Moondyne/Face to Face

The convict ship, with all sail set, before a strong quarterbreeze, ploughed heavily round the South of England, and then spread her arms like a sea spirit as she swept majestically towards the deep southern seas.

No need to moralize afresh on the weird contrast between the tall ship, nobly and beautifully breasting the waves, and the hideous secret she bears within—


 * Who, as she smiles in the silvery light,
 * Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
 * Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
 * A phantom, of beauty, could deem with a sigh,


 * That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
 * And that souls that are smitten be bursting within?
 * Who, as he watches her silently gliding,
 * Remembers that wave after wave is dividing


 * Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
 * Hearts that are broken and parted for ever?
 * Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave,
 * The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave.

The first few days of the voyage are inexpressibly horrible. The hundreds of pent-up wretches are unused to the darkness of the ship, strange to their crowded quarters and to each other, depressed in spirits at their endless separation from home, sickened to death with the merciless pitch and roll of the vessel, alarmed at the dreadful thunder of the waves against their prison walls, and fearful of sudden engulfment, with the hatches barred. The scene is too hideous for a picture—too dreadful to be described in words.

Only those who have stood within the bars, and heard the din of devils and the appalling sounds of despair, blended in a diapason that made every hatch-mouth a vent of hell, can imagine the horrors of the hold of a convict ship.

About a week out from England, the Houguemont went bowling down the Atlantic, and across the Bay of Biscay. The night was cold and dark, and the strong breeze held the ship ssteady, with every sail drawing.

Mr. Wyville and Sheridan, the latter of whom had come on deck for the first time since the vessel sailed, in warm greatcoats, walked the lee side of the poop; while the captain, also heavily wrapped, paced the weather side, glancing now and again at the sails, and taking an occasional look at the course.

"You have got over your sea-sickness?" asked Mr. Wyville.

Sheridan laughed.

"You forget that I am a sailor, Mr. Wyville," he said. "I had another reason for keeping my room."

Will Sheridan, for months past, had often been on the point of telling Mr. Wyville the whole story of his life, his love for Alice Walmsley, and her terrible suffering for another's crime; but the moment still had gone by, and he had never broached the subject. He longed to speak his warm gratitude to the wise friend who had preserved Alice's reason and life in Millbank.

Mr. Wyville never dreamt that Sheridan and Alice Walmsley had known each other. He did not know that on the deck at that moment stood Sheridan's deadliest enemy, within five yards of the man he hated, and who mortally hated him.

"I will tell him all now," were the words in Sheridan's mind; and he turned to Mr. Wyville, and took hold of his arm. They paused in their walk, and stood at the foot of the mizzen mast.

At that moment the captain went towards the wheel, and bent his head to look at the compass. The strong binnacle-light fell full upon his face, just as Will Sheridan stopped and laid his hand on Mr. Wyville's arm.

The face in the binnacle glare was straight before Sheridan. His eyes were arrested by it as by a spectre; his land closed like a vice on the arm of his friend.

"God Almighty!" The words rushed from his heart in a hissing whisper.

Mr. Wyville was astounded, but he could not even surmise the cause of Sheridan's tremendous excitement. He had seen the face of the captain as it remained for a moment in the strong light; but he did not connect this with his friend's emotion. He waited for Sheridan to speak.

Instead of speaking, Sheridan watched the dark figure of the captain as he passed from the wheel to the weather side of the

poop, and paced slowly up and down. Then he drew a deep breath, tremulous with aroused passion.

"Who is that man?" he asked in a low voice, after a long look.

"That is the captain," answered Mr. Wyville. "Let me introduce you. Captain Draper!"

The captain walked towards them. Sheridan remained just as he had been standing.

"Captain Draper, let me introduce—"

"Stay" said Sheridan, laying his hand on Mr. Wyville's breast, "one moment."

He strode to the binnacle, seized the lamp, and returned with it in his hand. When he was within two feet of Draper, he threw the light full on his own face, sternly turned towards his enemy.

"Now!" he said "now, introduce me!"

The sight of the terrible face struck Draper like a physical blow. His breath came in a short gasp, and be staggered back till he leaned against the mast. He never said a word.

Sheridan turned the glare of the lamp upon him for an instant, then snatched it rapidly away from the repulsive sight. At that moment, with the veil of darkness suddenly torn back, Draper's face was ghastly, and his attitude full of terror.

Will Sheridan replaced the lamp in the binnacle, and walked straight to his own room.

Mr. Wyville was profoundly astonished and puzzled at this scene. He remained on deck for an hour or more after Sheridan's abrupt departure; but he did not speak to Captain Draper, who paced his side of the poop in gloomy silence.

It was an hour of fearful torture to Draper, for, like most scoundrels who are cowards, he suffered over and over again the agonies of shame and exposure which he knew he had earned. But, like this class, too, he always planned his conduct, even his words, beforehand. As soon as the appalling interview had passed, and he found himself personally unmolested, his adroit and subtle mind began weaving the warp and woof of a devil's plot that should make him the winner in this contest now begun.

He looked at Wyville, who stood grazing out on the sea, and askedhimself, "Does he know?" And he speedily ran over the signs, and concluded that Mr. Wyville knew nothing of his relations to Sheridan. He remembered that Wyville had called him to be introduced to Sheridan, and he had noticed the surprised exclamation with which Wyville had observed Sheridan's extraordinary conduct.

The midnight eight bells sounded, and the mate came to relieve the captain from his watch; but Draper said he could not sleep, and would remain on deck an hour longer.

In that hour, he was alone on the poop; Mr. Wyville had gone below. Draper, looking down through the glass roof of the dining-room, saw that a bright light was burning in Sheridan's room. As he looked at the light, secretly and alone, a desperate hatred burned in his heart like poison. The years of his guilt were melted down into that one hour, and they took the form of a blighting curse. Could malediction have murdered Sheridan, he would have been withered to death by the baneful light of Draper's eyes.

But the hatred of a man so naturally evil as Draper is apt to turn into practical injury. The coward who hates is never at rest; he will either malign his enemy with foul words in secret, or he will dig a pit for his feet. It is only manly men who can hate and hold their tongues.

As Draper paced the deck, towards the end of the hour, his tread actually became stealthy and fearful, as if he dreaded lest the nature of his thoughts might be read in the sound of his steps. Slowly and carefully he turned the circumstances over in his mind. Wyville certainly did not know of his relations with Sheridan. Sheridan himself had evidently been surprised at the meeting. Only one knew: none else had any interest in knowing. That one must be silenced, or—he, Draper, must face disgrace. Once before, Sheridan had eluded his design; but this time—and, as he concluded his walk and plot together, he glared at the light in Will Sheridan's room, like a serpent in the outer darkness—this time there would be no mistake or hesitation on his part.