Sunday Dispatch

(Written for the Sunday Dispatch.)

A NIGHT OF TERROR.

BY FINLEY JOHNSON.

We were on our homeward voyage; we had crossed the burning line, passed through the regions of trade winds, and swept round the Western Isles. Every heart beat with joy, and hopes of future happiness were anticipated by all; but, alas! for human fancy; reality soon teaches a mournful lesson.

We had on board one of the gentlest and prettiest of waiting maids, who, by her winning manners, won the love and admiration of us all. But there was one among the crew who showed plainly by his marked attentions, that love had possession of his heart. Edward Bates was every way worthy of a faithful woman's heart. He was a young man of fine talents, and his good taste made him avoid the coarse language so common among sailors.

It was, therefore, with no common interest that we watched the course of events between the two; and when he told us that she had promised to be his upon their reaching shore, we wondered not, but in the language of inspiration, we bid them "God speed."

While Edward Bates was enjoying the unspeakable bliss of woman's fond devotion, there was also another on board who was seeking to win bright eyes to smile upon him. Charles Burns was mate of the vessel; and nature had lavished her gifts upon him most bountifully. For a short time his suit appeared to be prosperous, but suddenly a change was perceptible in the conduct of her he loved. Loving looks she now no more gave him--her smiles were withdrawn, and coldness and guarded words were all that he obtained. Oft he wondered at the change, but vain were all his efforts to fathom the cause. Could he, however, have seen within the chamber of her heart, he would have discovered love and pride engaged in a serious conflict. Kate St. Clair was the daughter of a rich merchant in the city of Baltimore, and as visions of splendor flitted before her eyes, she would contrast them with those that might be expected if she wedded the humble mate. Love struggled, and painful indeed was the conflict, but for the time pride triumphed, and when we reached the Azores, her coldness so stung the young man, that he no longer entered the cabin, but paced to and fro upon the deck, in gloomy silence.

At length we passed the Islands, and the weather became more unpleasant. The wind blew a perfect gale. Charles Burns feared the elements less than he did the coldness of Kate, and as he gazed upon the happy faces of Bates and his betrothed, he turned away in bitterness, and cursed his fate.

The storm increased to a fearful height, and upon every face were the traces of anxiety. Carrie De Vere, as she met the loving glance of Edward Bates, felt secure in his presence. As evening closed in, Kate St. Clair would often gaze across the deck, and her heart felt anxiety for the young mate. But Charles knew not of those kind feelings, and as was his usual custom, shunned the cabin.

Night came on. It was dark, murky, moonless and starless. We could not sleep, for the world of waters clung too closely around us not to exile us from the land of dreams. At twelve, the captain came below, and retired to his cabin; and as he passed us he remarked that the gale was steadily increasing. In about five minutes all was still, save the hoarse murmur of the waves and the roar of the wind: then every one was startled as a heavy step descended the companion-way, and a voice cried out:

"Captain, there's a man overboard!"

"Overboard!" exclaimed the captain, starting to his feet. "Who is it?"

"Can't tell, sir," was the reply, as the sailor left the cabin.

"Do you hear that?" said the captain to us. "We have lost a man overboard."

"What is the matter?" cried Kate St. Clair, as she heard our exclamations of horror.

"Only a man overboard," replied the captain

A wild shriek from Kate was the only response, and throwing herself upon the floor, she gave vent to her agony.

"It is Charles!" she cried. "I did not prize him as I ought, and now he is lost to me. Save him--save him!" And she would have rushed upon the deck if we had not restrained her.

"It is not Charles Burns," we said; but even as we spoke our eyes were bent on Carrie De Vere. She was ashy pale, and only a slight tremor that shook her frame gave evidence of life.

"Kate, Kate," said we, "do not weep so; it is not Charles."

"It is him," she replied, "or else he would have come himself to report the loss."

"We will inquire," was our reply; and ascending to the deck, we soon discovered who was the unfortunate man. As we again entered the cabin, they all thronged around to hear the news.

Carrie was evidently uneasy, and as we told them it was poor Edward Bates, she sank down cold and lifeless.

On the second day the gale moderated, and soon after we reached our native land.

On our arrival there a respectable elderly man and woman came on board and made inquiries concerning Edward Bates, and fearful was their grief when they heard the news of his fate.

Carrie De Vere was an orphan, brotherless, sisterless, and on being offered a home with the parents of her lover, gladly accepted it.

Kate St. Clair was married to the handsome mate, and never regretted the day when she became his bride.

The above is no fiction, and never shall I forget the Two Maidens and the Night of Terror.