The Last Man
one man, more or less, is of small import, while human bodies remain to
fill up the thinned ranks of the soldiery; and that the identity of an
individual may be overlooked, so that the muster roll contain its full
numbers. All this has a different effect upon Raymond. He is able to
contemplate the ideal of war, while I am sensible only to its
realities. He is a soldier, a general. He can influence the
blood-thirsty war-dogs, while I resist their propensities vainly. The
cause is simple. Burke has said that, ‘in all bodies those who would
lead, must also, in a considerable degree, follow.’ —I cannot follow;
for I do not sympathize in their dreams of massacre and glory—to follow
and to lead in such a career, is the natural bent of Raymond’s mind. He
is always successful, and bids fair, at the same time that he acquires
high name and station for himself, to secure liberty, probably extended
empire, to the Greeks.”
Perdita’s mind was not softened by this account. He, she thought, can
be great and happy without me. Would that I also had a career! Would
that I could freight some untried bark with all my hopes, energies, and
desires, and launch it forth into the ocean of life—bound for some
attainable point, with ambition or pleasure at the helm! But adverse
winds detain me on shore; like Ulysses, I sit at the water’s edge and
weep. But my nerveless hands can neither fell the trees, nor smooth the
planks. Under the influence of these melancholy thoughts, she became
more than ever in love with sorrow. Yet Adrian’s presence did some
good; he at once broke through the law of silence observed concerning
Raymond. At first she started from the unaccustomed sound; soon she got
used to it and to love it, and she listened with avidity to the account
of his achievements. Clara got rid also of her restraint; Adrian and
she had been old playfellows; and now, as they walked or rode together,
he yielded to her earnest entreaty, and repeated, for the hundredth
time, some tale of her father’s bravery, munificence, or justice.
Each vessel in the mean time brought exhilarating tidings from Greece.
The presence of a friend in its armies and councils made us enter into
the details with enthusiasm; and a short letter now and then from
Raymond told us how he was engrossed by the interests of his adopted
country. The Greeks were strongly attached to their commercial
pursuits, and would have been satisfied with their present
acquisitions, had not the Turks roused them by invasion. The patriots
were victorious; a spirit of conquest was instilled; and already they
looked on Constantinople as their own. Raymond rose perpetually in
their estimation; but one man held a superior command to him in their
armies. He was conspicuous for his conduct and choice of position in a
battle fought in the plains of Thrace, on the banks of the Hebrus,
which was to decide the fate of Islam. The Mahometans were defeated,
and driven entirely from the country west of this river. The battle was
sanguinary, the loss of the Turks apparently irreparable; the Greeks,
in losing one man, forgot the nameless crowd strewed upon the bloody
field, and they ceased to value themselves on a victory, which cost
them— Raymond.
At the battle of Makri he had led the charge of cavalry, and pursued
the fugitives even to the banks of the Hebrus. His favourite horse was
found grazing by the margin of the tranquil river. It became a question
whether he had fallen among the unrecognized; but no broken ornament or
stained trapping betrayed his fate. It was suspected that the Turks,
finding themselves possessed of so illustrious a captive, resolved to
satisfy their cruelty rather than their avarice, and fearful of the
interference of England, had come to the determination of concealing
for ever the cold-blooded murder of the soldier they most hated and
feared in the squadrons of their enemy.
Raymond was not forgotten in England. His abdication of the
Protectorate had caused an unexampled sensation; and, when his
magnificent and manly system was contrasted with the narrow views of
succeeding politicians, the period of his elevation was referred to
with sorrow. The perpetual recurrence of his name, joined to most
honourable testimonials, in the Greek gazettes, kept up the interest he
had excited. He seemed the favourite child of fortune, and his untimely
loss eclipsed the world, and shewed forth the remnant of mankind with
diminished lustre. They clung with eagerness to the hope held out that
he might yet be alive. Their minister at Constantinople was urged to
make the necessary perquisitions, and should his existence be
ascertained, to demand his release. It was to be hoped that their
efforts would succeed, and that though now a prisoner, the sport of
cruelty and the mark of hate, he would be rescued from danger and
restored to the happiness, power, and honour which he deserved.
The effect of this intelligence upon my sister was striking. She never
for a moment credited the story of his death; she resolved instantly to
go to Greece. Reasoning and persuasion were thrown away upon her; she
would endure no hindrance, no delay. It may be advanced for a truth,
that, if argument or entreaty can turn any one from a desperate
purpose, whose motive and end depends on the strength of the affections
only, then it is right so to turn them, since their docility shews,
that neither the motive nor the end were of sufficient force to bear
them through the obstacles attendant on their undertaking. If, on the
contrary, they are proof against expostulation, this very steadiness is
an omen of success; and it becomes the duty of those who love them, to
assist in smoothing the obstructions in their path. Such sentiments
actuated our little circle. Finding Perdita immoveable, we consulted as
to the best means of furthering her purpose. She could not go alone to
a country where she had no friends, where she might arrive only to hear
the dreadful news, which must overwhelm her with grief and remorse.
