Table of Contents

"Antony Waymouth"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

"Archibald Hughson"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

"Ben Burton"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

"Ben Hadden"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

"Captain Cook"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

"Captain Mugford"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

"Charley Laurel"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

"The Boy who sailed with Blake"

Preface.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Antony Waymouth"

Chapter One.

“What! Ned Raymond ahoy! Heave to, lad. What! dost seek to give a wide berth to an old friend? That once was not your wont. Ned Raymond ahoy, I say!”

The slight dark moustache on the lip of the person addressed showed that he had just reached the age of manhood. His raven hair hung in ringlets from his head. A black velvet cloak thrown over one shoulder, and a tightly-fitting dress of the same material and hue, set off his well-made, active figure. His plumed cap and the sword by his side showed that he claimed to belong to the upper rank of society. Indeed, no one looking at the refined expression of his features and his intelligent countenance could doubt that such was his right. He was walking somewhat rapidly through the narrow and irregularly-built streets of the seaport town of Plymouth, at that time one of the chief ports of departure for the numerous naval expeditions which went forth to the West and to the East in search of new lands, and of regions of gold and diamonds and other precious stones.

It is worthy of remark that the people of Devonshire and Cornwall have from the earliest days shown a strong propensity for naval adventure. This arises not alone from their geographical position, but has descended to them from their progenitors, who were, there can be but little doubt, Phoenicians,—or their descendants the Carthaginians, perhaps,—sailors, merchants, and others attracted from the northern shores of Africa for the sake of the tin found in those counties. Even at the present day many of their customs and the nautical terms they employed are retained. The clotted cream of Devonshire and on the coast of Barbary is the same, as is the mode in which the people manage their farms. Caboose was the name of the temple carried by the fire-worshipping Phoenicians on the decks of their vessels; the cook’s house on board ship is now so called. Davit in Arabic is a crooked piece of wood; the same term we apply to the timbers by which boats are hoisted up to the sides of ships. However, we are now talking of more modern days, and must proceed.

Good Queen Bess sat on the throne of England, and ruled the realm as few sovereigns have done before or since, greatly to the furtherance of Britain’s glory and wealth, and to the firm establishment of religion and true liberty, for which let all honest Englishmen be grateful, and talk not of her womanly weaknesses and failings.

The young gentleman, hearing his name called, stopped and looked earnestly at the person who had addressed him, and who was following rapidly in his footsteps. The costume of his pursuer was far more gay and dashing than was his, being composed of bright-coloured velvet and silks, with a golden chain round his neck, a plumed hat set jauntily on his head, and a jewel-hilted sword by his side. He had a laughing blue eye and light curling locks, and though his countenance was well bronzed, and his voice strong and manly, his features still bore the impress of early youth. Indeed, his hairless lip and beardless chin showed that he had scarcely emerged from boyhood. He ran up to the person of whom he was in pursuit, and frankly held out his hand.

“Really, sir, you have the advantage of me,” said the elder gallant, gravely drawing himself up.

On this the younger gave way to a merry peal of laughter, exclaiming, “If I am changed, surely you are not, good coz. I see that. What! Ned—Ned, most oblivious of mortals, don’t you remember little Tony Waymouth, whom you pulled out of the water just in time to prevent him from becoming food for the fishes, at the risk of your far more valuable life, and to whom you ever gave the best of advice, and set the best of examples, neither of which, graceless vagabond that he was, is, and I fear ever will be, he took or followed?”

There was no longer any hesitation on the part of the elder in seizing the proffered hand, but he found his fingers wrung in so hearty a way, and with so vice-like a grasp, that he could scarcely refrain from crying out with pain.

The lad saw by the expression of his friend’s countenance that in the warmth of his affection he had really hurt him.

“Marry, pardon me, dear Ned, that my fingers have been thus heedless. They have been so accustomed to haul at ropes, tug at the oar, and dabble in the tar-bucket, that they have, like their owner, lost, I fear me, all civilised habits and customs,” he exclaimed, exhibiting his horny-palmed, thoroughly-bronzed hand.

“Say not a word, Tony,” answered Raymond. “Far rather would I feel the grasp of thy honest fist than the gingerly touch of the soft-palmed courtier. But tell me, lad, where hast thou been these long years since we parted at school, where I fear me, Tony, there was not much knowledge packed away in that then small head of thine? I have heard rumours of your existence, and that is all.”

“Wandering over the ocean, and battling with the elements and strong-armed men,” answered young Waymouth. “But the spectacle of two such gay gallants as we are in this quiet street has already attracted attention. I see down there the Sign of the White Swan, a good hostelrie, I know. Let us step in there; it is about the hour of dinner, and I know full well that we shall find a cup of good sack to wash down the viands. While discussing it I will tell you briefly of my doings and listen gladly to yours. I long to hear of your past life and future prospects.”

“Agreed,” said Raymond; “but before we enter let me advise you, Tony, to take but one cup; the second is apt to do harm.”

“An’ it be a jolly big one, then,” answered Waymouth, as they entered the inn. “We rovers of the sea get so much salt water down our throats that we require a fair portion of good liquor to correct its ill effects.”

“The same as of old,” observed Raymond, as they took their seats in the public room and waited till dinner was placed before them, preceded by the promised sack. “And now, Tony, that your throat is washed, tell me all that time will allow of yourself,” he added, after Waymouth had tasted and expressed his approbation of the sack.

“With all my heart, then, that I may the sooner come at yours, Ned, I’ll begin,” said Waymouth, in his light, cheery tone. “You know that I always had a fancy for a life at sea; not that I knew any thing about it, but I thought I did, which comes to the same thing. Many of my relatives followed the sea, both on my father’s and mother’s side, and among them was as brave a gentleman as ever stepped—my worthy cousin, Captain John Foster, of the good ship Primrose, belonging to the port of London. I had frequently seen him and won his regards, and so at last I told him my hopes and wishes. He promised to intercede for me, and kept his word. My father gave his consent, and the next time he put to sea he took me with him as cabin-boy. The Primrose was bound for Bilboa, on the north coast of Spain, with bale goods. We had a quick run across the Bay of Biscay, were politely received by the Spaniards, and soon made arrangements to dispose of our cargo. To show his regard, the chief magistrate of the district, the corregidor, sent word that he would pay us a visit. He came off in a large boat, with a dozen or more dons, highly respectable merchants, he told us, who wished to make our acquaintance. The captain introduced me to the corregidor as a young relative who had come to sea for the first time to try how he liked a life on the ocean. The magistrate made a great deal of me, and patted me on the head, and said all sorts of complimentary things which I didn’t understand; but there was a language in his eye which I did understand, though, and I saw glances exchanged between him and the dark eyes of his companions which still further aroused my suspicions. I slipped out of the cabin and told the captain. ‘Good boy!’ he remarked; ‘I’m on the watch.’

“Dinner was brought in, and wine in abundance. The corregidor, after sparingly partaking of some food and wine, departed with some of his followers, leaving, however, live in the cabin, who at once made themselves at home, laughing, and singing, and talking at their ease, trying to make the captain and officers drink with them. I observed that they did not swallow nearly as much as they pretended to take, and that the flasks but slowly became empty. They kept on their cloaks, and I caught sight of the scabbards of their swords and of a long dagger in the belt of one of them. Still we mustered twenty-seven men, stout and true, on board, so that we had nothing to fear from these five Spaniards. As to purchasing the cargo, the object for which they said that they had come, they were, it seemed, too much overcome with wine to talk about the matter.

“Leaving them in the cabin, I went on deck, where I found that the captain had served out arms to all the men, and loaded the guns ready for action. Some of our people were sent below, others lounged about the deck with their weapons concealed under their clothes. He had good reason for this precaution, for as I looked over the side I saw two boats pulling off towards us, one containing twenty or thirty men, the other near a hundred, it seemed.

“The corregidor, in the smaller boat, was the first to come alongside and to step on board with all imaginable frankness and cordiality. He had brought with him some dozen or more Biscayan merchants, who were desirous of trading with their friends the English.

“‘If these are Biscayan merchants, they have a very martial look about them,’ observed the captain to one of our officers. ‘Now, Senhor Corregidor,’ he continued, ‘you’ll understand that no more of those gentry come up the side; they crowd our decks and incommode the men in their duties.’

“The corregidor with many a grin agreed to this, but still the boats remained alongside. Our captain on this was about to order them off, when Senhor Corregidor whips out a white wand of office, and cries out in a loud voice, ‘Yield, for you are our prisoners,’ while the seeming merchants draw their daggers and swords and present them at the captain’s breast.

“‘We are betrayed, lads!’ he shouts, knocking up the weapons with a handspike.

“At the same moment a drum beats in the big boat, and the Spaniards, soldiers in disguise, begin to climb up the sides. I run aft and clap the hatch over the cabin, so as to keep the five gentlemen there quiet, while our men, drawing out their weapons, begin to lay about them with a will which astonishes the dons. Some run to the guns and point them down at the boats; others, with axes, force back the men who are climbing the sides. Our decks are slippery with blood. Several of our men are wounded. A shot strikes a shipmate standing in front of me, and, falling dead, he knocks me over. It saves my life, for a Spaniard is making a cut at me, which misses, and our captain cuts him down. Still we fight on against fearful odds. Our enemies gain the deck, but it is only to add to the heap of the slain. At last the corregidor cries out, and begs our captain to order his men to cease fighting.

“‘Marry, very likely!’ says the captain, in the sort of Spanish lingo he spoke. ‘Why, my fellows are such fire-eating dogs that they would kill me if I was to make such a proposal. Is it the Inquisition, with a turn at the thumb-screws, the rack, and the stake, or liberty and Old England, you look for, my brave lads?’ continues the captain, turning to the men.

“‘Liberty and Old England!’ shout all our company.

“‘Then let us trundle these treacherous scoundrels overboard, cut our cable, and make sail,’ he exclaims in return.

“Scarce a minute passed and it was done; some were thrown into the hold, and the rest overboard, and a strong breeze coming off the land, the cable was cut, the sails filled, and away we glided out ahead of a dozen boats which came off in pursuit. We plied them well with our ordnance, till, like baffled hounds, they turned tail and went back to their kennel.

“Clear of the land, we turned to examine our prisoners. The five caged in the cabin had whole skins, the rest were wounded. Among them was the smooth-spoken corregidor, now woefully crestfallen. We dressed his and the other people’s hurts as well as we could, seeing that we had no leech aboard, and with a fair wind stood across the Bay of Biscay. The captain, whose kindness seemed to touch the feelings of the don, at last asked him what made him act so treacherous a part. On this out of his pocket he pulls a paper, which was just an order from King Philip to seize every ship of Holland, Zealand, Easterland, and England, in his ports, letting none escape, that he might increase his own fleet, by which he proposed to strike a blow to overwhelm Old England and all Protestant countries together.

“‘Ah! is that so, Senhor Don? Then our gracious sovereign lady shall know all about it, an’ my name be John Foster,’ exclaimed the captain; and you may be sure that, favoured by fine weather, we carried all sail night and day until we arrived safely in the Thames.

“The captain, taking me with him, hurried up to London with our prisoners, strongly guarded. We got audience of the queen and of the great Lord Burleigh; and the captain, albeit not much of a courtier, did his devoir right courteously to her majesty, who took the paper with her own gracious hand, and ordered a gentleman standing by to read it to her. When she heard its contents her whole countenance changed.

“‘We’ll be on the watch for you, cousin Philip,’ she exclaimed; but I heard no more, for her majesty turned to my Lord Burleigh and other noblemen and gentlemen to hold secret converse with them.

“But the captain was not the man to go away without fulfilling all his intentions. He took me by the hand, and, presenting me to the queen, told her that I had given him the first hint of the intentions of the Spaniards, and confirmed the opinion he had formed, and he hoped that her majesty would graciously keep me in mind.

“‘Ah, ah! the little varlet, we’ll not forget him,’ was her majesty’s reply; nor, by my troth, did she. There’s not an expedition of note, nor an adventure which has promised honour or wealth, since undertaken, in which I have not been engaged. I sailed with Admiral Sir Francis Drake to the West Indies in the Sea Dragon, commanded by honest Harry White. We did the Spaniards no small damage, burning their towns and sinking their ships without number, and came back with our pockets lined with doubloons, and six hundred thousand golden pounds, and brass cannon, and jewels, and ornaments of all sorts on board. I served aboard the Mary Rose, under the brave Captain Fenton, when the Spaniards’ Grand Armada entered the Channel; and, following them up, we at length broke through their line, led by the admiral himself. Then we engaged broadside to broadside a huge Spanish galleon, which we compelled to strike, and carried into port. But I weary you, good coz, with my adventures; I might go on talking till midnight, and yet not tell thee half the things I have done and seen. I may well say, that, since the time I made my first voyage in the Primrose, for not one single month at a time has my foot rested on terra firma.”

“Weary me, Tony!” exclaimed Raymond, who had been listening with the deepest attention, and an expression of wonder in his countenance, to every word his young companion had uttered. “Indeed you do not. If I did not know you to have been as a boy the soul of honour, and incapable of falsehood, I should only have been inclined to doubt that you had gone through all the adventures you describe.”

“Ah, that is because all these years you have been living quietly on shore, as I suspect, where weeks and months pass by you scarcely know how,” answered Waymouth, in a tone of compassion. “But now that I have told you somewhat about my worthless self, let me ask you how you have passed the last few years of your mortal existence?”

“Briefly I will reply,” said Raymond. “At school and college. The learned University of Oxford is my alma mater, and even now I am debating to what profession to devote my energies—the law, the Church, or physic. Sometimes I fancy public life, or to seek my fortune at court, where I have kindred who might aid me; but yet, in truth, I am undecided.”

“Ah, that’s good,” exclaimed Waymouth with animation. “The law—to persuade your hearers that black is white, and to set men by the ears—let that alone an’ you value your soul.”

It is not surprising that the young seaman should give expression to a vulgar and ignorant prejudice against one of the most necessary of professions.

“Physic! ‘Throw physic to the dogs, I’ll none on’t,’ as Will Shakespeare has it,” continued Waymouth. “No, no, Ned, learn not to murder thy friends and those that trust thee. As to the Church, I’ll say nothing against that if thou hast a calling to the ministry. To care for the soul’s welfare is a noble office, but if sought for the sake of filthy lucre it’s a mean, despicable trade, so we hold who follow the sea. And then thou talkest of seeking thy fortune at court. As well seek it on the slippery ice. No, no; listen to me, Ned. Seek it with us. It’s a secret as yet, and I cannot tell thee particulars; but this much I may say. There is as bold an adventure even now preparing as ever set forth from these shores. Hark, Ned: I know that thou art trustworthy. It is for the far-off lands of India, Cathay, the Spice Islands, and maybe the wide Pacific, where many a richly laden galleon or Portugal ship may be fallen in with. Become an adventurer with us. Our lists are not filled up. Think that in two or three short years, at most, thou wilt become for certain a man of wealth, fit to wed the proudest lady in the land. Then the wonders of those distant lands! They make no more count of gold and silver, of diamonds and other precious stones, than we do of tin and iron, and of pebbles from the seaside. Come, come, Ned; say yes to my proposal.”

But Raymond did not say yes, and Waymouth continued in the same strain for some considerable time longer. At length Raymond answered, while the colour mantled on his cheeks—

“I would fain go with thee, good coz, but the truth is, there is one I love here in England from whom I could not bear to be parted. We trust to wed some day, and all my hopes of happiness on earth are bound up in her.”

“Ha! ha! I might have thought so,” said Waymouth. “That comes of living on shore. Now at sea we have no time for thinking of such matters. I doubt not, however, that the fair one, whoever she may be, is worthy of your love. Tell me, do I know her?”

“It is no secret—she is the Lady Beatrice Willoughby. Her grandfather was that noble captain who perished in the attempt to discover a passage to Cathay by the north-west. You have doubtless heard the tale—how he and all his men were found frozen to death in the icy sea, the admiral seated in his cabin, his pen in his hand, his journal before him.”

“Ay, that have I, and reverence his name,” said Waymouth with feeling. “But what fortune hast thou, coz, to support a wife? They say these ladies of fashion are not content unless they have their coach, their running footmen, and their waiting-women, and I know not what else beside.”

Raymond sighed. “My fortune is to be made—I live on hope,” he answered.

“Such often maketh the heart sick and the body lean,” replied the young sailor. “Follow my advice. Go tell the Lady Beatrice the truth. Vow eternal constancy, and comfort her with all the soothing speeches thou canst make, and I’ll warrant that, in three short years at furthest, thou wilt return with wealth sufficient to support a wife as becomes your family and hers.”

There can be no doubt that Antony Waymouth spoke what he believed to be the truth, and gave, as he fancied, excellent advice. It may appear surprising, however, that Raymond, a scholar and a man of good parts and judgment, should have been so strongly influenced as he was by the arguments of a mere youth; but, as far as acquaintance with the world was concerned, Waymouth was the oldest of the two. He had been left since a child almost to work his own way in the world, helped onward by the queen, and had mixed with every variety of men. This gave him a confidence in himself and an independence of manner which Raymond had had no opportunity of gaining.

While the young men were still eagerly talking, a clock from a neighbouring tower struck the hour of one past noon. Waymouth started up with an exclamation of astonishment, saying—

“The hours have sped faster than I thought. I should have been aboard by this time to see how the artificers get on with their fittings. But come, coz, you shall be my excuse, and I’ll show thee as stout ships as ever sailed the salt ocean.”

“Agreed,” was the answer, and the two friends set off. All the way Antony plied his companion with the most glowing descriptions of the wealth and fortune to be obtained in the distant East, not to speak of the honour, and glory, and renown. Portugal ships and Spaniards without number were sure to be taken, even should the land fail to, yield what might be expected. And then the wonders to be seen—the curious people—the palaces of silver and precious stones—the Great Mogul on his throne of gold, and the Emperor of Cathay, with his robes of rubies and diamonds—not to speak of the possibility of falling in with Prester John, whose dominions were undoubtedly on that side of Africa; and then the Spice Islands, which might be discerned by their fragrance even when miles away!

Enlarging, as Waymouth did, with an eloquence which perfect confidence in the truth of what he was saying gave him, and a strong desire to gain over his friend, it is not surprising that Raymond yielded to such seductive arguments, and began to grow eager to join the expedition as an adventurer. Aboard the ships which were fitting in the harbour, Waymouth introduced him to several other adventurers, who naturally wished to obtain a gentleman of such good parts and family as a brother in their company. Raymond had, he fancied, a small patrimony at his command. Could he do better than risk it in so promising an adventure, and in three short years come back and marry his beloved Beatrice? Still he would do nothing rashly; he would make no engagement till he had talked the matter over with her. Accordingly, leaving Waymouth on board to attend to his nautical duties, early next morning he took horse and set off for Exeter, in the neighbourhood of which city the Lady Willoughby, with her daughter and the rest of her family, resided.

Raymond was welcomed as he always was, but he could not bring himself at first to announce the object of his visit. He spoke, however, of his meeting with Waymouth, and of his descriptions of the wonders of the East, and the wealth to be speedily obtained in those distant seas. His auditors were even more interested than he expected. It was but natural that young Hugh Willoughby should be so, but so likewise was Hugh’s uncle, Sir John Jourdan, a brother of Lady Willoughby’s, and guardian to her children.

The early dinner over, Raymond and Beatrice wandered forth into the grounds, for they were acknowledged lovers, and enjoyed a liberty which would otherwise have been denied them. Raymond saw at once that Beatrice was sad at heart. He felt tongue-tied. She spoke first.

