The Gold Brick. Ann S. Stephens
ITS MISTRESS.
CHAPTER L. COMING HOME OF THE BRIDE.
CHAPTER LI. THE DAY BEFORE TRIAL.
CHAPTER LII. THE STREETS AND THE COURT HOUSE.
CHAPTER LIII. THE DOCTOR'S EVIDENCE.
CHAPTER LV. THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT.
CHAPTER LVI. LOVE'S GOLDEN HARVEST.
CHAPTER LVII. ONE HOUR OF SHAME.
CHAPTER LVIII. THE MOTHER AND SON.
CHAPTER LX. TOM HUTCHINS' LETTER.
CHAPTER LXI. UNSATISFIED VANITY.
CHAPTER LXII. ARTFUL FASCINATIONS.
CHAPTER LXIII. GATHERING APPLES.
CHAPTER LXVII. TOGETHER, YET SEPARATED.
CHAPTER LXVIII. THE TREASURE VAULT.
CHAPTER LXX. THE PRISON ANGEL.
CHAPTER LXXI. THE SWEATING OVEN.
CHAPTER LXXII. UNDER THE APPLE TREE.
CHAPTER LXXIII. OUT OF A SCRAPE.
CHAPTER LXXIV. THE LONELY HOUSE.
CHAPTER LXXV. THE MANIAC'S TOILET.
CHAPTER LXXVI. THE DOCTOR'S RIDE.
CHAPTER LXXVII. THE CONVICT'S RETURN.
CHAPTER LXXVIII. TOM HUTCHINS' QUARREL.
CHAPTER LXXIX. THE WEDDING AND THE BAPTISM.
CHAPTER I.
THE MASSACRE.
A low coast, burdened in every foot of its soil with the luxuriant growth of a tropical climate; a large town, straggling and flat, swarming like a hive of bees with turbulent life. Lights flickering wildly from the windows and dancing with a fantastic and red glare up and down the streets. A dull, hollow sound rolling constantly out upon the stillness of the waters, broken now and then with sharp shrieks as lightning cleaves the thunder gust.
This was the scene commanded from the deck of a New England brig, lying in the harbor of Port au Prince, on one of those terrible nights in the end of the last century, when the horrible passions that had rioted through France, like wild beasts ravening for blood, fled across seas and fired themselves anew in the hot life of the tropics.
The contrast between the stillness of the harbor, where the starlight fell smilingly, and the waters rippled like kisses around the vessels, and that demon riot on the shore, was awful. To lie so near, with death shrieks cutting the air every instant, with murderous yells chasing them, like fiends, was enough to drive men mad. The iron-hearted New England sailors on that deck, grew restive as caged lions, while the tumult swelled louder and louder around them. The young captain turned white as he took short marches up and down the deck. The men drew close together, eyeing each other with fierce glances. A word from the captain would have sent them headlong into the massacre, in a wild effort to save the women and children, whose shrieks, even from the distance, drove them frantic.
But what could they do?—a handful of men against thousands on thousands of brutalized blacks, swarming in that doomed city. It was terrible to remain, but madness to go. The captain ground his teeth and clenched his hands in the agony of this restraint. Every cry that reached the ship pierced him like a sword; every fresh gleam of light quivering across the waters seemed to lure him to the rescue.
"Oh, my God! my God! I cannot bear this!" he cried, as a group of wooden buildings near the shore burst into a volume of fire, and one appalling shriek told that scores on scores of human beings were engulphed in the flames that danced and leaped and shed floods of fiery gold far out on the harbor. "Neither my owners nor my Maker could wish me to stand still now."
Going up to the group of sailors, he called out, "All hands to work, my boys! lower the boats. Such of you as want to help the poor wretches they are murdering yonder, come with me."
"Aye, aye," broke in a smothered shout from the sailors, and each man sprang to his duty—from cabin boy to mate, not a soul lagged behind. Yes, one man, the first mate, he neither repeated his superior's orders, or moved toward the boats, but stood near the captain, looking quietly unconcerned, with a half smile on his lip.
"You will not go, Thrasher," said the captain. "I am glad of it; some one must take charge of the ship. Stay on board, and be ready to lend a hand—we may bring back some of those poor creatures."
"And if your men are killed, who will work the ship, Captain Mason? Remember the craft belongs neither to you nor me."
"They shall not be killed, Thrasher, these brutes have plenty to do without minding us; besides, I'll keep off shore, and only lie to, ready to haul any poor creature in that takes to the water. They are sure to try, if they think of the ship."
"Well, well, captain, you command here, and know your own business best," answered Thrasher, with that same smile creeping across his lips; "for my part, I