Adrian, whose health had always been weak, now suffered considerable
aggravation of suffering from the effects of his wound. Idris could not
endure to leave him in this state; nor was it right either to quit or
take with us a young family for a journey of this description. I
resolved at length to accompany Perdita. The separation from my Idris
was painful—but necessity reconciled us to it in some degree: necessity
and the hope of saving Raymond, and restoring him again to happiness
and Perdita. No delay was to ensue. Two days after we came to our
determination, we set out for Portsmouth, and embarked. The season was
May, the weather stormless; we were promised a prosperous voyage.
Cherishing the most fervent hopes, embarked on the waste ocean, we saw
with delight the receding shore of Britain, and on the wings of desire
outspeeded our well filled sails towards the South. The light curling
waves bore us onward, and old ocean smiled at the freight of love and
hope committed to his charge; it stroked gently its tempestuous plains,
and the path was smoothed for us. Day and night the wind right aft,
gave steady impulse to our keel—nor did rough gale, or treacherous
sand, or destructive rock interpose an obstacle between my sister and
the land which was to restore her to her first beloved,
Her dear heart’s confessor—a heart within that heart.
VOL. II.
CHAPTER I.
During this voyage, when on calm evenings we conversed on deck,
watching the glancing of the waves and the changeful appearances of the
sky, I discovered the total revolution that the disasters of Raymond
had wrought in the mind of my sister. Were they the same waters of
love, which, lately cold and cutting as ice, repelling as that, now
loosened from their frozen chains, flowed through the regions of her
soul in gushing and grateful exuberance? She did not believe that he
was dead, but she knew that he was in danger, and the hope of assisting
in his liberation, and the idea of soothing by tenderness the ills that
he might have undergone, elevated and harmonized the late jarring
element of her being. I was not so sanguine as she as to the result of
our voyage. She was not sanguine, but secure; and the expectation of
seeing the lover she had banished, the husband, friend, heart’s
companion from whom she had long been alienated, wrapt her senses in
delight, her mind in placidity. It was beginning life again; it was
leaving barren sands for an abode of fertile beauty; it was a harbour
after a tempest, an opiate after sleepless nights, a happy waking from
a terrible dream.
Little Clara accompanied us; the poor child did not well understand
what was going forward. She heard that we were bound for Greece, that
she would see her father, and now, for the first time, she prattled of
him to her mother.
On landing at Athens we found difficulties encrease upon us: nor could
the storied earth or balmy atmosphere inspire us with enthusiasm or
pleasure, while the fate of Raymond was in jeopardy. No man had ever
excited so strong an interest in the public mind; this was apparent
even among the phlegmatic English, from whom he had long been absent.
The Athenians had expected their hero to return in triumph; the women
had taught their children to lisp his name joined to thanksgiving; his
manly beauty, his courage, his devotion to their cause, made him appear
in their eyes almost as one of the ancient deities of the soil
descended from their native Olympus to defend them. When they spoke of
his probable death and certain captivity, tears streamed from their
eyes; even as the women of Syria sorrowed for Adonis, did the wives and
mothers of Greece lament our English Raymond—Athens was a city of
mourning.
All these shews of despair struck Perdita with affright. With that
sanguine but confused expectation, which desire engendered while she
was at a distance from reality, she had formed an image in her mind of
instantaneous change, when she should set her foot on Grecian shores.
She fancied that Raymond would already be free, and that her tender
attentions would come to entirely obliterate even the memory of his
mischance. But his fate was still uncertain; she began to fear the
worst, and to feel that her soul’s hope was cast on a chance that might
prove a blank. The wife and lovely child of Lord Raymond became objects
of intense interest in Athens. The gates of their abode were besieged,
audible prayers were breathed for his restoration; all these
circumstances added to the dismay and fears of Perdita.
My exertions were unremitted: after a time I left Athens, and joined
the army stationed at Kishan in Thrace. Bribery, threats, and intrigue,
soon discovered the secret that Raymond was alive, a prisoner,
suffering the most rigorous confinement and wanton cruelties. We put in
movement every impulse of policy and money to redeem him from their
hands.
The impatience of my sister’s disposition now returned on her, awakened
by repentance, sharpened by remorse. The very beauty of the Grecian
climate, during the season of spring, added torture to her sensations.
The unexampled loveliness of the flower-clad earth—the genial sunshine
and grateful shade—the melody of the birds—the majesty of the woods—
the splendour of the marble ruins—the clear effulgence of the stars by
night—the combination of all that was exciting and voluptuous in this
transcending land, by inspiring a quicker spirit of life and an added
sensitiveness to every articulation of her frame, only gave edge to the
poignancy of her grief. Each long hour was counted, and “_He suffers_”
was the burthen of all her thoughts. She abstained from food; she lay
on the bare earth, and, by such mimickry of his enforced torments,