“I know what has been passing in your mind, dear Edward. You long to join these adventurers, and I know why—for the sake of the wealth you hope to obtain.”

She gazed tenderly at him, her blue eyes suffused with tears. Beatrice was fair and graceful. Raymond thought her beauty faultless: so did many others. How could he withstand such an appeal? He acknowledged that she was right in her conjectures, but expressed himself ready to be guided by her decision.

“Stay, then,” she whispered. “Wealth I do not value. I would be content to be your wife however humble your lot, but I have that confidence in your steadiness, and perseverance, and love for me, that, with the many honourable careers open to you at home, I feel sure that you will ere long secure a sufficient competency to support me in that station of life in which we have been born.”

Raymond thanked her over and over again for this kind and encouraging speech. In a moment all his dreams of adventure and the wealth he was suddenly to acquire vanished into thin air. He promised to be worthy of the high opinion she had formed of him, and to labour on bravely in England, having the enjoyment and support of her society. They wandered on through the grounds, beneath the shade of stately elms and sturdy oaks, in the delightful feeling that they were not to be parted, and regardless of all sublunary affairs but their own. Little, therefore, were they prepared for the blow which was to fall on their heads on their return to the hall in the evening.

It appeared as if both Sir John and Hugh had divined Raymond’s thoughts when he had arrived in the morning at the hall, for they immediately commenced the subject of an adventure to Cathay, and inquired if he had formed any plans for making one. Raymond did not like the tone in which he was addressed, and replied simply that, had such an intention crossed his mind, he had abandoned it. On this the knight looked glum, and Hugh showed an inclination to fume; but no further words then passed.

It was not till the ladies had retired to their chambers that Sir John again opened on the subject. He spoke very explicitly. He was the guardian of his niece Beatrice, and as such had the undoubted disposal of her hand. Love and poverty might do in theory, but were objectionable in practice. He had a great respect for Master Raymond, as he had for Sir Thomas his father, and for all his family, but the interests of his ward must be his first consideration. Now he had discovered, imprimis, that Master Raymond had much less fortune than he had supposed; and, secondly, that his prospects of making a fortune, or of pushing his way in the world, were much smaller than desirable, and that, therefore, he was in duty bound to withhold the consent previously given to his marriage to Beatrice till such times as he could show that he possessed the means in fact, and not only in prospect, of maintaining her as a gentlewoman.

Poor Raymond felt his heart sinking lower and lower while listening to these remarks, till it seemed to have gone out of his bosom altogether. What could he say? He stammered out, at length, that his love would give him strength and courage to achieve any thing mortal man could do, and that he was sure of success. But what sounded a very plausible argument to his ears was so much prunella to those of the old knight.

“I’ll tell thee what, lad: from thine own showing this morning, there is a course open to thee by which thou mayst gain speedily both wealth and honour, and all a gentleman of spirit can desire, and that I take thee to be. Go, think about it on thy couch, and to-morrow I’ll warrant that thou wilt agree that I have given thee sound counsel and advice.”

Edward went to his couch, but not a wink did he sleep. His heart was torn with a variety of conflicting emotions. He could not help owning that there was truth in what Sir John had said, and yet he felt that he had the power to win his way to fortune by honest labour with such a being as Beatrice Willoughby at his side. Hot and feverish, he rose early to take a turn in the park. He had not gone far when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, and saw Hugh Willoughby following him at a rapid pace. There was a frown on the young man’s brow, and his lips were compressed in a way which showed that he was in no good humour.

“Well met, this fine morning,” he exclaimed in an angry tone. “I must have a word or two with you, Master Edward Raymond. It seems, sir, that you have been deceiving us—leading us to suppose that your fortune is far greater than it turns out to be. I’ll tell you, sir, that my sister shall never wed a beggar while I have a sword with which to run that beggar through the body who dares to wish it.” Edward gasped for breath—such bitter, taunting, cruel words, how could he abide them? He had a sword by his side, but nothing should make him draw it on the brother of his Beatrice. He took two or three turns up and down on the greensward.

“Hugh,” he exclaimed, “you wrong me cruelly. Your uncle knows more of the state of my affairs than I do myself. My earnest desire has been to obtain a fortune to support your sister as becomes her. But two days ago the offer was made me to undertake such an expedition as that proposed by your uncle. Not your taunts, not your threats, not your anger, shall compel me to go; but I believe that I shall be doing right in going. On one condition I will consent—that no force or restraint be put on your sister’s inclinations. If she cares no longer for me, let her marry whom she will; but if she remains faithful to me—as I know right well she will, and as I shall to her—then I have your word, that, on my return with the wealth I may have won, I may claim her as my bride.”

“Fairly and right nobly spoken,” exclaimed Hugh, who, though hot-tempered, was of a generous disposition, and had been worked up to act as he had done by his uncle. “Agreed—agreed; I’ll tell Beatrice what you have said, and, no doubt, she will see its wisdom.”

In more friendly intercourse than from their first meeting might have been expected, the two young men continued their walk, and returned to such a breakfast as is seldom, in these degenerate days, seen on the table.

Sorely against her judgment and inclination, Beatrice yielded to her uncle’s demands. Deep was her sorrow at parting from Edward, and reiterated were their mutual vows of constancy; not that either had the slightest doubt of each other’s devoted love. It was more for the sake of influencing others than themselves that vows were exchanged—that they might say, “We have vowed; we cannot break our vows.”

Edward had to return home to make his preparations. The old knight, his father, heard of this his sudden resolve with a sorrowing heart. His own health had given way sadly of late. He knew that the change which no mortal can avoid must soon come upon him, and should his well-loved son go away, even for a few years, he could scarcely hope that his eyes would rest on him again on this side the grave. He was fully aware, too, of the perils, great and innumerable, to which he must inevitably be exposed. Still, though gentle and loving, he was stout of heart; peril had never daunted him. If his son desired to go on this adventure, he would not withhold his consent. Lady Raymond was no more; but there was another member of his family, to part from whom cost Edward a severe pang—his lovely sister Constance. She was not only lovely, graceful, and good, but full of animation and spirit, combined with a calm courage and determination which, when difficulties came in her way, made her take pleasure in overcoming them. Few who observed her gentle and quiet demeanour would have supposed her likely to perform the deeds of devotion and courage of which she was capable.

“I wish that I were a man, that I, too, might take part in so gallant an enterprise, and win for myself such a bride as is your Beatrice,” she exclaimed when her brother told her of his purpose; but she added, “and yet, dear Edward, it grieves me sorely to part with you. I would go myself, and yet I would not have you go; and yet, again, I cannot say you nay. Go, go! It must be so, I see, and I will join my prayers with those I know your sweet Beatrice will offer up night and day for your safe return.”

“The die is cast,” said Edward with a sigh, and he wrote to Waymouth to say he would join him. In the course of four days he set forth from Exeter, with a couple of packhorses to carry his worldly goods, and a serving-man, equipped for his projected voyage to the far East.

Chapter Two.

A goodly fleet of stout ships, with bulging sails, and gayly-coloured banners and streamers flying, sailed down Plymouth Sound before a favouring breeze, which promised to waft them along steadily towards the sunny latitudes of the tropics. There sailed the Red Dragon, of full three hundred tons and forty pieces of ordnance—the admiral’s ship; and there was the Serpent, of not less than two hundred and fifty tons—the vice-admiral’s ship; and the Lion, of not much less tonnage and armament than the Serpent; there was the Lion’s Whelp, a tall ship, and two pinnaces, the Sunshine and Moonshine, the larger ships carrying each from one hundred to one hundred and thirty men, and the pinnaces thirty men each; and as for arms, besides great guns, they were amply provided with culverins, sakers, falconets, and murtherers, the latter unpleasantly-named pieces being similar to blunderbusses on swivels, and loaded with small shot, and scraps of iron, lead, or stones. No little squadron in those days could have been more amply equipped, provisioned, and found in every way, or better manned or commanded.

It must be remarked that the pictorial representations of ships of those days give us a very erroneous notion of what ships really were. Ships capable of performing long voyages in tempestuous seas, and ships on tapestry—worked by fair fingers, which, however ably they might have plied their needles, were scarcely capable of delineating accurately those wonderful constructions on which the eyes of the workers had probably never rested—are very different from each other. The ships now described sailing down Plymouth Sound were strongly-built craft, with bows not over-bluff and sides not over-high. They had erections on deck, both at the bows and stern, rising some five feet above it, or a little more, perhaps, on the top of which men could stand for fighting or working some of the sheets and braces of the lighter sails, while the halyards and other chief ropes lead to the main deck. In these said erections, or castles, as they were called, still to be seen in most foreign and many English merchantmen, somewhat modified and in more pacific guise, there were port-holes, with guns projecting from them both at the sides and outer ends, and also along the deck. Thus an enemy having gained the deck would be exposed to a hot fire from the defenders under shelter of the wooden walls of the two castles. On the fore and main mast the sails were square, and there were also staysails fore and aft. On the mizzen-mast there was a large lateen yard and sail, such as is still seen in the Mediterranean. It was a useful and powerful sail for plying to windward, gaff-sails not having then been invented. The tops were circular, and heavier than would now be approved of, but certainly not the heavy constructions they are represented in pictures. The holds of those vessels were very capacious, and the cabins were fitted not without regard to comfort and luxury, and were often richly ornamented.

Such was the squadron to which the Lion belonged, and on board the Lion sailed Antony Waymouth as master’s mate or chief officer under the captain, and his friend Edward Raymond, to whom was awarded the office of cosmographer, he being at the same time an adventurer of some three hundred pounds. Of the Lion an honourable gentleman, John Wood, was captain, and Master James Walker, a truly worthy man, and pious withal, the minister. Captain Lancaster, a man of renown and valour, was the admiral and general; and Nicholas Parker, captain of the Serpent, the vice-admiral. Of the rest of the officers and gentlemen adventurers it is not necessary here to speak. That they were not a godless or a lawless company, intent only on plunder, may be proved by the following rules and articles set down for their guidance:

“The usual service appointed by the Church of England to be said twice a day. Due reverence to be given to the ministers. Not to suffer swearing, dicing, card-playing, or other vain talk. Conspiring against the life of the general or any other in authority to be punished by death. To follow the admiral day and night and no man to be so bold as to go before him. To speak with him every morning and night. Not to be more than an English mile from him. Signals: Not to give chase without the admiral’s orders. Watchwords: ‘if God be with us;’ answer, ‘Who shall be against us?’ If an enemy be encountered, rather to be on the defensive than the offensive.”

Waymouth showed these articles to Raymond, observing—“You see, Ned, we seamen are not, the godless reprobates some who grow rich upon our toil and danger would wish to make it appear. Where would you find a more humble Christian man than good Master Walker, our minister? and surely the example he and the other chaplains of the fleet set is not without its due influence among the crews.”

Waymouth spoke the truth. It was not till many years after this that the character of the British seaman changed very much for the worse. No chaplains were then sent to sea; religion was ignored, and, as a consequence, the mass of seamen became godless, swearing, vicious reprobates, little better than heathens in their religion or morality. On board Captain Lancaster’s fleet, however, order was well maintained, and the ministers setting a good example, religion flourished more than among most communities on shore.

All honour be to our sea-going ancestors! They were brave, sincere, zealous, and energetic men; black was black with them, and white white. They had, it must be owned, some queer notions as to right and wrong, and honest traders on the north of the line seemed to consider themselves justified in acting the part of pirates to the south of it. Like the Arabs of the desert, their hand was against every man, and every man’s hand against them. In the East, Spaniards, Portugals, Hollanders, and English were at ceaseless war with each other; or when the Hollanders pretended to side with the latter, it was simply for the purpose of betraying them and injuring their commerce in those parts.

As Raymond stood on the aftercastle of the Lion, watching the fast-receding shores of Old England, his spirit sank within him. He was thinking—and shame, to him if he was not—of Beatrice. Not for a moment did he doubt her love and constancy; but he thought of the dangers to which she might be exposed should troublous times again arise—of her grief should he not be destined to return. He had others, also, whom he loved at home; his widowed mother, his brothers, and, above all, his sister Constance, the dear friend of his Beatrice, unlike her in appearance, for Constance was a dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty, full of life and animation, but like her in goodness and sense, and the sweetness of her disposition. Hugh Willoughby affected her, but it was evidently with a mere boyish admiration, and she regarded him in no other light than as her friend’s brother.

Edward’s reveries were broken in on by Waymouth, who sprang up on the deck of the aftercastle and clapped him, as was his wont, on the shoulder, exclaiming—

“What! disconsolate, Ned? Turn thee about, lad; the old country will not move till we come back, depend on that. Look ahead! that’s the way we seamen set our eyes. Even now the admiral has made a signal that several sail are in sight under all canvas, steering for the south. Spaniards or Portugals I hope they may prove, and if so, and we come up with them, thou’lt have the satisfaction of enjoying a sea fight before we’ve been forty-eight hours on the salt ocean.”

Edward’s attention was instantly aroused. Nothing in the then state of his feelings he would so much enjoy as a battle. Not that he had seen one, nor had he pictured its horrors very clearly to himself. Had he, possibly he would not have been so anxious for it. The hope of booty animated the ship’s company generally, though some declared that it was the desire to destroy Papists, the born enemies of England, at which their minister, Master Walker, severely rebuked them, telling them that it was filthy lucre, and that alone, they desired, and that the sword was not the weapon to win men over to the truth, or to use against men who held not the truth.

“The sword repelleth friends,” he continued. “Kind words and gentle usage attract those who have been our foes. Such are the weapons Protestants should use against their Papist adversaries.”

Master Walker’s plain speaking and honest dealing with those over whose spiritual welfare he had the charge made him generally beloved, though a few bad tempers disliked him. To Waymouth and Raymond he was a sincere and warm friend, as he was in truth, as far as they would let him, to all who sailed on board the fleet. The chase continued; but the strangers, whatever their nation, were fleet craft. So far they had been gained on as to be seen from the tops of the Lion. Though outnumbering the English, they continued their flight; southward they sailed, and southward after them sailed their pursuers. The Spaniards had received so many severe lessons of late that they had learned to consider discretion the best part of valour. Henceforth their history was to show a retrogressive movement. Their black injustice and horrible cruelties to the natives of Mexico and Peru were to meet with just retribution. The cries of thousands ascending from their inquisitorial prisons were not unheard. National sins were to meet with national punishment. They had been tried in the balance, and found wanting. So it has gone on. The land of Spain, bountifully blessed by Nature, still holds a people grovelling in the dust of ignorance and superstition. At that time it is difficult to overstate, though not to believe, the utter detestation in which the Spaniards were held by all true-hearted Englishmen, and in which the Portugals over whom they held sway had to share. The chase continued till night hid the strangers from the sharp eyes of the men on the lookout at the mast-heads. In vain were they looked for the next morning.

“Never mind,” said Waymouth as he walked the deck; “the world is round: Sir Francis Drake has proved it so. We’ll come up with them in the course of the circle.”

The belief that the enemy were ahead urged the bold mariners to carry sail night and day, so that their run to the south was unusually rapid. Raymond devoted himself to the study of navigation and to practising the use of such nautical instruments as were then invented; nor did he neglect to gain a knowledge of the object of the ropes and sails, and the mode of dealing with a ship under various circumstances, so that Waymouth soon pronounced him an accomplished seaman. There occurred but one event worth narrating for some time. Sixteen sail were seen approaching, and the fleet got ready for action. The strangers, however, turned out to be Hamburg hulks from Lisbon; but the obstinate Hollanders refused to strike to the English flag—a piece of folly not to be borne—so they were fired into and compelled to heave to. Boats were then sent on board, and such articles as were likely to prove useful were taken out of them, it being evident that they were loaded with Spanish property. They were then charitably allowed to proceed on their voyage. We will not describe the mummeries and other ceremonies which took place on crossing the line, introduced by some Genoese seamen on board, such as they said their countrymen were wont to indulge in formerly on passing through the “Gut of Gibbelterra,” and now of late in these same latitudes. It was not much to good Master Walker’s taste, seeing that numerous profane gods and goddesses of the sea were introduced—Hercules and Orion, and Venus and Neptune, and others, Tritons and odd fish of all sorts. Without misadventure the squadron reached Sierra Leone, where the blacks were friendly, and, taking in water and fresh provisions, stood across to the coast of Brazil. Here a brighter lookout than ever was kept, and not without avail, for when about eight leagues from the shore they descried a small Portugal ship, which they chased and took, of about fifty tons’ burden, bound up the River Plate. She had forty-two negroes on board for Peru, and two Portugal women and a child passengers, with some sugar, rice, and sweetmeats. The next day another Portugal ship was captured. Waymouth in his journal remarked, “that the only riches in her besides slaves and friars were beads, pictures, and other spiritual trinkets—furniture designed for the use of a new monastery.”

The pilot of this ship turned out to be an Englishman—one Dick Carter, from Limehouse—who had been so long away from home that he had almost lost all use of his native tongue.

“Why, lad, we have a man aboard—Tom Carter—from the same place,” observed Waymouth, as the man tried in broken accents to narrate his history.

Tom was sent for, and, sure enough, the two proved to be brothers. Dick gladly consented to serve on board the Lion, and informed Waymouth, in gratitude for his kind treatment, that a Spanish squadron of considerable force was daily expected in the Plate. The admiral, however, instead of trying to avoid them, resolved to await their coming, and, entering the river, cast anchor.

“Now, Ned, we shall have our hearts’ desire,” exclaimed Waymouth, as he stopped for a minute near his friend while going round the decks to see that the ship was ready for a fight.

The day was passing away, when, about four o’clock in the afternoon, five sail of large ships and several smaller ones were seen rounding a point in the river. The English, therefore, in warlike manner set their watch, the trumpets sounded, the drums beat, and the admiral opened fire on the approaching enemy, who, however, anchored out of shot, the better to prepare for the expected fight. They were some little time in doing this, and then once more they advanced, it being now nightfall. The wind had dropped, so the Spaniards’ boats towed on their big ships with the intent of boarding the English. Both sides were, meantime, plying their guns and small arms with vigour; the English with the greater success, as their men were more at liberty. The Spanish vice-admiral was seen with two smaller ships bearing down on the Lion; Captain Wood was, therefore, compelled to slip his cable, to prevent them driving athwart his hawse. A breeze springing up, he was able to make sail and lay the galleon alongside, caring little for the smaller ships. Now began a most desperate fight, the bright flashes of the guns making night appear like day; the rattle of the small arms, the roar of the heavy ordnance, the sounding of the trumpets and drums, the shouts and shrieks of combatants, creating a turmoil terrible to novices—and confusing to the senses.

