a long series of
years in a perturbed and restless state, and Dalton had made himself
well known, both by his ingenuity, energy, and bravery: he had been
useful as a smuggler, and imported many things of rich value to the
Cavaliers--trafficking, however, as we have seen, in more than mere
contraband articles.