The Lion enjoyed a large share of the fight, everybody being actively engaged, the captain himself firing a musket like the rest. One of the Spanish frigates, coming too near her, received so heavy a storm of shot, that, one penetrating her magazine, with a loud roar she blew up, when her companion sheered off, not wishing to share the same fate. The Lion now turned her whole fury on the galleon, which she kept at a respectful distance. Suddenly the galleon’s fire ceased. The darkness was great; she could nowhere be seen. Captain Wood now stood away to support the admiral and the other ships; they were hard pressed, though fighting valiantly. The Lion soon had an enemy worthy to contend with in a Portugal galleon which had come in with the Spaniards, and now hoped, by attacking a ship partly disabled by a long combat, to come off the conqueror. The English captain, as did his young lieutenant, called on their men to exert themselves to the utmost to fight for the honour of Old England. Raymond supported them bravely, and, though at length wounded in the arm, he refused to leave the deck. Thus the fight continued, Captain Wood making several attempts to board his opponent, which the latter nimbly avoided. The admiral and vice-admiral were all the time hotly engaged. The former was seen to run a large Spaniard aboard, when, after a hot discharge of great guns, flames were observed to burst forth from one ship or the other, and thus they drove by till no longer to be distinguished. The last seen of the Serpent was in chase of some Spaniard, as her tall masts, like some huge monster of the deep, glided by past the Lion. Towards morning the moon disappeared, clouds overspread the sky, the Portugal thought it wise to sheer off, and the brave ship’s company of the Lion waited anxiously for daylight to ascertain the fate of their friends and foes. For fear of the ship being drifted on shore, Captain Wood again anchored.

As soon as the fight was over, Waymouth hastened to look for his friend. He found him below in the hands of the surgeon. Raymond bore the pain bravely. Waymouth congratulated him.

“You’ve had a taste of what a sea fight is like, Ned,” he observed. “Maybe before we get back to Old England we may have to count scores such, for, no doubt, the Portugals and Spaniards, and even the Hollanders, will give us plenty of occasions to prove our valour.”

Raymond replied that he was ready for another fight, and should be willing to meet the foes of England wherever they were to be found.

It appeared probable that he would at once have another opportunity, for, as daylight broke, a large ship was discerned bearing down on them under all sail. She was the Portugal. The Lion’s crew flew to their guns, and as she came near plied her so well with their shot that she was fain to sheer off, and to stand down towards the river’s mouth. As she stood away, an officer of rank—so he seemed by his fine garments and feather in his cap—sprang on the aftercastle, and, shaking his fist, cried out through his trumpet—

“We shall meet you again ere long, you hated English, and then we shall have our revenge.”

“Let the dog bark who runs away. Though he shows his teeth he dare not use them,” exclaimed Waymouth with a scornful laugh.

The increasing light had shown some way astern the topmasts of a ship out of the water, crowded with people. Was the foundered ship a friend or foe? As soon as they were clear of the Portugal ship two boats were lowered, and made towards the spot where the masts appeared. At the same time several boats were seen putting off from the shore, clearly belonging to Spaniards. When they, on their part, beheld the English approaching, fearing their prowess, from which they had suffered so much, they put back, leaving their countrymen to their fate.

The poor people on the masts, who had been clinging there for the greater part of the night, held out their hands, imploring succour. This English sailors have ever been ready to give to those in distress, whether friends or foes. The boats, therefore, approached to take off the nearly-exhausted people. Waymouth, who was in the first boat, perceived, as he fancied, the flutter of a female’s dress. On the cross-trees, just above the water, lay a young lady, her head resting on the arm of an old and dignified-looking man, while the two were further supported by four or five faithful seamen who clung near them. The seamen waved their hands to attract the notice of the English.

“Take this lady off first,” they cried out. “Save her and her father; mind not us.”

Waymouth required no further inducement to exertion than the sight that feminine gear had excited. The Spanish seamen refrained from leaping into the boat as she came up to the mast, allowing Waymouth to climb up and release the lady from her painful and perilous position. Carefully he lifted her into the boat, and placed her in the after-part.

“Oh, meu pai! meu pai!” she cried out in the tongue of the Portugals—“Oh, my father! my father!”

“Have no fear, fair lady,” cried Waymouth, who understood it slightly; “he is safe.” And, springing back, he assisted the old gentleman into the boat. The latter, as far as his exhausted slate would allow, expressed his thanks.

Not till now did the Spanish seamen descend into the boat. As soon as he had received as many as she could carry, Waymouth returned with them to the Lion. The care of the surgeon and good Master Walker soon restored the young lady—for young she was and beautiful—to a state of consciousness and quietude. Her nerves had been sorely shaken by the combat, the sinking of the ship, and terrible danger to which she had been exposed. Her father, the old gentleman, was, it appeared, Don Joao Pinto d’Almeida, the governor of a Portugal settlement in the East; she was the Donna Isabel d’Almeida, his only child. Though Portugals, they had taken passage aboard this Spanish ship, intending to proceed on their farther voyage in the one which had escaped and left them to their fate. The Portugal ship was the Santa Barba, and her captain Don Pedro de Lima. Don Joao seemed glad to hear that the Santa Barba had escaped capture, and supposed that in the darkness Don Pedro had not seen the wreck. Meantime most of the people from the masts had been rescued and brought on board the Lion.

While the boats were thus engaged, firing was heard, and several ships were seen approaching, hotly engaged, down the mighty Plate stream, compared to which the rivers of Europe seem but purling brooks. It was a sad fate for the poor wretches on the masts to be thus left to starve or fall off and be drowned, but there was no time for delay. The Lion lifted her anchor, and made sail to join in the combat. Her rigging had been repaired as far as practicable, so that she was fresh for the fight. The rest of the English squadron and four Spaniards or Portugals were observed fiercely exchanging shots with each other. The enemy, probably, had already enjoyed a sufficient taste of the quality of the English to be tired of the fight, for no sooner was the Lion observed drawing near with drums beating, trumpets braying forth defiance, and ordnance speaking a still more decided language, than they steered for the shore on either side, and ran hard and fast aground. Some of the people in the enemy’s ships took to their boats, others leaped overboard and swam to the shore, and several were seen running backwards and forwards at their wits’ end, the English cannon thundering furiously at them; while a few bold spirits stood at their quarters, and returned the fire from their own pieces. However, they could not long maintain the unequal fight; flames burst forth from the ports of the ships, and one after the other, before any booty could be obtained from them, they blew up, till not a Spaniard remained to dispute the passage of the river. Now the English admiral thought fit to anchor his fleet opposite a pleasant spot near the mouth of the river, and, the larger number of the company landing, a fort was erected to guard against surprise, and the repairing of the ships commenced.

As yet they had gained much of what men call glory and renown, concerning the value of which there may be some dispute; but they had obtained no booty, about the desirableness of which there cannot be two opinions. So thought the adventurers. They were all eager, therefore, to proceed to the East, where they expected to find it in abundance, and accordingly hurried on the refitting of the ships. It was well that they did so, for scarcely was the squadron once more clear of the land than a large fleet was seen approaching the mouth of the river. The English ships stood on their course, for the strangers, undoubtedly Spaniards and Portugals, were too numerous to be trifled with. The enemy were soon seen to make sail in chase. The English set all their canvas, not to avoid the fight, but to separate the ships of the enemy, so as to deal first with the faster sailers. The plan answered; but the leading Spanish ships soon got such a taste of the guns of the Dragon, the Serpent, and the Lion, that they dropped astern, the rest not deeming it prudent to take their places, content with boasting that they had put an English squadron to flight.

Thus triumphantly the English ships sailed on their way across the Atlantic till they neared the Cape Bona Spei, or Bona Speranza, as in those days the Cape of Good Hope was frequently called. Once more they dropped anchor in Saldanha Bay, a place at which most vessels sailing to Cathay were wont to touch. The common people among the prisoners had been left on shore in America; but the officers and the Portugal governor and his daughter, and some attendants, had been carried on, the admiral deeming that they might be useful to exchange with any English persons of quality who might have been captured by the Portugals; or, if not, that a good ransom might be obtained for them. Don Joao and Donna Isabel remained accordingly on board the Lion, where Captain Wood, as did his young lieutenant, paid them all the attention in their power.

Waymouth admired the fair captive. He could speak her language better than most on board, and many an hour, not unnaturally, he passed in her company. It is possible that his feelings might have run away with him altogether had he not had so grave a monitor as Edward Raymond by his side, who was ever whispering that Donna Isabel was of a country at enmity with his, of a faith differing greatly from his, and that, though her attractions were great, there were many fair ladies in England possessed of still greater, and more suited to be his bride. These remarks did not exactly go in at one ear and out the other; but no sooner did Donna Isabel appear on deck than they were forgotten for the time. That Donna Isabel had, however, any other feeling than that of gratitude for Antony Waymouth, no one on board could say, for she was equally courteous to Raymond and to all the other officers.

Don Joao meantime was very anxious to be liberated, as he wanted to get to his government, and he was continually urging his captors to allow him to depart on board the first Portugal ship they might meet, he undertaking to pay a large ransom for himself and daughter. Captain Wood was a jovial-hearted and mannered man. He laughed loudly at the proposal.

“Thine own ransom, worthy senhor, we shall fix at not less than five hundred golden pieces; and for thy daughter, we must allow Antony Waymouth to arrange that.”

The captain spoke in jest, but to Waymouth the proposal caused sore perplexity. He was grieved to have to part with her, in the first place. In the second, if he named a ransom at what he considered her value, it would be high indeed; if he mentioned a small sum, it would appear as if he held her in low esteem. He was very much inclined to quarrel with his captain on the matter; but the more perplexed he appeared the more determined Captain Wood became to fix him to the point. He walked the deck in a state of great agitation. All sorts of mad schemes occurred to him.

He had paced up and down for some time when he was joined by Raymond, who had heard of his perplexity.

“Let me judge if I may help to get thee free of thy difficulty,” said Raymond, who, having an older head on his shoulders, was not so troubled as his younger friend about the matter. “You have to name the value of this fair Portugal donna; you esteem her very highly too.”

“Yes, indeed I do. She is the most charming, sweet, enchanting creature my eyes have ever beheld or expect to behold,” exclaimed Waymouth, uttering many other rhapsodical expressions, which his friend did not interrupt. When he ceased, the latter quietly remarked—

“Well, repeat all you have said to our captain, and then declare that, as she is above all price, so no price would pay her ransom, and that, therefore, she is entitled to go free.”

Waymouth struck his forehead, surprised that so bright a thought had never occurred to him, and, thanking Edward, hastened to the captain to give his reply.

It was taken in good part; no one was inclined to gainsay it; and Don Joao undertook to pay the required sum, how, when, and where it might be demanded.

“At your own castle, when we can get there, and to whomsoever we may depute,” was the reply.

Perfect confidence was placed in Don Joao that he would pay the money. At that time the Portugals and the Spaniards were held in respect for their rigid adherence to the code of honour which they had laid down for themselves.

The difficulty was to find a ship by which to send them, as the admiral was unwilling to go out of his course to land them. Hitherto the squadron had avoided all disaster, though not successful in making prizes. They were now in a part of the ocean where fearful hurricanes were at times to be expected, and in a latitude full of little-known islands and rocks; at the same time, they might hope to meet with numerous ships of the enemy.

Waymouth, as he thought on having to part with Donna Isabel so soon, became more and more downcast, though Edward and good Master Walker, the minister, and the other officers, did their utmost to keep up his spirits; some, like Raymond and Master Walker, by entering into his feelings; others, like Captain Wood, by bantering and quizzing.

“A sail! a sail!” was shouted from the mast-head, whence a bright lookout was constantly kept. Chase was made—the stranger was overtaken. She proved to be a Portugal, a straggler from a large squadron supposed to be far ahead.

Not a moment was to be lost. Every article of value was taken from her except the fittings of her chief cabin, some guns for signals, and provisions sufficient to last her till she could reach the Malabar coast. The admiral then ordered the prisoners to be placed in her. Waymouth had the duty of conveying them.

Donna Isabel spoke but little, keeping her head muffled in her hood. The English lieutenant tried to talk, but never had he felt so tongue-tied. This was not surprising. He could say nothing definite about the future, and he had little to say about the past. He carefully helped her up the side, and placed her on a seat on the deck of the Tiger. Don Joao was profuse in his expressions of gratitude for the treatment he and his daughter had received, and over and over again declared that it would afford him intense satisfaction to pay his ransom whenever demanded. Waymouth, like a true sailor, had hurried below to see what arrangements could be made for the comfort and convenience of Donna Isabel, and, having pointed out to the officers of the ship what was to be done, had returned on deck resolved to pour out all his feelings into her ear, when a gun from the admiral, repeated by the Lion, warned him that he must not delay another moment. All he could do was to bow low as he passed the lady and her father, utter a low farewell, and, leaping into his boat, pull back to the Lion as fast as his men could bend to their oars. The squadron instantly made all sail in chase of the enemy supposed to be ahead. For some time Waymouth had too much to do to look towards the ship on board which he had left the Portugal governor and his daughter, and when he did look she appeared but a speck on the horizon. He stood gazing, lost in a reverie. He was aroused by a slap on the shoulder.

“Look ahead! that’s the way we seamen set our faces,” said a voice near him, “quoting your own words, coz. We have changed places, methinks.”

Waymouth, looking round, saw Raymond and several other officers standing behind him. He heaved a sigh, and then joined in the laugh in which the rest were indulging. He had been too long at sea not to know the folly of growing angry under such circumstances. Besides, as he confessed to Raymond, he could not help feeling relieved at having no longer so important a charge. A brighter lookout than ever was kept on board the squadron, that they might not pass the enemy. Just before noon on the third day some strange sail were descried ahead. They increased in numbers: they were tall ships. There could be no doubt that they were those of the Portugal fleet they were in chase of, but far more numerous than they had been led to expect. Still undaunted, the brave admiral and his officers resolved to attack them. The Portugals saw the English approaching, and no longer, like caitiffs, flying before the foe, hauled their wind, and, forming a semicircle, prepared to receive them. In spite of the mighty superiority of the Portugals, the English sailed on in compact order, the men at their guns, their matches in their hands ready to open fire, every one in the fleet prepared for death or victory.

Chapter Three.

The Portugal fleet, which the little English squadron was now rapidly approaching, looked formidable indeed, numbering as it did four times as many tall ships as the latter, but not a heart among the stout men who formed the crew of the Red Dragon, the Serpent, or the Lion, the Sunshine or Moonshine, quailed with the thoughts of combating against odds so great.

Good Master Walker, the minister of the Lion, went round among the crew as they stood at their quarters, reminding them that they were about to fight for their sovereign, their country, their honour, and their religion.

“And, dear lads,” he added, “now is not the time to preach to you; but I have taught you all faithfully the truth, and would beseech all who have listened to remember and adhere by it.”

The admiral had formed his line of battle, and, passing by each ship on his way to form the van, hailed through his speaking-trumpet, encouraging the crews to fight bravely for St. George and merry England, and promising them, if they gained the victory, the rich freights of all the ships they could capture. It was a bold feat of the gallant admiral thus to sail into the very midst of his foes, who he knew must surround him.

The Portugals were formed, as has been said, in a semicircle, with the concave side of their line turned toward the English, so that they might quickly overlap them—in a land fight an important point to gain, but at sea of slight advantage. The English were formed as a wedge; the Red Dragon led, the Serpent following, then came the two pinnaces, the Lion and Lion’s Whelp bringing up the rear.

As the hostile fleets drew near, drums began to beat and trumpets to bray forth their discordant sounds, when, with a loud crashing roar, the artillery on both sides opened. The great guns sent forth their round shots, and the culverins, sakers, falconets, and murtherers their death-dealing showers of iron and lead, causing havoc and destruction wherever they fell. Ill pleased were the Portugals with this proceeding. Numbers were falling on board every ship. In vain they called on their saints to improve their aim and strengthen their powder—the shot seemed to have no effect on the heretical Englishmen—the saints paid them no attention. They had found a Tartar, and surrounded him, but were as disagreeably placed as if they had been dancing round an exploding magazine. Bravely plied the gallant English their guns. As long as any one of them had legs to stand on or arms to work with he refused to desert his quarters. If one stopped for a moment from working his gun, it was to help a messmate bind a handkerchief round a wounded limb, or to tie one round his own leg or side. Officers and men vied with each other as to who should perform deeds most worthy of fame. The Portugals, on the contrary, though their trumpets brayed forth far louder than those of their foes, forgetful of their ancient renown, hastened below the instant they were wounded, however slight their hurts, crying out for the medico to come and help them; and some, when the English shots rattled on board, were seen to run away from their guns, even though unwounded. Still, numbers in so close a fight gave a great advantage to the Portugals.

The admiral’s ship, the Red Dragon, especially was hard pressed, the enemy seeming resolved to destroy her first, hoping thus to gain an easy victory over the rest. But the brave Lancaster was not a man to be daunted. As fresh foes pressed around him he kept shouting to his crew—

“The more the merrier, lads! the more the merrier! We’ve pills enough on board to dose them all till they’ll wish they’d come to some other doctor for their physic.”

Captain Wood, too, was scarcely less hard pressed. He had sent the Lion’s Whelp ahead to the support of the Sunshine and Moonshine, which seemed in danger of being altogether overwhelmed by the huge ships of the enemy which clustered around them, and thus the stout Lion had to encounter a whole host of foes by herself.

“Come one, come all!” shouted Captain Wood. “Brave lads, we are ready for them!”

“Ay, ay! one and all!” echoed Antony Waymouth. “Hurrah for merry England! Give it them, lads! A few more doses like that and they’ll cry peccavi and strike their flags.”

“Peccavimus you should have said,” remarked Raymond, whom Waymouth was passing as he hurried from gun to gun to assure himself that all were being fought to the best advantage.

“Ay, marry, not one, but fifty, will sing that song to-day, coz,” said Antony, laughing.

In truth, even in the heat of battle both officers and men indulged themselves in cutting jokes whenever an occasion occurred. Not, however, that the fight was any joking matter, for never in those seas had a more desperate one taken place. The brave men on board the Lion were falling thickly, some to rise no more, others to be carried below and placed in the hands of the surgeon, and to these Master Walker was rendering all the assistance in his power, and affording spiritual counsel and consolation at the same time. It was a dark, close place down in the depths of the ship, dimly lighted by two lanterns overhead, with a table in the centre and hammocks slung on either side, already occupied by wounded men. Others lay on the deck, beneath, and one poor fellow was on the table, the surgeon and his assistants standing over him examining a dreadfully shattered limb. Master Walker was holding his hand and giving him some wine, of which, with vinegar and burnt feathers, the place was redolent, although they could not overcome that indescribable odour, dreadful and sickening, found wherever wounded men are collected together.

“It must be done, lad,” said Master Walker kindly. “There’s no help for it; the leg must come off to save thy life.”

“What! lose my leg! never again to dance a hornpipe on Deerbrook Green among the lassies of our village? No more to come the double-shuffle and hear the merry clapping of the old people’s hands? I’d as lief lose my life! But let the surgeon do his worst,” murmured the lad, who was one of Waymouth’s followers; “I’ll bear it.”

“Like a lion, I hope, lad,” said the minister; “and pray to Heaven for strength—that’s where you’ll get the most.”

“Seldom I’ve ever gone there for any thing,” answered the lad with a sigh, and then, following the good minister, he endeavoured to utter a prayer. It soon broke into groans, for the surgeons were operating on his limb, and these, in spite of his resolution, were succeeded by shrieks and cries, echoed by many of his poor shipmates who lay around him in the same sad plight. Not even the roar of the cannon overhead and the crashing of timbers, the shouts of the combatants and the rattle of the small arms, and the braying of the trumpets and other instruments, could altogether overpower those sad cries. Yet the sounds on deck grew louder and louder.

“There must be terrible work, I fear me, going on, Ap Reece,” observed Master Walker to the Welsh surgeon, who had come round to feel the patient’s wrist; “we’ve had no one brought down for the last five minutes.”

The surgeon made no answer, but signed to the minister to pour some cordial down the young seaman’s throat. “More—more! or he’ll slip through our fingers,” he whispered. The minister obeyed. The lad opened his eyes, and turning them towards him with an expression of gratitude, gasped out—

“Tell mother I’ve not forgotten the—”

A convulsive shudder passed over his frame, the blood started from beyond the tourniquet, and before the assistants could replace it the youth was a corpse.

“Peace be with him,” said the minister solemnly, as the body was quickly removed to give place to another yet breathing victim of battle. Such is one of the many dark sides to the pictures of warfare. If this alone were to be seen, few would be eager for the combat.

“No more coming,” once more observed the minister. “Either we must be hard pressed indeed, or have put the Portugals to flight.”

“I fear me much the former,” said Ap Reece. “I’d lief take a sword and go help our brave fellows. If the foe gain the day, they’ll not leave one of us alive to tell the tale. What say you, Master Walker? will you come?”

“Nay, Ap Reece, abide where you are. Every man at his proper work—you tending the hurt, I speaking the truth to the salvation of their souls. Thus should we be found even were the end of the world approaching.”

The high-spirited Welshman returned to his post, and though he had no more legs and arms to cut off, there was ample work for his skill. The dreadful uproar continued. It was evident that some of the enemy’s ships had got alongside, and that the Lion’s crew were engaged in repelling the Portugals who were attempting to board. Who was gaining the day it was impossible to say. It was a time truly of anxious suspense. Ap Reece could at length endure it no longer.

“If you go not on deck to learn how it fares with our men, Master Walker, I must go myself,” he exclaimed; and, seeing that the minister did not move, he seized a sword which had been brought below by a wounded man, and sprang up the ladder. The chaplain looked hesitatingly in the same direction.

“No, no; my duty is with the suffering and dying, though I’d lief strike a blow as in days of yore for our reformed faith and merry England,” said he to himself, and again turned to attend to a sorely wounded man by whose side he had been sitting.

Ap Reece soon gained the deck; he had been in many a fight, but never in a more desperate one. The Lion was closely surrounded by a forest of masts, with shattered spars, and burning sails, and severed ropes and blocks swinging to and fro, and splinters rattling from aloft, while round shots and bullets were flying thickly about, and from every side the loud clashing of steel showed that the combatants were striving hand to hand. The Portugals were attempting to board on every side of the Lion, but no sooner did they reach her deck than they were driven back with loss, and often followed on board their own ships. A new combatant had just come up on the Lion’s quarter, and was pouring his crew on board. Waymouth caught sight of what was occurring, and with a handful of men sprang to repel the boarders. Hard pressed by the leader of the Portugals, he was well-nigh being driven back at the moment Ap Reece reached the deck. The surgeon saw at a glance where his services would be of most use, and shouting at the top of his voice a Welsh war-cry, he rushed to the lieutenant’s assistance. Down before his sturdy blade went foe after foe till he reached Waymouth’s side.

“A rescue! a rescue!” he shouted, and cleaving to the chin the head of one of the lieutenant’s many assailants, the rest sprang hastily back, some into their own vessel, and some, missing their footing, overboard. “On, on!” shouted Waymouth. “On, on, and the enemy’s ours!” cried Ap Reece; and following the retreating boarders they drove them across the deck of their ship, cutting down many, till the remainder cried out for quarter, when their flag was hauled down and the capture was complete.

“We have more prizes to make before the day is over, lads,” cried Waymouth, and at that instant another large Portugal ship driving against the prize, he, with the brave Ap Reece and a number of followers, threw himself on her deck. So fierce was this onslaught that the enemy did not stand a moment, but tumbling below one over the other, or in their fright jumping overboard, or casting down their weapons, they allowed speedy possession to be taken of their ship. Waymouth and his companions then lashed the two prizes together, and not without difficulty regained the Lion, on the other side of which more of the enemy were congregated. Of one Captain Wood had taken possession. Waymouth and Ap Reece now sprang on board another about midships, when, dividing their forces, one swept forward and the other aft, driving their loudly vociferating foes before them till the Portugal’s flag was hauled down.

“Hurrah! hurrah! my brave boys,” shouted Waymouth. “Four prizes in the Lion’s maw—the fattest in all the fleet, too, I have a notion—one more—yonder she comes. Strike fast, and strike home.”

Thus shouting, he seized the helm of the prize, and steered her so as to fall foul of yet another big Portugal ship.

“Shall we once more tempt fortune?” cried Waymouth to the fighting surgeon. “What say you, Ap Reece? There must be ducats not a few aboard our tall friend here.”

“But one answer to that question. On, on!” exclaimed the Welshman.

And no sooner did the sides of the two ships grind together than Waymouth lashed them by the shrouds, and then sprang on board the new-comer. She was full of men who showed every intention to defend her; but undaunted by numbers, the Englishmen threw themselves among them, with their sharp swords flashing rapidly, and soon hewed a lane for themselves from one side to the other. They had begun to cut a second when the Portugals, dreading the result, hauled down their own flag, and yielded. By this time such of the Portugal ships as were in a condition to escape were making the best of their way under all sail to the northward, leaving the rest in the hands of the English, who were in no condition to follow. The victors had indeed suffered severely, though it was some time before Waymouth, and those with him, could ascertain the true state of affairs. At length he brought his last-captured prize up to the Lion, where the rest were collected, and having secured his prisoners, and left a few men on board to watch them, he returned to his own ship. The Lion with her torn sails, shattered spars, and ropes hanging in disordered festoons, looked any thing but like a victor, yet she was in a better plight than her consorts. Far ahead lay the admiral with three of the enemy’s ships he had captured, but his masts were tottering, and it was evident that he had suffered severely in the fight. The Serpent, though she had taken a couple of prizes, was even in a worse condition, while of the three smaller ships the poor little Moonshine had disappeared altogether, the Lion’s Whelp lay a dismasted hulk on the waters, and the Sunshine appeared in a sinking condition. Three prizes, proofs of their prowess, lay near them, and it was to be hoped that some of the crew of the Moonshine had found safety on board them.

And now the surgeon, Ap Reece, his fiery blood beginning to cool, bethought him that he ought to go and look after his patients below, while Waymouth began to make inquiries as to who had been killed and who wounded among his shipmates. His grief was sincere when he heard of his young follower’s death. He looked round, also, anxiously for Raymond. He was nowhere to be seen. Was he on board any of the prizes? No; such and such officers had charge of them. He sprang below. Master Walker could give him no tidings of his friend. He inquired eagerly of all the surviving officers. It was remembered that he had headed a party who had repulsed the boarders from a large Portugal ship, which had afterwards sheered off. Several men were missing who could not be accounted for, and it was supposed possible that he, with them, had gone on board the enemy, and that they had been carried off as prisoners. Waymouth hoped such might be the case, as it was the only chance of again seeing his friend, but, attached though he was to him, he had no time just then to mourn his loss.

Fearful had been the slaughter on board the Lion and the injuries she had received, while so many of her people had been taken off to man the prizes that not enough remained to repair the damages which she had received. The energies of every one on board unwounded were taxed to the utmost, nor could assistance be expected from the other ships, which had enough to do to look after their own prizes. The ships now closed up with each other, and the Lion was able to hail the admiral’s ship.

“Sad news—sad news,” was the answer. “Captain Lancaster was slain at the beginning of the fight, and though we have gained the victory we have bought it with the loss of half our men.”

The loss on board the Serpent was also very great, though she had suffered less than the admiral’s ship; but the Lion’s Whelp and the Sunshine had lost, in proportion to their crews, as many men as the latter; while of the unfortunate Moonshine scarcely a third had escaped on board the prizes: all her wounded had gone down in her. The captain of the Serpent was also desperately wounded, and Captain Wood sent Waymouth on board to see him and receive his orders, as he was now chief in command. Waymouth, finding his way among the dying and wounded, reached the cockpit where Captain Nicholas Parker lay. He was groaning with anguish, which the surgeon, who stood by his side, was endeavouring to alleviate with a cordial. In vain. The groans continued, but grew fainter. The surgeon felt the captain’s pulse. Waymouth stepped up.

“I have come to receive orders from the admiral, for such he now is, since Captain Lancaster has been killed,” he said.

“Our brave captain will never give orders more,” answered the surgeon with much feeling. “Your captain, Master Waymouth, will be admiral ere many minutes are over. We’ve gained victory at heavy cost.”

Before Waymouth left the ship Captain Parker had breathed his last, and he pulled hastily back to announce the sad event to Captain Wood, who had now become commander-in-chief, but seemed but little elated with the circumstance. Master Walker was pacing the deck to recover from the effects of the close atmosphere he had endured below, and the harrowing scenes he had witnessed.

“This is what men call glory, and what young men sigh after and long to engage in,” he observed, while Waymouth stood quiet for a few seconds discussing some food which had been brought to him, for he had no time to go below. “Look there; see what man’s avarice and rage and folly have brought about in a few short hours.”

He pointed with a melancholy glance at a number of slain arranged around the mainmast, and to several wounded who had been mercifully brought on deck to breathe a purer atmosphere than that to be found below; then to the Lion’s shattered masts and bulwarks; and, lastly, moving his hand round to their almost dismasted, and yet more shattered, consorts and prizes, from one of which, taken by the Serpent, at that instant flames were seen to burst forth. The Lion had but one boat which could float, and into her an officer and crew jumped and pulled away to the assistance of the burning vessel, the men being urged to speed, not impossibly, in the hope of obtaining some of the plunder on board.

The Serpent had sent off two of her boats, and the Red Dragon another, but the Portugals either would not go to the assistance of their countrymen or their boats were knocked to pieces, or the officers in charge of the prizes would not let them go, for no assistance was sent, though several were near the burning vessel. The boats pulled rapidly through the water; and good cause they had so to do, for the flames rose higher and higher, bursting out from all the ports from stem to stern till there appeared not a spot on which a human being could stand unscorched by the fire. Busily as all on board the Lion were employed, they stopped to gaze on the scene. Even amid the flames they could see the unhappy men rushing here and there, seeking in vain for safety: some were casting themselves into the sea; others, unable probably to swim, waited anxiously for the boats. In vain! in vain! Ere the boats reached them the burning masts and spars rose gradually up from the hull—up, up, they shot into the air; the deck followed, the flames increasing with tenfold fury, a loud report announcing that the magazine had exploded, and that the rich argosy, with all still living on board, had been hurried to destruction. Those in the boats pulled back, endeavouring to avoid the burning fragments of spars and wreck which came hissing in a thick shower around them. Then recollecting that some might yet be floating near where the wreck had been, like true British tars they again dashed on, in the hope of rescuing them. So rapidly had the catastrophe occurred after the first outbreak of the fire, that Waymouth had not moved from the minister’s side.

“There, there—!” continued the latter, “surely such work as that is the invention of Satan—that roaring lion who is ever going about seeking whom he may devour. What mad folly in men thus to yield to him, and to destroy each other at his will and beck!”

“What you say, Master Walker, may be true—all very true; but we are in for it, and must carry through our enterprise, or perish,” exclaimed Waymouth, with rather more impatience than he was wont to address the minister. “We have taken prizes enough to make every man of us wealthy for the rest of our lives; but our loss of brave fellows has been heavy, I grant you, and I’d give up every ducat that falls to my share for the sake of knowing what has become of Edward Raymond, and all the gold I may ever possess to get him back safe aboard here.”

“He was a worthy gentleman, and I pray that he may still be reckoned among the living,” said the chaplain, and he was about to commence an exhortation to his young friend when Waymouth was called away to attend to one of the numberless duties which, in consequence of the loss of many of his messmates, now fell to his lot.

As soon as shot-holes had been plugged, the wounded masts and spars strengthened, the shrouds set up, and damaged rigging repaired, an examination of the prizes commenced. The wealth they contained surpassed even the expectation of the adventurers. Besides gold and silver in bars, there were cases of diamonds and pearls and other precious stones, and casks and cases of rich spices, and strange and rich silks, and a variety of other articles from India. In truth, there appeared to be more than enough to enrich even the commonest seaman of the squadron, although by far the largest share would go to the officers.

Fortunately, the weather remained calm, or more of the ships would have gone to the bottom. Every one exerted himself to the utmost, and good reason he had so to do, for a storm might arise, or the enemy return with greater force, and all the treasure gained by so much toil and bloodshed might be lost.

Before the day was over, the signal was made from the Serpent that Captain Parker had ceased to breathe. Captain Wood therefore assumed the chief command, and ordered the Red Dragon to come near that he might go on board her, leaving Waymouth in command of the Lion.

A consultation of all the chief officers was now held, and it was determined to abandon and destroy the Sunshine and Lion’s Whelp, to shift their crews on board the two largest and least injured of the Portugal ships, to select a third on board which to put all the prisoners, and to burn the remainder. The plan was at once put into execution, and the wealth of all her prizes was carried on board the Lion. Not, however, till two days had passed were the prizes sufficiently gutted of their stores and provisions to be abandoned. A short time before nightfall they were set on fire; and it was a sad though a fine sight to see eight tall ships burning away together. Master Walker again had reason to shake his head.

“Another example of man’s folly,” he exclaimed. “See yon beautiful fabrics, on which so much thought, time, and labour was expended, being destroyed in a few short minutes!”

“But you would not have us tow the useless hulls round the world, Master Walker, would you?” asked Waymouth, with some little hastiness not to be wondered at.

“No, Captain Waymouth, but I would that the hulls were not useless, and still freighted with honest merchandise, that we and the Portugals were at peace, as Christian men should be, and each pursuing our own course as gentlemen adventurers for our own profit and advantage and that of our respective countries. When I joined the expedition I understood such was to be the case. We were to be armed to resist attack, as is lawful—not to attack others, which is wrong. But all these doings of blood and destruction have opened my eyes, and made me wish that I had remained quiet at home, even though my stipend was small and precarious. I love you right well, as you of a surety do know, Captain Waymouth, and I tell you that no good can come of these doings.”

“I see not the strength of your reasoning, Master Walker,” said Waymouth. “We all knew when we left Old England that we were embarking in an adventure in which we should meet with hard blows as well as rich prizes. We are in no wise worse than Drake, and see what honours have been heaped on him.”

“I say nothing against the powers that be; and her gracious majesty may have had her reasons for honouring Sir Francis; but there are persons who consider his expedition round the world as worthy only of a sea-rover of old or of a downright pirate,” observed the minister.

“Let be, let be, Master Walker,” exclaimed Waymouth petulantly; “I can brook more from you than from any man alive, but I have heard enough.”

The minister was too wise to proceed, but he shook his head mournfully.

The prisoners were now all collected on board one ship. Among the wild spirits found among the English crews some were not wanting who suggested that they should be sent adrift without compass, guns, or provisions; some even hinted that to bore holes in the ship’s bottom would be the surest way of disposing of them; others considered that it would be wise to keep them as prisoners, and to insure their keeping with the fleet they should only be furnished day by day with the necessary provisions, and that two ships should be appointed especially to watch them. More generous counsels, however, prevailed.

“No, no, by my halidom!” exclaimed Captain Wood; “Portugals though they are, they have fought bravely, and like honest gentlemen shall be treated. We’ll give them arms to defend their lives, and provisions to fill their insides, and a compass to find their way to some one of their own ports or factories on the coast of the Indies, and all we’ll demand of them is that if they find any Englishmen in the same plight as they are themselves that they treat them in the same way as they are treated by us.”

Waymouth warmly seconded the admiral’s proposal; so did several of the superior officers, though others grumbled at letting the prisoners off without a ransom, or trusting to their honour to return the favour they were to receive.

Away sailed the Portugal ship with all the prisoners on board; not, however, without Waymouth having extracted a promise from all the officers to make inquiries for his friend Raymond, and to let him know, if alive, where he was to be found. Waymouth hoped that among them some at least would do their utmost to redeem their promise.

Once more the English fleet was sailing proudly over the seas, but sadly diminished in the number of their men. The wealth collected seemed prodigious in the eyes of the crews, and little short of that obtained by Drake of the Spaniards. Still their success only made them greedy for more, and the seamen especially expressed their aversion to the trading part of the enterprise, and loudly proclaimed their desire to cruise against any enemy to be found—Dutch, if Portugals could not be found, or Spaniards if they could be fallen in with. Waymouth, especially, found that he had a very mutinously inclined crew to deal with. Who was the chief instigator he determined to discover, in the hope that by punishing him he might bring the rest under better discipline.

The officer next in command to him was Miles Carlingford, an honest, straight-forward seaman, on whom he knew that he could depend as well as he could on Master Walker and the surgeon Ap Reece as to faithfulness; but Master Walker was a non-combatant, and would be averse to any stringent measures; and Ap Reece, from his hot-headed impetuosity, would be likely to betray any counsel with which he was intrusted.

Captain Wood had brought two cabin-boys with him—or, as they would now be called, midshipmen—and these he had left under Waymouth’s especial care. Poor fellows! early indeed were they to be initiated into the stern realities of life. It would have been difficult to find a stronger contrast than between the two lads, and yet they were great friends. The eldest, Alfred Stanhope, was of high birth, of which he was fully conscious. He was refined in appearance and manners, and was light-hearted and gay in the extreme. He was never out of spirits or out of humour, and was utterly indifferent to danger. His talents, however, were not great, and the knowledge he did possess was very superficial. His father was a spendthrift and a ruined man, and had allowed him to come to sea in the hope of his being provided for in one way or another.

His companion, Oliver Marston, was the son of a stout English yeoman to whom Captain Wood’s family was under some obligations, and, as a way of repaying him, he had offered to take Oliver, one of ten sons, on an adventure through which he would be certain to secure his fortune. The lad, though he had never seen a ship except worked on tapestry, had no objection to go to sea. He was a short, stout, strongly-built little fellow, able to hold his own with all competitors. While poor Alfred Stanhope had been nurtured in the lap of luxury, Oliver had been brought up in the roughest style, and was therefore much better able than his companion to buffet with the storms of life they were doomed to encounter. He had much more sense and shrewdness in his round little head than might have been supposed, while all about him was sterling stuff of the toughest nature, except his heart, in one respect, and that was as soft and gentle as that of a true sailor is said to be. Oliver was a favourite with Waymouth, who, though he did not spoil him, encouraged him to speak more openly to him than he allowed any one else to do except Master Walker.

It was night. Waymouth was seated in his cabin. A lamp hung from the beam above, the light of which fell on a chart he was anxiously scanning. Unwonted cares oppressed even his buoyant spirit. His ship had suffered much; he had a large amount of wealth on board; his crew was much weakened, some were disaffected, and he was about to enter seas difficult of navigation, and where typhoons might be expected. He mourned, too, his friend Raymond’s loss, though he did not believe that he was dead, but that he had been carried off a prisoner by the enemy. Still, how could he hear of him, and how rescue him if he was a prisoner? He fell into a reverie. He was aroused by the sentry at the announcement that an officer wished to see him.

“Let him come,” was the answer; and Oliver Marston stood before him.

“What now, Oliver?” asked the captain.

“You know, Captain Waymouth, that I am not a tale-bearer; but I’ve just heard some matters which I bethought me I ought to convey to you without delay,” answered Marston. “There’s mutiny in the ship, sir, or what may come to worse.”

“Ah! how come you to know that, boy?” asked the captain anxiously, for the announcement somewhat confirmed his own suspicions.

The youngster answered promptly—“It is my first watch, sir, and as I had no fancy for turning in for a short time, I lay down for a snooze on a chest outside the boatswain’s cabin. I was afraid of oversleeping myself, so quickly awoke, and was about to jump up, when I heard voices near me. The words were spoken in an undertone, as if the speakers desired not to be overheard. Who the speakers were, I am not certain; they talked of the wealth that was on board, and how you and the other captains would get the lion’s share, but that if they acted with spirit and stuck together they might have the whole of it.”

“And you heard the whole of this, and were not dreaming, boy?”

“Every word, sir, and I was wide awake,” answered Oliver.

“You have done well to come to me at once,” said the captain. “Speak to no one of what you have heard, and appear even to your messmates as if all were going on right. To-morrow morning I will communicate with the admiral, and we will soon have these would-be mutineers in limbo. Have you no idea who were the speakers?”

“I like not, sir, to bring an accusation against any man without perfect certainty, but to the best of my belief there were Peter Hagger, the boatswain, and John Moss, his mate, among the chief speakers,” answered Oliver. “As to the rest I might be mistaken, but I think not of those two. I recognised also Dick Soper’s voice, and he is not likely to be left out if such work is proposed.”

“He’ll swing ere long at the yard-arm, an’ I mistake not; but enough now, lad,” said the captain. “Keep counsel and your eyes about you, and we’ll defeat the rebels. They’ll attempt nothing while we are with the admiral; they know him, and I thought they knew me too. Who has the first watch?”

“Mr Carlingford, sir,” said Marston.

“Tell him to keep close up with the admiral, as I want to speak him at dawn,” said Waymouth; “and call me should the weather give signs of change. You have acted most commendably.”

The lad took his leave well pleased with the praise bestowed on him by his captain, and very indifferent to the danger to which he as well as all the officers on board were exposed.

The young captain sat for some time meditating on the matter. He could not tell how many of the crew might be engaged in the plot, and on what support the conspirators depended. He might discover who were the ringleaders, but find that the greater part of the crew sided with them. Caution, courage, and decision would be required—he trusted he should not be wanting in either of the three. The last few days had been a time of unusual exertion and care. He required rest to restore his well-nigh exhausted energies. Examining his fire-arms with more care than usual, and placing his sword by his side ready for instant use, though he firmly believed that no attempt would be made by the mutineers, he threw himself on his bed. He had resolved to take the Lion next morning under the guns of the Red Dragon, and having informed Captain Wood of what he knew, call out the three men whose voices young Marston recognised, and send them on board the flagship for punishment. He soon, however, forgot his anxieties in a sound sleep. He was awoken by the voice of Oliver Marston loudly calling him.

“What is it?” he asked, starting up with his sword grasped in his hand.

Chapter Four.

“What is it?” exclaimed the young captain of the Lion, as he sprang from his bed, on which he had thrown himself without undressing. He did not require the cabin-boy’s answer, for by the way the ship was heeling over he knew that it was blowing a heavy gale. “I bade you call me the instant there were signs of a change of weather,” he observed as he hurried towards the cabin-door to gain the deck.

“The ship but this instant was struck by a squall, sir, and we are shortening sail as fast as we can,” said Marston, though the captain did not stay to hear his last words.

The deck of the Lion appeared, as the captain reached it, to be a scene of the greatest confusion. Showers of spray, torn up from the ocean by the sudden squall, were thrown over her in dense masses. The wind howled and whistled through the rigging, the sails were flapping loudly in the gale—some torn from their bolt-ropes, others with the sheets let go, which were lashing and slashing wildly and twisting into a thousand knots. Huge blocks, too, were swinging to and fro, threatening the seamen with destruction, while some of the spars wounded in the action now gave way, and their fragments came thundering down on deck, sweeping all before them. The sea roared, the thunder in crashing peals rattled along the sky, and the forked lightning ran hissing in vivid flashes from out of the dark clouds along the foaming waves, and played round the ship. The officers were shouting to the men—many, with axes and knives in their hands, rushing here and there at the risk of their lives to cut clear the blocks and the wreck of the spars, without which it was scarcely possible to go aloft to furl the remaining sails.

Waymouth at once saw that the only safe course to pursue was to put the ship before the wind. As he issued the required orders he looked out for the admiral’s ship, but the signal lanterns at her stern were nowhere to be seen. Mr Carlingford asserted that they were close to them when the squall struck the ship; so did Stanhope, who did the duty of a signal midshipman. The captain could only hope, therefore, that the admiral had at once bore up when the hurricane struck his ship. Two lights were still visible in the direction the other ships were supposed to be, but at some distance, and the Lion was apparently fast leaving them. Her crew had indeed enough to do to attend to themselves—their own safety demanded all their energies. Waymouth’s firm, commanding voice soon called order out of chaos. The ship answered her helm, and, getting before the wind once more, rose on an even keel, and flew rushing on through the darkness. Sail after sail was taken in—the loftier masts and spars had been carried away by the wind, and were mostly cut clear of the ship. The foretopmast had escaped being hit in the action, and had stood. The hurricane was increasing in power, rolling up the ocean into huge seas; higher and higher they grew, their crests curling masses of foam, following eagerly astern as wild beasts in pursuit of their flying prey. Often, while the forked lightning played round the ship, had the captain gazed anxiously at the foretopmast to ascertain how it stood the increasing pressure deprived of its usual support. He scarcely hoped to save it. The hurricane gave no signs of abating; on the contrary, it was increasing in strength.

“It must be done!” he exclaimed, seizing a sharp axe; “better choose our time than let it fall when we are unprepared. Volunteers to cut away the foretopmast!”

“I’ll go,” cried Miles Carlingford, and his words were echoed by several others.

“No, Carlingford; you stay to take care of the ship. I can let no man lead but myself in a task of such peril.”

Marston and Stanhope both volunteered, but the captain ordered them to remain with the lieutenant.

Followed by a daring crew, Waymouth sprang aloft, each man armed with axe or knife. Some remained on deck to cut the ropes which led down there. All had their tasks assigned them. The least important ropes and stays were first severed.

“Remember, lads, wait till I give the word, and then cut with a will,” cried the captain. As he stood on the top his axe was lifted in the air. “Cut!” he shouted, as, gleaming in the lightning, it descended with a force which half severed through the spar. Over it fell with a crash into the sea, and, free from all ropes, floated clear of the ship. The crew uttered a hearty cheer as the captain descended on deck after the performance of this gallant and skilful act without the loss of a man. None cheered more loudly than the boatswain and his two mates.

The ship drove on before the hurricane, but, relieved of so much top hamper, she laboured far less than she had been doing. The storm had not abated its fury; the mad waves followed fiercely after the ship, and leaped up, foam-covered, on either side, threatening to fall down on her decks and sweep everybody from off them, or to send the stout bark herself to the bottom. The thunder roared loudly as at first, the lightning flashed vividly as ever, and ran its zigzag course crackling and hissing through the air, and along the summits of the waves, and round the storm-driven ship, now seeming to dart along her spars, and then to light with a lambent flame the summit of her masts.

The crew were collected on deck ready for any work required of them, sheltering themselves as best they could under the bulwarks for fear of being washed away. Waymouth stood with his first lieutenant on the aftercastle away from the crew. He told him of the conspiracy of which he had gained information.

“What think you, Carlingford?” he added. “Shall we seize the villains now, tax them with their intended crime, and call on all who are for discipline and order to rally round us; or let them go on plotting till they find a fit occasion to put their plots into execution? It were a bold stroke at such a moment, and would be sure of success.”

“No one would be found willing to differ from you now,” answered the lieutenant; “I doubt, therefore, that you would ascertain who are the conspirators, and it would only give them a certain vantage-ground by showing them that you doubt their honesty.”

Waymouth yielded to this advice, and allowed the opportunity of seizing the supposed mutineers to pass. He had no fear that they would make any attempt to gain possession of the ship while the gale might last. In spite of the danger in which his own ship was placed, he turned his thoughts more than once to the rest of the squadron. What had become of them? Were they still afloat, driven here and there before the hurricane, or had they all met the fate from which the Lion herself had so narrowly escaped, and foundered? He could not help dreading that the latter might have been the case.

Hour after hour passed by, and the wind blew fiercely as at the commencement of the storm. No fire could be lighted. Scarcely any one had even tasted food, and the fierce spirits who had been before inclined to mutiny must have been considerably tamed by the buffeting and fasting they had been compelled to undergo.

“I’ve heard say that it’s an ill wind that blows no one good,” observed Carlingford to his captain. “I doubt if the knaves who so notably were proposing to take possession of the ship will be inclined to make the attempt for some time to come.”

“We will keep an eye on them, at all events,” said Waymouth. “In the present battered condition of our good ship, they will be too wise to wish to run away with her, or all the labour of putting her to rights would fall on their hands. Ah, no, the rogues! they will let us first do the work for them, and then cut our throats. I have met before with villains such as these, and know how to tackle them.”

Although occasionally brave villains are found, as a rule ill-doers are cowards; and the would-be mutineers on board the Lion were no exception to the rule. The captain and his lieutenant noted those who on that awful night showed most fear, and they proved to be the very men Marston had mentioned. Even the boatswain, who was generally a bold fellow, evidently shrank from the performance of any duty of especial danger, and while the captain went aloft to cut away the topmast was not one of those who had volunteered to accompany him, though under ordinary circumstances it would have been his duty to perform the work.

Morning broke at length upon the wide waste of foam-covered heaving waters, but in vain did the anxious officers of the Lion look around for any of her consorts. She herself was labouring heavily. The well was sounded. There were three feet of water in the hold; that was much in a ship of the Lion’s build. There must be a leak. The pumps were manned; all hands must work spell and spell. Even then scarcely could the leak be kept under. Those men who had shown the greatest courage during the night laboured the hardest now; the conspirators worked with an air of desperation.

When the water still gained on them, “Let’s to the spirit-room, and die jovial,” cried one.

“Ay, ay, to the spirit-room; a last glass before we quit the world,” was echoed by several.

Deserting their stations, they rushed tumultuously to the hold. They found three soldiers stationed there, with their muskets ready to fire. Strange that the very men who were about to stupefy themselves with liquor, and so to go out of the world, were afraid of dying by the hands of their countrymen! Growling like cowed mastiffs they shrank back, some returning to the deck, and others turning into their hammocks, where they intended to remain while the ship sank.

But a few only behaved thus. The greater number, as true British seamen always have done, remained at their posts to face the danger. Their perseverance was rewarded. About noon the gale began to abate, the sea to decrease. As the ship laboured less there was a hope that the leaks might be got under, and the carpenters, after sounding, reported that there was not more than the usual quantity of water in the well. The news was received with loud cheers by the crew, but they soon found that continued exertion would be necessary to keep the ship afloat. The skulkers were accordingly routed out of their berths, and compelled to take their turn at the pumps.

Waymouth well knew that idleness is the mother of many a crime, and he determined that his crew should have no such excuse. As soon as the sea became calm, there was ample work to employ all hands in repairing the damages the ship had received in the battle and the storm.

“Any day we may meet an enemy, and the ship must be in a state to fight him, lads,” the captain was continually remarking, especially when he saw the men slacken at their work. A course had been shaped for the Island of Java, where in the Harbour of Bantam he still entertained hopes of falling in with the rest of the squadron.

Day after day the Lion continued her voyage without further adventure, and every day saw some advance made in restoring her to her former condition, so that, had she encountered a Portugal ship, she would have been as ready as ever for the fight.

In appearance, however, she still wore a very battered and forlorn state. Such was the guise in which she at length entered the harbour of Bantam, making the best show that was possible, with banners and streamers flying, and drums and fifes, and other music, playing. Very different, however, was the figure they made from what they had expected, and what it would have been, had the whole English squadron sailed in at the same time. Very different also was the reception they received from the King of Bantam, in those days a powerful sovereign with a magnificent court of nobles dressed in rich robes. Perceiving the coldness of their reception, Waymouth, habiting himself in his most imposing attire, and taking a number of followers, attired in all the bravery they could command, went on shore, and, on obtaining admission to the palace, informed his majesty that his ship was only the first of a large fleet which had just obtained a glorious victory over the Portugals, and that he hoped they would soon enter the harbour and spend a large portion of their wealth among him and his people. When this fact became clear to the royal mind, the king’s conduct underwent a considerable alteration, and he seemed now only anxious to ascertain how he could best please his guests. There was no lack of entertainments of all sorts—fights of wild animals, shows, and dances. These served to amuse the men, and to prevent them from thinking of the future. But Waymouth and his chief officers could not get rid of their anxiety for their companions. They still, however, lived on in hopes. In the mean time, the captain’s chief uneasiness arose from the conduct of the boatswain, who was clearly endeavouring to ingratiate himself with the crew by overlooking their faults and shielding them from punishment. The consequence was that the discipline of the ship, spite of all the captain and superior officers could do to prevent it, became worse than it had ever been before. Miles Carlingford advised Waymouth to have Hagger and his supposed associates seized, and run up to the yard-arm, or shot; but there were many reasons against this summary proceeding. They were in the port of a treacherous people, who would very likely take advantage of any dissensions among themselves, and it was impossible to say how many of the crew might join Hagger.

“We must either wait the arrival of the rest of the fleet or seize the fellow in blue water, with no one to interfere with us,” answered Waymouth.

However, day after day passed by, and week after week, and the fleet did not appear. It became at last too probable that they had all foundered. Still it was possible that they might have put into some other port to refit, and might arrive at the rendezvous after all.

The time passed pleasantly enough on shore, as great respect was shown to the strangers by the king and chiefs. The English, in return, tried to make themselves popular with all classes, and traded successfully with them, taking care not to allow them to know the amount of wealth they had on board. Hope grew meantime fainter and fainter, and it struck Waymouth that the behaviour of the natives towards them had of late changed for the worse. Among the merchants with whom he had dealings was one who appeared to be especially honest, and more disposed to be friendly than any of his countrymen. One day he made his appearance on board, saying that he had come to trade, and he began in the usual way, but while so engaged he contrived with a peculiar gesture to give a paper to Waymouth, on which was drawn a ship under full sail. Above the ship was a hand, showing the very gesture the merchant had just made. Waymouth could scarcely fail to understand the hieroglyphic. That the merchant wished the Lion to sail away there could be no doubt. The expression of the man’s countenance convinced him that he was friendly and in earnest. Some danger threatened. Perhaps the king had got information of the wealth contained in the ship, and intended to seize her. Whatever enemies they might have on shore, there was one who could not be kept out of the ship. The unhealthy season was approaching. Fever made its appearance on board; several were struck down with it; one after the other died; the surgeon declared that the only way of saving the lives of all on board was to put forthwith to sea.

Once more the Lion was ploughing the waters of the deep. “A sail! a sail!” was the cry. A vessel was seen making for the harbour of Bantam. She might be one of the long-missing squadron. Sail was made in chase. As the Lion approached, the stranger showed the Portugal flag. Hurrah! another prize was to be made. The thought put every one in high spirits. Even the sick came up from their beds to have a look at the enemy. The object of the Portugal was to enter the harbour of Bantam before the Lion, under the belief that he would there find protection. On sprang the king of beasts. It soon became obvious, unless there was a change of wind, that the prey would have little chance of escape. The officers and crew of the Lion eagerly watched the Portugal ship, speculating on the value of her cargo, and whether she was likely to offer resistance. Such an idea was generally treated with scorn. What was the surprise, therefore, of all on board to see the chase suddenly haul up her courses and heave her maintopsail aback to await the coming of her pursuer!

“Can it be that any on board are treacherous, and wish thus to gain our favour?” said Waymouth.

“More likely that they are cowards all, and think discretion the best part of valour,” observed Carlingford: “we shall soon learn, though.”

“Ay, that shall we,” answered Waymouth. “But, see, what flags are those? They look not as if the Portugal was in a humble mood.”

As he was speaking, several flags were hoisted to the mast-heads of the stranger, conspicuous among all being that of Portugal flying above the flag of England. The sight caused a general shout of indignation among the English crew, and doubled their desire to get alongside the foe. As they got still nearer, the Portugal once more let fall his sails and stood boldly towards them, letting fly a shot in defiance.

“Now this is what does the heart good,” exclaimed Waymouth in high glee. “Yonder is a brave fellow and a worthy foe. I had ten times rather meet such a one than the coward who runs away and then yields when he is caught without striking a blow. We shall take yonder gentleman—of that there is no doubt; and it will be a satisfaction to treat him as a brave man should be treated—with honour and distinction.”

“I would that we could avoid fighting,” said Master Walker. “Here are we both from Europe—two ships, the remnant, probably, of the proud fleets which left our native shores—and we must needs set to work to knock each other to pieces. What, prithee, is to be gained by it?”

“Honour, good Master Walker! honour, which we gentlemen of the sword sigh for and live for, not to speak of the golden doubloons and other articles of value with which these Portugals think fit to freight their ships,” answered Waymouth with a laugh which showed the cool if not light spirit with which he could enter into the deadly fight.

Nearer and nearer drew the two ships. The Portugal was the first to fire, and all his guns were aimed high, as if he was anxious to cripple his opponent. The reason was obvious. His decks were crowded with men, and he hoped by running on board the English ship to take her easily with his overwhelming numbers. Waymouth saw that his proper plan was to give the Portugals a wide berth and keep firing away till he had thinned those numbers, at the same time that it was very much against his usual system and inclination, as it was against that of his followers.

Now the guns of the Lion began to play vigorously, some of them being, according to the captain’s orders, fired high, and others low. Although now and then her spars and ropes were hit, she was inflicting equal injury on the rigging of her opponent, while such of her guns as were trained low were making fearful havoc among the people on the deck of the Portugal. She, in return, was employing every manoeuvre to close with the Lion, till it appeared as if the English were actually afraid of her.

“This must not last longer,” exclaimed Waymouth. “British steel has seldom failed, however great the odds. We’ll give the Portugals their way.”

The remark was received with a loud shout by his men, on which he ordered the Lion to be steered to close with her antagonist. The two ships met with a crash; and before the Portugals, who had been mustering on purpose, could reach the side of the Lion, her gallant crew, led by Waymouth, had boarded the enemy. And now, in truth, was shown what English steel could do; and well as many of the Portugals fought, the decks were soon cleared of all but a gallant few, who, surrounding the Portugal captain, stood at bay. That Portugal captain was a young man of a noble bearing; though wounded, he seemed resolved to resist to the last.

“Yield thee—yield thee, brave senhor!” cried Waymouth. “Life and liberty shall be yours. I would fain not kill thee.”

“To you, brave Captain Waymouth, I will yield me, if you will order your men to refrain from striking,” was the answer. “Truly, they strike so hard and fast, that otherwise not one of my comrades will remain alive.”

“You are a brave gentleman. It shall be as you desire. We have met before, I suspect,” shouted the English captain, ordering his men to let drop the points of their weapons.

The deck, so lately the scene of a fierce conflict, was in an instant quiet, though the planks, slippery with gore, and the human forms strewed thickly from one end to the other, showed the desperate nature of the drama which had there been enacted. The Portugal captain delivered his sword to Waymouth, who courteously returned it, recognising him as the bravest of those captains who had been captured in the great battle fought by the whole fleet—Don Antonio de Mello by name. The prize was richly freighted, and as the Lion would require some repairs after the battle, it was resolved to carry her back to Bantam.

The return of the English so soon with a captured enemy raised them very much in the estimation of the people of Bantam, and proportionately lowered the Portugals. The repairs of both ships were soon completed, and the more valuable part of the cargo of the prize transferred to the Lion. Waymouth’s generous feelings prompted him to restore the captured ship to Don Antonio, taking his word that neither he nor his officers or men would again serve against the English. He made the proposal, however, first to his own officers, who all, with the exception of Peter Hagger, readily agreed to forego their share of the prize that the prisoners might have an opportunity of returning to their own country. The boatswain, on the contrary, vowed, that, as they had won the booty by hard fighting, they would keep it, and that he and many other good men that he knew of would not give up a nail of what was their own.

“Well said, Master Hagger; let me know who are these good men of whom you speak, and your share and theirs of what is restored to the Portugals shall be calculated and given to you,” said Captain Waymouth, looking sternly at the boatswain. “I wish to deprive no man of what he considers his own; but it strikes me that when a fair estimate is made of the real value of your share it will not be worth disputing about.”

Notwithstanding these remarks of the captain, Hagger insisted on having his share, but he was only able to send in the names of rather more than a dozen men who agreed with him. The supercargo, or accountant, of the Lion, was therefore summoned, and directed to make out an estimate of the value of the shares in question.

“Now deduct therefrom,” said Waymouth, “wages of officers and crew of the Portugal to conduct her home; risk of capture or loss; increased risk of loss or capture of the Lion in consequence of her being short-handed.”

“In that case, sir, the balance is against Master Hagger and the rest,” remarked the accountant.

“I thought as much,” observed Waymouth, laughing.

The boatswain’s anger and disappointment were very great when he found how the tables had been turned, and that, instead of gaining any thing, he had merely shown who were the men among the crew plotting with him.

The Portugals’ satisfaction was very great when they found that they were not to be detained at Bantam, where, from the unhealthiness of the climate during the hot months, they could expect only to find graves. Don Antonio warmly expressed his gratitude.

“I had some information, noble captain, which I purposed giving before parting, at all events, but which I have now a double gratification in affording,” he said, addressing Waymouth. “During that dreadful fight, when your fleet destroyed so many of ours, some few Englishmen were carried off prisoners by those which escaped. Among them was an officer who belonged to the Lion. I saw him but once, and his name I did not hear, though I doubt not that he is the friend whose fate you so much desired to learn. He is now a prisoner in the Castle of San Pedro, to the south of Goa. I had resolved to take the earliest opportunity of sending you this information according to my promise, little supposing that I should be able to deliver it under, to me, such unfortunate circumstances.”

This news raised Waymouth’s spirits higher than they had been for some time. It made him feel almost sure that Raymond had survived the battle, because, as all the other officers of the Lion had been accounted for, it could be only him of whom Don Antonio spoke. On hearing this, it at once flashed across Waymouth’s thoughts that he had done unwisely in giving the prisoners their liberty with so few conditions.

“I ought to have bargained that any English who might be in the hands of their countrymen should promptly be liberated without ransom; but yet—no; I have done a liberal deed, and I will not regret it. If these Portugals have any feeling of honour, they will let my friend go free when I demand him.”

From a subsequent conversation with Don Antonio, Waymouth was compelled to abandon the last expressed hope. It appeared that the governor of the castle of San Pedro was a certain Don Lobo, who was noted for his ferocity and avarice, so that he was well called Lobo, which means in the Portugal tongue a wolf.

Don Antonio stated that he was never known to do a noble or generous act, and that he was not likely to deliver up his prisoner unless a heavy ransom was paid, and that so bitter was his animosity against the English that it was possible he would not even set him at liberty.

“Then the Lion shall force the wolf to succumb,” exclaimed Waymouth. “I will not ask you, Don Antonio, to fight against your countrymen, but I must beg you to give me such information as may assist me in liberating my friend, and I must then exact a promise from you that you will not return to San Pedro, or by any means allow notice of our approach to be carried there.”

Don Antonio, without hesitation, gave the promise required, the more readily, perhaps, that the Lion would have the start of him for some days, and, being short of provisions and water, he could not attempt to make so long a passage as that from Bantam to Goa without being amply supplied with both. Yet further to prevent the chance of Don Lobo being informed of the approach of the Lion, Waymouth afterwards extracted an additional promise from Don Antonio that he would not attempt to sail for a week after her.

“Ned, dear coz, we shall once more shake hands, and drink a bowl together to the health of thy lady love,” he exclaimed, apostrophising his friend while walking his quarter-deck, as the Lion, under all sail, clove her way towards the west through the limpid ocean.

Chapter Five.

Our chronicle takes us back to the time when the fight between the English and Portugal fleets was raging most furiously, and when, to an inexperienced eye like that of Edward Raymond, on finding his ship surrounded, it might naturally have appeared that victory was siding with his foes rather than with his own party. He believed, however, that by a desperate effort the day might be retrieved, and he gallantly resolved on his part to make the effort, trusting that others would be doing the like at the same moment. Just then he caught sight of Waymouth repelling the boarders from one of the Portugal ships, and so calling on all the men near to follow, he led them on to the deck of another of the enemy’s ships which had at that moment run alongside. So fierce was his attack, that the foe gave way, and before many minutes were over he found himself master of the ship; but in the mean time she had broken clear of the Lion, and was drifting down on another Portugal ship coming freshly into the fight. The two were soon locked together, and while he with his handful of followers was endeavouring to defend his prize at one end of the ship, a party of Portugals rushed on board at the other. In vain he fought with the greatest heroism. Most of his followers were cut down. Pressed on all sides, he had not a prospect of success. Another Portugal ship came up. His prize, so gallantly taken, was already recaptured. Unable to parry a stroke made at him, he was severely wounded, and dropping the point of his sword, he yielded himself a prisoner to the reiterated demands of a Portugal captain who had headed the chief body of his assailants. The three Portugal ships had, however, fallen within the fire of the Red Dragon and the Serpent, whose shot crashing on board made them glad to set all the sail they could spread and draw off. As Edward stood on the deck and saw the shattered condition of the English ships, he could scarcely believe that the enemy were really drawing off; but when he afterwards saw some of the Portugals actually sinking, and others with their masts gone, he could not refrain from uttering a cheer, faint though it was, at the thought that his countrymen had gained the hard-fought victory. In this he was joined by the few survivors of his brave followers, all of whom were more or less wounded. On hearing the cheer, some of the Portugals came towards them with threatening gestures, one of them exclaiming, in tolerably good English—“You are impudent fellows indeed to cheer when you are miserable prisoners on board the ship of an enemy. Do not you see that we are victorious?”

“Running away is a funny mode of proving it, Senhor Portugal,” answered Dick Lizard, one of the seamen, cocking his eye at the speaker. “If you had cheered, now, we might have thought you had won the day; but I sticks to my opinion that it’s we have won the day; and so I say, one cheer more for Old England. Old England forever!”

The Portugal’s rage was so great that he would have given Dick a clout on the head which would have finished his shouting, had not Raymond, weak as he was, stepped forward to defend his follower, who was much hurt.

“Shame on you, Senhor Portugal,” he exclaimed, standing over Dick with a broken spar which he had grasped to defend him. “What! would you strike a wounded man simply because he knows the satisfaction he feels that our countrymen are free, if not the victors, and not as we are, prisoners?”

“You crow loudly for a cock with his leg tied,” said the man, desisting, however, from his attempt to strike poor Dick.

Some more seamen had now assembled, threatening to punish the English for their audacity, when their captain made his appearance among them, inquiring the cause of the disturbance.

“Senhor,” he said, turning to Edward, “you are my prisoner, though I wish to treat you as a brave man and a gentleman; but I cannot always restrain my people, who are somewhat lawless in their notions; and I must therefore request that, whatever may be the feelings of your countrymen, they will keep them within bounds.”

So many of the Portugals were wounded, that it was some time before the not very skilful surgeons of the ship could attend to the English, who had, and perhaps fortunately for themselves, to doctor their own hurts, which they did, one helping the other in their own rough but efficacious way. It was pleasant to see the hardy tars helping each other like brethren, washing and cleansing each other’s wounds—several of them tearing up their shirts to bind up their comrades’ limbs, or letting their heads rest with tender care in their laps. Those who had still strength to stand anxiously watched the fast-receding fleet of the English till their loftier masts sank below the horizon, and all hope of being pursued and retaken was abandoned.

“Troth, sir, I suppose, then, we must make the best of a bad job,” said Lizard, shrugging his shoulders. “That’s my philosophy. I learned it when I was a little chap from my father, who was a great philosopher, seeing that he was a cobbler, and have stuck to it ever since, and never found it fail. What’s the odds? says I. Why should a man sigh and groan if he can laugh? why should he cry and moan if he can sing? If things are bad, they can be mended—just as my father used to say of the old shoes brought to him. If that isn’t a comfort, I don’t know what is.”

Most of the Portugal ships escaping from the fight kept together; but meeting the same hurricane which caused such fearful havoc among the English fleet, they also were separated, some going where so many proud argosies have gone—to the bottom—the Santa Maria, the ship on board which Edward found himself, being left alone to pursue her voyage. Edward suffered much from his wound, and had far from recovered his strength when the Santa Maria arrived at Goa. Goa was at that time the largest European settlement in the East; and here the Portugals, to impress the natives with the beauty of the faith they professed, had established that admirable institution, the benign Inquisition. Here those edifying spectacles, autos-da-fé, frequently took place, when men of all ages, women, and even children, were paraded forth, dressed in hideous garments, to be burned alive in consequence of their unwillingness to confess their belief in the doctrines held by the Church. Our chronicle does not decide whether the Portugal priesthood were right or wrong in their proceedings; but, undoubtedly, very few converts were made to the Christian faith, and the influence of their country in the East has long since decreased to zero. The appearance of the place, though deceptive, was in its favour, and innumerable large churches, monasteries, and other public buildings reared their heads on its sandy shores. Those were the days of old Goa’s grandeur and magnificence, soon to depart for ever.

Instead, however, of being landed here, the prisoners were conveyed to the Fort of San Pedro, to the south, lest inconvenient questions might be too often asked as to how they came to be there, and what had become of the rest of the fleet which captured them.

The Castle of San Pedro was a strong fortress with high walls and towers—a gloomy-looking place, as gloomy as any spot in that land of sunshine can be, but gloomy undoubtedly it appeared to poor Edward and his companions, as, strongly guarded, they were conducted through its portals, not knowing when they might repass them and obtain their liberty. They were first conducted into the presence of the governor, a surly old don of the most immovable character; his face was like smoke-dried parchment, with beard of formal cut, and eyes so sunk that nothing could be seen but two small spots of jetty hue, overhung with grey shaggy eyebrows. Without the slightest expression of courtesy or commiseration, he at once commenced interrogating Edward in the Portugal tongue, ordering a yellow-skinned trembling clerk, who squatted at his side with a huge book before him, to write down his replies.

Edward answered succinctly to all the questions put to him, requesting that, as prisoners of war, he and his men might be treated with the courtesy usually awarded to persons in their position, by civilised nations, among whom the Portugals stood prominent.

“Call yourselves prisoners of war!” exclaimed Don Lobo, pulling his moustaches vehemently. “You are pirates—you and your countrymen—nothing better; and as such deserve to be thrown from the top of one of the towers of this castle, or dangled from one of the turrets by a rope, or shot, or drowned—any death is too good for you; burning at the stake as heretics—ay, vile heretics as you are—is most fit for you. See that such is not your lot.”

Edward made no reply to this address, feeling that such would only too probably exasperate the petty tyrant. Dick Lizard was, however, not so judicious. Having had a good deal of intercourse with the Portugals, he knew enough of their language to understand what was said; so, putting his left arm akimbo, and doubling his right fist, he exclaimed—

“Call us pirates! I’ll tell you what you and your dastardly crew are, Senhor Don Governor: you are a set of garlic-eating, oil-drinking sons of sea-cooks, who rob the weak when you can catch them, and run away from the strong like arrant knaves and cowards as you are. You are—”

What other complimentary remarks poor Dick might have uttered it is impossible to say; for as he was beginning his next sentence, a blow from the butt-end of an arquebuse laid him prostrate on the floor. Edward, afraid that his bold countryman had been killed, knelt down by his side. But Dick’s head was too hard to succumb to the strength of a Portugal’s arm, even when wielding a heavy weapon.

“All right, sir,” he said, opening his eyes. “I’ll be at them again, and give ’em more of my mind, and my fist too, if I can get at them.”

Edward, however, advised him under the circumstances to keep both one and the other to himself, and, as he did not feel disposed to be polite to his masters, to hold his tongue.

“Masters! Marry, masters, indeed!” cried Dick. “If you says they are masters, sir, I suppose they be; but they’ll find me a terrible obstinate servant to deal with, let me tell them.”

“No, don’t tell them, Lizard, that or any thing else,” said Edward soothingly. “You see that at all events we are in their power, and unless they let us go we may have some difficulty in escaping.”

“Not if we can get some planks to float on, sir,” whispered Lizard. “That notion of yours, sir, has brought me to sooner nor any thing. I thinks as how now, sir, I can keep a civil tongue in my head to those baboon-faced, sneaking, blackguard scoundrels.”

“Get up, then, man, and remember not to speak a word while I explain your sentiments,” said Edward, glad by any means to save his follower from ill treatment.

The Portugals, who fully believed that the blow must have inflicted a mortal injury on the man, fancied that his officer was receiving his last dying words, a message to his distant home, and did not interfere with him. Their surprise, therefore, was proportionately great when they saw him got up on his legs, give a hitch to his waistband, and, after sundry scratches and pulls at his shaggy locks, once more address the governor.

“An’ may it please your honour, Senhor Don Governor, I axes your reverence’s pardon for calling you and your people yellow-faced sons of sea-cooks (because as how to my mind your fathers and mothers were never any thing so respectable,” he added in a low tone). “Howsomdever, as your honour knows, I am but a rough seaman who’s followed his calling on the salt water all the days of his life, and will follow it, maybe, to the end, and therefore much manners can’t be expected; and so, Senhor Scarecrow, or whatever is your name, I hope you’ll not log down against my officer here or my shipmates any thing you’ve heard.”

Edward, as soon as he could put in a word, began to offer an interpretation of what had been said. It was not very literal, but interpreters are seldom exact in translation. He remarked that his follower had forgotten himself, that the blow had brought him to his senses, and that he now wished to render every apology in his power to one like Senhor Don Lobo, who so greatly merited his respect.

The old governor pulled away at his beard for some time, and twirled his moustaches, but was at length pacified sufficiently to order the prisoners to be carried off to the ward prepared for them.

Edward, determined to maintain a courteous demeanour in spite of the harshness with which he was treated, bowed to the governor as he was marched off between two guards, who seemed to think that the pugnacious Englishmen would by some means or other break away from them, and effect their escape. For that reason Dick Lizard had no less than six guards, one on each side, and two in front, and two behind; and certainly, as he rolled along with his sea cap stuck on the back of his head, his brawny arms bare, and his broad chest exposed, he appeared capable of successfully accomplishing any design he might conceive on his captors. The rest of the seamen imitated him with more or less effect, and were evidently customers of whom the Portugals stood greatly in awe.

The ward in which the English prisoners were placed was a room in a tower on a third floor overlooking the sea. It might have made a not unpleasant chamber if nicely fitted up, but as the only aperture to admit light and air was strongly barred, as the walls were of rough stone, the floor dirty, and heaps of not the cleanest straw were made to do duty for beds, the state of the case was very different. There were no chairs or tables; so that when the prisoners got tired of walking about they were obliged to betake themselves to their heaps of straw. Here day after day passed by. Edward, however, with the aid of Dick, who firmly believed in his power of escaping, kept up the spirits of the party by inducing them to tell their long and astounding yarns, and singing a variety of songs. Sometimes their guards came in to inquire why they were making so much noise, but they were not generally interfered with. Occasionally they received a visit from the surly old governor, when Edward, instead of asking for better quarters, as he might reasonably have done, treated him with the same respect as at first. Dick Lizard pretended to do the same; but as soon as the stately don had passed him the expression of his features and his gestures showed that his respect was not of an enduring quality. As the governor passed along the ward, Dick would imitate his strut and would give a stately bow, now on one side, now on the other, his countenance all the time in a broad grin. Even the warders and guards were amused by his antics, and for fear of putting a stop to them only gave way to their laughter when they saw that the governor was not looking towards them.

“All right, sir,” said Dick to Edward one day, after he had been indulging in more than his usual facetiousness, and the governor had taken his departure. “To my mind these Portugals care very little for their old don, or they wouldn’t laugh at him as they do; and it’s my belief that we shall be able to bribe them to let us slip out one of these fine nights without making any noise about it, and when the morning comes we shall be gone.”

Edward’s heart beat with joy at the thought, but after reflecting a little he answered, with a sigh—

“A bright idea, Dick, but I fear me much the wherewithal to bribe is sadly wanting. The rogues have left us little else but the clothes on our backs.”

The seaman gave a well-satisfied hitch to his waistband—a movement indicative of satisfaction or hesitation, as well as other emotions of the mind, among nautical characters in all ages—and observed—

“The dons are not quite as clever as they think, sir. They left us our clothes, but I and two more of us had lined them pretty thickly with good lots of yellow-boys, and there they are all safe. You know, sir, a seaman never knows what may happen, and to my mind it’s a wise custom among some of us. To be sure, if we comed to be cast away on a desolate island, all the gold in the world wouldn’t help a man to get off so much as a sharp axe and a chest of carpenter’s tools; but among people with manners and customs, though I can’t say much for either one or the other of those hereabouts, there’s nothing like gold!”

“True indeed, Lizard,” said Edward, partaking somewhat of the confidence of his follower, at the same time that he saw more clearly, probably, the difficulties in their way. He therefore entreated Dick and the rest to act with the greatest circumspection, and to appear to submit with perfect readiness to the rules and regulations of the place. The good effect of this conduct was apparent by the greater liberty which the prisoners obtained, and they were now allowed to take their exercise in the open air on the flat roof of part of the castle. Thence in a short time they were allowed to descend to a terrace overlooking the sea, where, however, they were watched by several lynx-eyed guards stationed above them.

It is seldom that those shores are visited by storms, but when the wind does blow it makes ample amends for its usual state of quiescence. In spite of a gale which had sprung up, Edward, with Dick Lizard and several of the other prisoners, was walking up and down on the said terrace, when Dick, whose eyes were of the sharpest, exclaimed that he saw a tall ship driving on before the gale, which set directly on the coast.

“Alas for the hapless crew!” exclaimed Edward. “I fear me they will all be lost!”

“Not a doubt about it, sir, unless some true-hearted seamen venture out to their rescue when the ship strikes, as strike she must before many hours are over.”

“Are you ready to go, Lizard?” asked Edward.

“An’ that I am, sir, and all the rest of us, I’ll warrant, if a boat can be found to swim in such a sea,” answered Dick.

“Then I’ll lead you, my brave lads!” said Edward warmly. “I’ll go seek the governor and get from him a boat fit for our purpose. Whoever they are, I could not bear to see our fellow-creatures perish without an effort to save them. But perhaps the Portugals themselves will be eager to go, and not thank us for making the offer.”

“Not a bit of it,” answered Dick sturdily. “I’ve seen brave Portugals, I’ll allow, but when they come out to this country all the good gets burnt out of them.”

Dick was not far from right. Edward got access to the governor, who at once inquired if any one was ready to volunteer to go to the rescue of the crew of the ship now closely approaching the land; but when it was understood that the English prisoners had offered to risk their lives in the undertaking, no one was found willing to deprive them of the honour.

A fine seaworthy boat was placed at Edward’s disposal, and at the head of his men, who were in the highest spirits, he walked out once more from prison.

Of what nation was the approaching ship was the question. To the honest tars and the brave gentlemen they followed it mattered nothing whether she was friend or foe. The Portugals had, however, discovered her to belong to their own people, and this, although it did not make them the more disposed to risk their own lives, induced them the more willingly to allow the English to do so to any extent they might see fit. Great was the eagerness they exhibited in bringing oars, and tholes, and boathooks, and ropes down to the boat, and still more, when the English had got into her, in launching her into deep water. This could not have been done on the open beach, on which the sea broke with terrific force, but she was hauled up on the shore of a natural harbour formed by two ledges of rocks rising a considerable height above the water. As the outer ends circled round and overlapped each other, the water inside the basin thus formed was comparatively smooth. Outside, however, the sea broke with terrific fury, threatening to overwhelm any boat or other floating machine which might get within its influence.

Some way to the north was another wide extending ledge of rocks, towards which it appeared that the unfortunate ship was drifting; but even should she escape that particular lodge and drive on the beach, the chance that any of those on board would escape was small indeed, for so high were the rollers and so powerful the reflux that once within their influence the stoutest ship could not hold together many minutes, and should any living beings washed towards the shore escape being dashed to pieces or killed by the broken planks and spars, they would be carried again out to sea and lost. Edward and Dick Lizard saw clearly this state of things, but they were not in consequence deterred from attempting to perform their errand of mercy. They also saw that if they would be successful there must be no delay. Each man having secured his oar with a rope, and himself to his seat by the same means, Edward gave the sign to the Portugals to shove off the boat. With loud shouts they placed their shoulders under her sides, and then, shrieking and grunting in concert, they almost lifted her along the sand till she floated, when the English prisoners bringing their oars into play shoved her off into the middle of the basin. Dick Lizard took the helm, while Edward stood up to judge of the best moment for crossing through the breakers. The crew went, steadily to their work. No one was ignorant of the danger to be gone through. At the entrance of the little harbour a white wall of water rose up before them, curling round and topped with masses of glittering foam, which fell in dense showers, blown by the gale over them, tending to blind and bewilder even the most experienced seaman of the party. Edward was at first in despair of finding a channel through which the boat could by any possibility pass and live. Some of the Portugals had, however, assured him that at times between the intervals of the heavier seas he would be able to get through, and he resolved to persevere if his men were ready to do so.

“Ready, ay, ready, every one of us, Master Raymond,” answered Dick Lizard, after the briefest of consultations with his comrades. “Where’s the odds? We can but die once, whether with a Portugal’s bullet through us, or by the vomito prèito or under yonder foaming seas—what matters it? An’ you wish to go, we, to a man, will go too.”

“Thanks, my brave lads; and now, when I order you to give way, give way you must, or be ready to back water at the word,” exclaimed Edward, standing up in the stern-sheets of the boat so as to command a view over the mass of seething, raging, roaring water which rose before him. Sea after sea rolled in, and with a voice of thunder broke on the rocks with a force sufficient, it seemed, to dash them to fragments; but, placed there by the hand of Omnipotence to curb the fury of the wild ocean, the proud waters were hurled back upon themselves again and again, unable to gain a foot on their fixed confines, shattered into minute atoms of foam which the wind bore far away on its fleet wings, while the iron rocks remained fixed as of old, laughing to scorn their reiterated attacks.

The ship meantime was approaching nearer and nearer to the shore. Had she been drifting directly on it, she would by that time have been cast helpless on the stern rocks, but happily part of her foremast was still standing, on which a sail being set, her course was somewhat diagonal, and she was therefore longer in reaching her impending fate than had at first appeared likely to be the case. Now she rose on the summit of a foaming sea, now she sank into the hollow, seemingly as if never to appear again; but bravely she struggled on, like a being endued with life, resolved to battle to the last, yet knowing that destruction was inevitable. Edward observed that although at first there appeared to be no difference in the height of the rollers, yet that after a time several of less apparent strength came tumbling in unbroken till they actually touched the rocks, leaving a narrow yet clear space between them. Through this space he determined to urge his boat. He pulled down to the very mouth of the harbour; the crew lay on their oars. A huge sea came roaring on majestically, and breaking into foam almost overwhelmed the boat. Directly afterwards the clear channel appeared.

“Give way, give way, brave lads!” shouted Edward.

The boat sprang on. Immediate destruction or success awaited them. The blades of the oars were concealed amid the seething waters on either side, and the foam came bubbling up over the gunwales, but the boat still held her course outward. She rose towards the summit of a lofty sea; the men strained every nerve. Up she climbed; then downward she slid rapidly to meet another sea, up which she worked her way as before. Another and another appeared in rapid succession; she surmounted them all, and the open ocean was gained.

Having gained a sufficient distance from the land, they had to keep along shore with the sea stream—a dangerous position, as, should the boat be caught by a roller, she would most certainly be turned over and over till she was dashed in fragments on the beach. On they came to the ship, plunging through the seas, and appearing as if every instant would be her last, even before she could reach the fatal strand. As they drew near they could distinguish the people on board in various attitudes indicative of despair. There were many hapless beings—sailors, soldiers, civilians, and women and children, some infants in arms, all full of life, and yet, ere many fleeting minutes could pass away, to be numbered with the dead. One last desperate effort was, it was seen, now made by the crew of the ship to save their lives. Two anchors were let go, the cables flying out like lightning from the bows, while at the same moment gleaming axes cut away the remaining part of the foremast, which plunged free of the ship into the sea. It was a well-executed, seamanlike manoeuvre. The stout ship was brought up, and although she plunged with her lofty bow almost under the seas, it seemed that her anchors were about to hold her. Hope revived in the breasts of those on board. Edward and his brave companions pulled alongside; ropes were hove to them, and they maintained the position they had gained, although in the greatest possible peril of being swamped. To climb up to the deck of the ship was almost impossible, but Raymond shouted out that he was ready to convey as many of the passengers to the shore as were willing to trust themselves to his charge. Many of those who but a short time before had given way to despair were now unwilling to leave the stout ship which still floated under them for a small open boat. Some who had less confidence in the power of the anchors to hold the ship, hurried to the side, and showed by their gestures that they wished to enter the boat. Without assistance, however, to make the attempt were madness, and the Portugal seamen exhibited no intention of helping them.

“I’ll do it, Master Raymond,” cried Dick Lizard, seizing a rope which hung over the side, and with a nimbleness which alone prevented him from being crushed between the boat and the ship he climbed up over her bulwarks. Two seamen followed his example.

Several more persons came crowding to the side of the vessel on seeing the hardihood of the British seamen in venturing to their assistance. Dick seized the person he found nearest to him as he leaped on deck. It was a young girl. She was clasping the arm of a grey-headed, tall old man, who seemed to be her father.

“No time for ceremony, fair lady,” cried Dick; “bless your sweet face, I’ll make all square when we gets you safe on shore; just now, do you see, you mustn’t mind a little rough handling. There! there! let go the old gentleman’s fist; we’ll lower him after you, never fear. Hold on taut by the rope, as you love me. A drop of tar won’t hurt your pretty hands. There! there! away you go! Look out below there! Gingerly, lads, lower away. Now, old gentleman, you follows your daughter, I suppose?”

These exclamations were all uttered while Dick and his companions were securing a rope round the young lady’s waist, and lowering her into the boat. She gazed upward at her father with a look of affection as she felt herself hanging over the raging ocean while the boat seemed receding from her. A loud shriek of terror escaped her. Dick waited till the boat had again risen, and just as it was about to descend into the trough, he let the young girl drop into the arms of Raymond, who stood ready to receive her, and with a sharp knife cut the rope above her head, not waiting to cast it loose. The next comer was, as Dick promised, the old gentleman, who, even less able to help himself than the young lady, was treated much in the same way.

A young mother with her child, whom with one arm she clutched convulsively to her bosom, while with the other with a parent’s loving instinct she endeavoured to prevent the infant from being dashed against the ship’s side, was next lowered. Not a sound did she utter. Once the ship, gave an unexpected roll, and she was thrown rudely against the side, but she only clasped her infant the tighter, and heeded not the cruel blows she was receiving. Barely could Edward with all his strength secure her and free her from the rope before the boat was dashed off to a distance from the ship. Again, however, the boat was hauled up alongside. Lizard had now slung two little boys together. Though pale with terror, they bravely encouraged each other as they hung over the foaming ocean till the position of the boat enabled them to be lowered into her.

Their father stood on the bulwarks watching them with all a father’s affection, he himself wishing to follow immediately, but being prohibited from making the attempt till some more women and children had been lowered. Lizard and his companions laboured on unceasingly, for none of the Portugal’s crew would render them any assistance. Several other people were thus conveyed to the boat, but many who seemed at first inclined to leave the ship lost courage as they saw the hazard of the undertaking. Some, again, as they gazed towards the foam-covered shore, and heard the roar of the seas as they dashed on the wild rocks, or rolled up on the shingly beach, showed that they would rather trust their safety to the boat than to the labouring ship. Among them was a young man who pushed forward requesting to be lowered.

“No, no, senhor don,” said Lizard. “Do ye see that there are more women and children to go first? We must look after the weaker ones, who can’t help themselves. That’s the rule we rovers of the ocean stick to.”

The young man, either not comprehending him, or so eager to escape as to forget all other considerations, sprang up on the bulwarks, and, seizing a rope, attempted to lower himself without assistance. Miscalculating the time, he descended rapidly; the ship gave a sudden lurch, the boat swung off, and the foaming sea surging up tore him from the rope, and with a fearful cry of despair he sank for ever. He was the first victim claimed by the ocean. His fate deterred others from making a like attempt.

“Come, senhor,” said Lizard to the father of the little boys, “if you wish to go with us it’s fair you should, seeing that others are thinking about the matter instead of acting. You just trust to me, and I’ll land you safely.”

Comprehending what Lizard meant by his gestures, rather than by his words, he submitted himself to his guidance, and was placed by the side of his boys. At that instant a cry arose on board the ship that the anchors were dragging. Lizard soon saw that the report was too true. Now numbers were eager to jump into the boat. She might have carried three more persons, but in the attempt to receive them scores might have leaped in, and the boat would have been swamped. Dick and his companions had no fancy to be wrecked with the ship; so, seizing ropes, they swung themselves into the boat. The next moment the rope which held the boat was cut, and she floated clear of the ship. The oars were got out and hastily plied by the sturdy seamen. Good reason had they to exert all their strength, for the ship, while dragging her anchors, had already carried them fearfully near the roaring line of breakers among which she herself was about to be engulfed. With horror those who had been rescued contemplated the impending fate of their late companions. Slowly the boat worked her way out to sea, while the ship, with far greater rapidity, drove towards the shore. Now the wind, which appeared for an instant to have lulled, breezed up again. Hardly could the boat hold her own. Edward and Lizard had to keep their eyes seaward to watch the waves in order to steer their boat amid their foaming crests. The hapless people on board too well knew what must be their own fate. In vain they shrieked for help; in vain they held out their arms; vain, truly, was the help of man. A furious blast swept over the ocean. A mass of foam broke over the boat. Raymond believed that she could not rise to the coming sea, but, buoyantly as before, she climbed up its watery side, struggling bravely. As she reached its summit a cry escaped the rowers—“The anchors have parted! Good God! the anchors have parted!”

In an instant more the raging seas, foaming and hissing, broke over the stout ship, ingulfing in their eager embrace many of those who were till then standing on the deck full of life and strength. Still the waters seemed to cry out for more. Each time they rushed up more and more were torn from their hold. Some strong swimmers struggled for a few moments amid the boiling surges for dear life, but the shrieks of most of them were speedily silenced in death. The stout ship, too, stout as she was, quickly yielded to the fury of the breakers. The high poop was torn away as if made of thin pasteboard; the wide forecastle, with the remainder of the crew still clinging to it, was carried off and speedily dashed to fragments; the stout hull next, with a wild crash, was rent asunder, and huge timbers, and beams, and planks were dashed to and fro amid the foaming billows, speedily silencing the agonised shrieks of those who yet hoped—though hoped in vain—to reach the land where hundreds upon hundreds of their fellow-creatures stood bewailing their fate, but unable to render them assistance. But a few minutes had passed by since the tall ship had struck on those cruel rocks, and now her shattered fragments strewed the ocean, some carried back by the receding waves, others cast, torn and splintered, on the beach with tangled masses of ropes, and spars, and seaweed. Here and there a human form, mangled, pallid, and lifeless, could be discerned, surrounded by the remnants of the wreck, now approaching, now again dashed off suddenly from the shore; now an arm might be seen lifted up as if imploringly for help; now the head, now the very lips, might be seen to move, but it was but the dead mocking at the living. No sound escaped those lips; for ever they were to be silent. Most of those thus momentarily seen were swept off again to become the prey of the ravenous monsters of the deep. A few of the poor remnants of frail mortality were cast up and left upon the shore, whence they were carried up by the pitying hands of charity to be interred in their mother earth, but by far the greater number were among those who shall rest in their ocean graves till the time arrives when the sea shall give up her dead, and all, from every land and every clime throughout all ages since the world was peopled, shall meet together for judgment.

Chapter Six.

“How fares it with the good ship, Dick?” asked Edward, fearing for one moment to withdraw his eyes from off his arduous task of steering the boat amid the raging seas.

The answer came not from the British seaman, but from one of the passengers taken from the ship:—

“Mother of Heaven! they are lost—all lost!”

The words, uttered by the young lady who had been the first received into the boat, were followed by a heart-rending shriek as she sank fainting into the arms of her father. Many of those who had been saved had relatives, all had friends and acquaintances, on board the ship. Some others cried out and expressed their horror or regret, but the greater number looked on with stolid indifference, satisfied that they had themselves escaped immediate destruction, or absorbed in the selfish contemplation of their own pending fate. It seemed even now scarcely possible that the boat, heavily laden as she was, could escape being swamped. Humanly speaking, her safety depended on the bone and muscle and perseverance of her crew. None but true British seamen could have held out as they did. Many hours had elapsed since the ship was first seen; night was approaching, and the sea still ran so high that it would be next to madness to attempt re-entering the little harbour—a task far more difficult than getting out of it, as the slightest deviation to the right or left would have caused the instant destruction of the boat and of all on board her. There was nothing, therefore, but to continue at sea. There was no other harbour for many miles either to the north or south which they could hope to reach within many days.

“An’ we had but provender aboard, Master Raymond, we might give the Portugals the slip, and never let them see our handsome faces again,” observed Dick, after keeping silence for a considerable time.

“True, Dick,” answered Edward, and hope rose in his heart at the bare mention of escaping; but with a sigh he added, “First, though, we have no provender, and had we, in duty we are bound to land these poor people as soon as we can with safety venture so to do. Already they are almost worn out, and a few hours more of exposure may destroy their lives, which we have undergone this peril to preserve. Then, again, the Portugals allowed us to take the boat on the faith that we were to return. Duty is duty, Dick; the temptations to neglect it do not alter its nature, whatever the old tempter Satan may say to the contrary. Let us stick to duty and never mind the consequences.”

“That’s all true, no doubt, Master Raymond, what you say,” replied Lizard. “But it would be hard, if there was a chance of getting away, to go back to prison. Liberty is sweet, especially to seamen.”

“Duty is duty, Dick,” repeated Raymond. “What is right is the right thing to do ever since the world began. Maybe the gale will go down, and by dawn we may land these poor people without danger. It will be a happy thing to us to have saved them; and, to my mind, even our prison will be less dreary from having done it.”

All hands were soon brought round to their officer’s opinion. The sun was now setting, and darkness in that latitude comes on immediately afterwards. Their prospect was therefore dreary and trying in the extreme. It was difficult to keep the boat free from water in the day; still more difficult would it be while night shrouded the ocean with her sombre mantle. Hunger, too, was assailing the insides of the crew; but, still undaunted, they prepared to combat with all their difficulties. Rest they must not expect; their safety depended on their pulling away without ceasing at the oars. Pull they did right manfully. Now one broke into a song; now another cheered the hearts of his companions with a stave, which he trolled forth at the top of his voice. The example was infectious, and in spite of hunger and fatigue, jokes and laughter and songs succeeded each other in rapid succession. The jokes were none of the most refined, nor were the songs replete with wisdom; but the laughter, at all events, was loud and hearty; above all things, it had the effect of raising the drooping spirits of the poor beings who had been confided to them by Providence.

As they sang, and joked, and rowed, the sea began to go down, and thus, as their strength decreased, the necessity of exerting it became less; still they were compelled to pull on to keep the boat off the land and her head to the sea. At length the singers’ voices grew lower and lower, and the jokers ceased their jokes, and the heads of some as they rowed dropped on their bosoms for an instant, but were speedily raised again with a jerk and a shake as they strove to arouse their faculties. Edward had need of all his energies to keep himself to his task, and he told Dick to warn him should he show any signs of drowsiness.

The hours as the morning approached appeared doubly long. The dawn came at last, and then the sun in a blaze of glory shot upward through the sky and cast his burning rays across the waters upon the boat, with her living but almost exhausted freight yet struggling bravely. The wind had fallen. There was a perfect calm, but yet the billows rolled on, moved, it seemed, by some mysterious power unseen to human eye—not, as before, broken and foaming, but in long, smooth, glassy rollers. Smooth as they were, they would have proved fatally treacherous to the boat had Raymond ventured to land. As they approached the beach they gained strength and height, and then broke with tremendous fury on the smooth sand or rugged rocks, as if indignant at being stayed in their course. Again and again Edward and his companions gazed wistfully at the coast. That formidable line of breakers still prohibited approach. He and his companions had before been suffering from hunger. As the sun rose higher and became hotter and hotter, thirst assailed them—thirst more terrible and more fatal than hunger. The poor passengers suffered most; it seemed as if they had escaped a speedy death on the previous day, to suffer one more painful and lingering. Raymond had been unable till now to pay them much attention personally, leaving them to assist each other as best they could. He was now attracted by the affectionate manner in which the young lady who had been at first saved tended her aged father, and at length, when he could with safety leave the helm, on stooping down to aid her, he recognised in her features, careworn as they were, those of Donna Isabel d’Almeida. He addressed her by name.

“What! then our gallant deliverer is the Englishman Don Edoardo, the friend of Don Antonio!” she exclaimed. “Father, father, we are safe among friends; they will surely take us to the shore when they can. I perceived the likeness from the first, but, overcome with terror and confusion, I could not assure myself of the fact. You will forgive me, Don Edoardo.”

“Indeed, fair lady, I have nothing to forgive,” said Edward. “I rejoice to have been the means of thus far preserving one for whom I have so high an esteem from a dreadful fate. I cannot but believe that Providence, which has saved us thus far, will enable us yet to reach the shore in safety.”

“Heaven and all the saints grant that we may! and under your guidance I have no fear,” answered Donna Isabel. “But, Don Edoardo—”

The young lady stopped and hesitated, and then continued in a faint voice—

“There was another brave officer of your ship I would ask after—Don Antonio. I could never pronounce his family name. How is it that he is not with you?”

This question very naturally led Edward to describe the battle, and how he had been taken prisoner and brought to Goa, and thence transferred to the safe keeping of Don Lobo, and how he and his companions had been treated, and how they had been enabled to come off to the assistance of the ship in consequence of the cowardice of her countrymen, who were glad to get others to do the work which they were afraid to attempt.

This account was listened to with interest by the rest of the passengers, who all exclaimed against the cruelty and injustice of Don Lobo, and promised, should they be preserved, to use their influence in obtaining the liberty of the brave Englishmen.

“See, Dick, did I not say right when I told thee that we should do our duty, and leave the consequences to Providence?” Raymond could not help remarking to Lizard. “We shall now have many friends about us on shore, and some of them will get us set free, depend on that.”

“I hope you are right, Master Raymond; but to my mind the Portugal chaps haven’t much gratitude in their nature, and out of sight with them is out of mind,” was Dick’s reply.

As the day drew on, the anxiety of all in the boat to reach the land increased; indeed, it was very evident that without water several would be unable to exist through another night. Accordingly, about four hours after noon, as was guessed by the height of the sun, Raymond announced his intention of making the attempt to run into the harbour. He had carefully noted the bearings of the marks at the entrance on coming out, so that he was able to steer a direct course for the spot. The long swells still rolled in, and broke along the coast in sheets of foam, and all he hoped to find were a few yards of green water through which he might steer his boat. The belief that their toils were to come to an end roused up even the most exhausted of the crew. On glided the boat. Now those on board looked down on the shore full in view before them—now a smooth green wall of water rose up and shut it from their sight. Even the bravest held their breath as they approached the rocks, and the loud roar of the breakers sounded in their ears. Edward and Lizard stood up, grasping the tiller between them. There was no going back now. Had they allowed the boat to come broadside to one of those watery heights she would instantly have been rolled over and over, and cast helpless on the rocks. Many a silent prayer was offered up that such a fate might be averted. Nearer and nearer the boat approached the rocks. “Back water—back water, lads!” cried Raymond, and a huge roller lifted the boat high above the shore, but failed to carry her forward. It broke with a thundering roar into sheets of foam, and then opened before them a smooth channel. “Pull—pull for your lives, lads!” cried Edward. The seamen obeyed with a will. The boat shot on, and, amid showers of spray on either hand ere a breath could be completely drawn, she was gliding forward, all dangers passed, towards the beach, where hundreds of persons, Portugals and natives, stood ready to receive them. The boat was hauled up on the beach, and, this task accomplished, even Edward and Lizard sank down, unable to support themselves. They and their companions were carried up to the castle, and, although somewhat better chambers were provided for them, they found themselves still prisoners, and strictly guarded.

“I told you so, Master Raymond—I told you so!” exclaimed Dick. “There’s no gratitude in these Portugals.”

However, after the lapse of a few days their condition was altered very much for the better, and provisions and luxuries of various sorts were sent in as presents from those who had heard of their brave exploit. Raymond also received visits from Don Joao d’Almeida, as also from various other persons of influence. He was himself allowed rather more liberty than before, and was even permitted to ride out in a morning with an escort, in company with some of the officers of the fort, and to enter into such society as the place afforded. He thus constantly met the young Donna Isabel, whom he could not help regarding with interest. At the same time, whatever might have been his private opinion regarding the attractions of that fair lady, even had they been far greater than he esteemed them, he would not have allowed himself to be influenced by them; first because there was one in his far-off home to whom his troth was plighted, and secondly because he fancied that her affections were fixed on Waymouth, and though he devoutly hoped that his friend would never marry her, yet he considered that as a messmate and a friend he was not the person to stand between them. These were the very reasons which suggested themselves to his mind as an excuse, as it were, for not following the rules of all romances, and falling desperately in love with the young lady whom he had been the means of preserving from a dreadful death.

It is possible that even had Edward not been influenced by these two reasons for not falling in love, as the phrase goes, with Donna Isabel, he might have found others—indeed, that she was a Romanist and of a different nation would have had great power with him alone—but it is not necessary to enter into them; the fact remains, he did not in the slightest degree set his affections on her. He, however, believing firmly that she was in love with Waymouth, and having a true and honest heart himself, placing full confidence in the constancy of woman, undoubtedly paid her great attention—such courteous attention as a brother would pay a sister, or an honest man his friend’s wife, certainly thinking no evil, or that evil could arise therefrom.

Now it happened that Don Lobo, the governor of the Castle of San Pedro and its dependencies, was a bachelor, and, although a surly, cruel, and morose fellow, had a heart susceptible of the tender passion, or rather of what he fancied was the tender passion, for it would be difficult to suppose any thing tender connected with him. It had been very long since he had seen anybody so young and so beautiful as Donna Isabel, and no sooner did he set eyes on her after she had recovered from the effects of her voyage and exposure in the open boat than he began to be unusually agitated, nor could he rest night or day for thinking of her. His siestas in his hammock at noon, with slaves fanning his face, brought him no rest, nor was it afforded by his couch at night. He resolved to make Donna Isabel his wife. He did all he could to exhibit his feelings towards her; but, powerful as they might have been, and although she might have discovered what they were, she certainly did not return them.

Notwithstanding this, matters went on smoothly enough for some time. Don Lobo was not a despairing lover, and he knew enough of the female sex to be aware that their feelings are not altogether immutable, even if they change only by slow degrees. Donna Isabel’s sentiments might alter, and he might reach a high point in her favour. Time, however, passed on as it has done ever since the world began, and no such change as the governor anticipated took place; on the contrary, as the young lady’s eyes were more and more opened to the true state of the case, so did her dislike to the don the more and more increase. Indeed, whenever she looked at him, or thought about him, or heard him spoken of, it was with a feeling rather akin to disgust than to devotion. She did not, nevertheless, exhibit these uncomplimentary sentiments as forcibly as under other circumstances she might have done. She and her father were, in the first place, guests of Don Lobo, and dependent on him. Poor Don Joao had also lost all his property in the ship, and, it having been supposed that he was lost, another person had been appointed to his proposed government, and he had to wait till he could receive a fresh appointment from home. Don Lobo was also rich, and had pressed money on Don Joao, which he had accepted, and had thus become still more indebted to him. All these circumstances would have made it very impolitic in Donna Isabel to exhibit her real sentiments, which she was thus in part compelled to disguise, though she could not do so altogether; nor did she afford the slightest encouragement to her unattractive admirer. At first the surly don was very indifferent to this state of things.

“She’ll yield—she’ll yield before long to my powerful persuasions and personal attractions,” he observed to his confidant and factotum, Pedro Pacheco, a worthy always ready to do his master’s behests, whatever they might be. “I’ll put on my new doublet and hose, and my jewel-hilted sword, and I’ll attack her again this day manfully.”

“Certainly, most certainly, Senhor Don Lobo. A man of your excellency’s superlative qualities, no female heart, however hard, can possibly long withstand,” observed Pedro.

“I knew that would be your opinion, my faithful Pedro,” said the governor—the fact being that the faithful Pedro always did agree with his patron, not troubling himself to decide whether he thought him right or wrong. In this instance both were wrong.

The governor, to the surprise of the garrison, who had been always accustomed to see him wearing a greasy old doublet and a rusty-hilted sword, made his appearance in a richly ornamented suit, which, though somewhat fusty from having been long shut up, had the advantage of being costly.

He was received, however, as usual by Donna Isabel, who, though she could not help remarking that he wore a handsomer dress than usual, said nothing whatever which might lead him to suppose that she saw in him the least improvement. He tried to talk, but in vain; not a word of sense could he produce. Then he tried to look unutterable things, but he only grinned and squinted horribly, till he frightened the young lady out of her senses, and made her suppose that he was thoroughly bent on going into a fit. Although he did not suspect the cause, he had the wit to discover that he had not made a favourable impression, and returned to his quarters disappointed and not a little angry with his ill success. Pedro Pacheco could only advise him to try again. He might have acted a more friendly part if he had said “Give it up.” Don Lobo did try again, and with the like ill success.

“Persevere,” said Pedro.

The governor did persevere day after day, and at length, in spite of the entire absence of all encouragement, declared his passion. Donna Isabel frankly told him that she did not love him, and did not believe that she ever should. She might have said she did not think she ever could. He said nothing, but made his bow and exit. He told Pedro Pacheco of his ill fortune.

“Then she loves another!” observed Pedro.

“Who can he be?” exclaimed the governor in a fierce voice.

“Where have your excellency’s eyes been of late?” asked the confidant quietly.

“What!” cried Don Lobo, giving a furious pull at his beard, “that Englishman?”

“The same,” said Pedro Pacheco, nodding his head.

“Then I will take good care he no longer interferes with me,” said the don in a savage tone.

“Of course it would be unwise not to exert your authority when you have him in your power,” said Pedro. “Better put him out of the way altogether.”

“He has friends—I must have an excuse,” said the governor.

“He has been plotting or will be plotting to make his escape,” observed Pedro. “To effect this he would not scruple to murder all in the castle. He and his companions have shown what daring rogues they are by going out to the rescue of Donna Isabel and the rest when none of our heroic countrymen would attempt the exploit. Ah, those English are terrible fellows!”

“Proof must be brought to me of their abominable intentions, and then we shall have this officer and his men in our poorer,” observed the governor savagely.

“Proof, your excellency! there will be no want of that, considering that our garrison consists of the very scum of the streets of Lisbon,” answered the confidant. “Why, we have men here who for a peço have sworn away the lives of their most intimate acquaintances. Of course, in so admirable a cause they would have no scruple in swearing whatever we may dictate, even should it not be absolutely correct.”

“What you may dictate, honest Pacheco, not we, understand,” said the governor. “They may bungle when brought into court as witnesses, and though under ordinary circumstances that would not matter, some of these shipwrecked persons are likely to be favourable to them, and might report unfavourably of me if matters did not go smoothly. As to the means I am indifferent when so important a result is to be attained.”

“Ah, most noble governor, I understand all about your wishes in the matter, and will take care that the affair is carried out in a satisfactory way,” answered the honest Pedro, making his master an obsequious bow as he left the room.

Don Lobo clinched his fist, and, grinding his teeth, struck out as if he had got his prisoner’s face directly in front of him. The performance of this act seemed to afford him infinite satisfaction, for he walked up and down the room with a grin which might in courtesy have been called a smile on his countenance for some time till his legs grew weary of the exercise.

Not long after this, Edward was one evening pacing the terrace facing the sea, casting many a longing glance over the glass-like water of the ocean, on which the rays of the setting sun had spread a sheet of golden hue, and he was considering by what means he could possibly with his companions make his escape, when rough hands were laid on his shoulders and he found his arms suddenly pinioned from behind. His first impulse was to endeavour to shake them off, and having by a violent effort done so, his next was to double his fists and to strike at them right and left, knocking two of them down at the instant in a true British fashion. At that instant, Dick Lizard, coming on the terrace and seeing his officer assailed, rushed forward to his assistance, and quickly sent two more Portugals tumbling head over heels right and left of him.

“To the rescue! to the rescue!” he shouted out, and his voice quickly collected all the English prisoners who were within hearing. Of course more Portugals hurried up to the spot, who at once joined in the fray. Swords and daggers were drawn, which the Englishmen quickly wrenched from the hands of their assailants, though not till several of the prisoners had been wounded; and now the clash of steel was heard and fire-arms were discharged, and the skirmish became general. In the midst of it Pedro Pacheco rushed out of his quarters, crying out—

“Treason! treason! the English are rising and murdering every one of us,” and at the same moment he levelled a pistol at Raymond’s head. The bullet would probably have, ended the life of the gallant adventurer had not Dick Lizard struck up the Portugal’s arm, for he had no time in the first instance to do more, but a second blow from his fist sent Senhor Pedro sprawling on the ground among several others of his party who had been placed in the same horizontal position by the sturdy Englishmen.

In spite of the superior numbers of the Portugals, the fate of so many of their party made the rest unwilling to close with the prisoners, who, not knowing what was intended, stood boldly at bay, resolved to sell their lives dearly, Dick Lizard singing out—

“Come on—come on, ye varlets! we don’t fear ye. One Spaniard lick two Portugee, one Englishman lick all three!”

This state of things could not, however, last long. Trumpets were sounding, drums were beating, and soldiers from all quarters were collecting, who now with Don Lobo at their head surrounded the Englishmen. At the command of the governor they were levelling their matchlocks (fortunately the matter of discharging them was not a speedy operation), when Don Joao d’Almeida and his daughter Donna Isabel made their appearance on the scene with most of those who had been preserved from the wreck.

“Hold, hold, countrymen!” cried Don Joao. “What! are you about to slaughter those who so gallantly risked their lives to save ours? Hold, I say; I am sure that you, Don Edoardo, have done nothing intentionally to deserve this treatment.”

Donna Isabel joined her entreaties with those of her father.

“Certainly I have no wish to break the peace,” answered Raymond. “The arms we hold were taken from those who assailed us, and we are ready to lay them down instantly at the command of the governor, in whose lawful custody we consider ourselves.”

Thus appealed to, Don Lobo could not, without outraging all law, order the destruction of his prisoners. Those who had possessed themselves of weapons put them down, when they were immediately seized each by not less than six Portugals, and marched off to the cells in which they had at first been confined.

“I must inquire into the cause of this outbreak, when punishment will be awarded to the guilty,” said Don Lobo, as he stalked back to his quarters.

The unpleasant look which the governor cast on him made Edward feel that evil was intended. His suspicions were speedily confirmed, for instead of being taken to the chamber he had lately occupied, he was marched off to the prison in which he and his companions had at first been confined, and was thrust alone into a dark, close, foul dungeon, at a distance, he feared, from Lizard and his other men. He knew nothing of the jealous feelings which had sprung up in the bosom of Don Lobo, or his apprehensions would naturally have been greatly increased. The air of the dungeon was noxious and oppressive, and he had not been in it many hours before he began to feel its ill effects.

“A week or two in such a hole as this will bring my days to a close,” he said to himself as he surveyed, as far as the obscurity would allow, the narrow confines of his prison-house. “Alas! alas! my adventure has turned out ill indeed. My own Beatrice, for thy sake I left my native land, and thou wilt have, ere long, to mourn me dead. For thy sake, sweet girl, I pray that I may escape.”

In this strain he soliloquised for some time, as people in his circumstances are apt to do, and then he set to work to consider how, by his own exertions, he might be able to get free. He was fain to confess, that, unaided, he had not the slightest chance of escape. Of one thing, however, he was certain—that Dick Lizard would not rest day or night till he had made an attempt to help him. And he knew that Dick, with all a sailor’s bluntness and thoughtlessness, had a considerable amount of ready wit, and of caution too, where it was necessary for the accomplishment of an important object. Edward hoped also that his friends would prove true, and exert themselves in his favour.

All this time Don Lobo had resolved on his destruction, and only waited the best opportunity of accomplishing it. Knowing the character of the dungeon in which his prisoner was confined, he believed that he should have very little trouble about the matter. Edward’s constitution was, however, very sound, and though he certainly suffered in health, he did not break down altogether, as the governor expected would be the case. Don Lobo, therefore, announced publicly that he intended to bring the prisoners engaged in the late outbreak to a trial. This every one knew well would result in their being shot. Day after day passed by. Edward found his imprisonment more and more irksome, while he had not yet succeeded in communicating with Lizard, nor could he ascertain even where the honest fellow was shut up. His jailers were only conversable when they had any disagreeable news to communicate, and it is extraordinary how loquacious they became when the day of his trial was fixed, and the opinion as to his fate was formed. They seemed to take especial delight in taunting him and in annoying him in every way.

“Ah, senhor, many an honest man has been hung before now, and many a rogue, and neither seems to think it a pleasant operation,” remarked one of the fellows, imitating the contortions of countenance of a strangled person.

“To which class does the noble senhor belong, I wonder?” said another.

“Maybe to the last, if he will pardon me saying so,” observed a third with a grin.

“But, ah me! rogue or honest, there will be some fair ladies mourning for him in more ports than one,” cried another, who was considered the wit of the gang. “Permit me, senhor, to convey your last dying message to some or all of them. Maybe in your own land there is some fair young dame from whom you would not willingly be parted, eh? I thought that I should hit the right nail on the head.”

“Peace—peace, men!” exclaimed Edward. “For your own sakes, lest you should ever be in a like condition, allow me to be alone.”

His appeal, made with dignity and calmness, had more effect than he expected, and the men shrank back, for a time, at least, abashed. Their last remarks did not, however, affect his feelings as might have been supposed, the fact being that his Beatrice was never out of his thoughts, and night and day his prayers had been for blessings on her head.

The day of the Englishmen’s trial approached. Of the result there could not be a shadow of doubt. Numerous witnesses were able to prove that they had been found in open insurrection with arms in their hands, while there was no one to speak in their favour. Any thing, also, like justice was unknown in the land. Still, Don Lobo, having resolved to get rid of his supposed rival, wished to give as great an air of formality and legality to his proceedings as he possibly could.

Edward, from all he could ascertain, felt convinced that he had not many days to live. The night before his trial arrived he had thrown himself on the heap of straw which served as his bed by night and his only seat by day, that he might obtain some repose, the better to go through his ordeal on the morrow, when he heard his prison-door open gently, without the usual creaking noise which announced the appearance of his jailers, and a bright light streamed on his closed eyes. He fancied that he must be dreaming, till he unclosed them and discovered that the light was held by a being habited in a white robe, beautiful in appearance, whether celestial or human he could not at first decide. If the latter, she was young and of the fair sex. He looked again. Yes—Donna Isabel d’Almeida stood before him. She put her finger to her lips to impose silence, and kneeling down by his side whispered for some time into his ears. She then produced a couple of files and other instruments for forcing off shackles, which she and the prisoner plied so assiduously that scarcely half an hour had passed before he stood up free from his chains.

“Take off your shoes and put on these woollen slippers, and follow me, senhor,” whispered Donna Isabel. “The guards are asleep, and if no noise is made we need not fear being stopped.”

Edward could scarcely believe his senses, and fancied that he must be asleep, but still he wisely did as he was bid. He, however, felt scarcely able to walk after being shut up for so long in that pestiferous dungeon. Donna Isabel, shrouding part of the lantern, glided towards the door, which opening noiselessly she passed out, he following. She led the way up a narrow, dark, winding staircase. It had not many steps, and Edward, to his surprise, found himself pacing a long passage, the end of which he could not distinguish. He had never before been in that part of the fort. Not a sound was heard, nor did his own nor his guide’s footfall make the slightest noise. He conjectured that the guard had just before made the rounds, and that the warders had settled themselves into their nooks and corners and gone to sleep. Donna Isabel seemed to have perfect confidence that all was right, though he could not help expecting every instant to come on one of these nooks, and to find a warder prepared to dispute their onward progress.

He had been aware that his dungeon was at a considerable depth, but, judging from the number of steps he had to ascend, he found that it was even deeper down than he had supposed. The gallery was low and arched—hewn out of the rock it appeared, or built of rough stones, though, as may be supposed, he made no very exact observations as he hurried on. Suddenly Donna Isabel stopped, and taking his arm led him round a corner into another corridor or gallery. It was a side passage, or, probably, rather a passage which had been commenced but not finished. Covering up her lantern, they were in total darkness. Edward had, however, time to ascertain that they were behind a buttress or projecting part of the wall, which would conceal them partially from any one passing along the main gallery they had quitted. Donna Isabel had not sought the place of concealment a moment too soon, for scarcely was the light shrouded than footsteps were heard and a glare of light appeared. The light proceeded from a couple of torches held by two men, and directly behind them stalked no less a person than the governor himself, followed closely by Pedro Pacheco. The glare penetrated to the recess in which the fugitives stood, and Edward expected every moment to be discovered by Don Lobo. The don was, however, near-sighted, or so occupied in earnest conversation, that he did not turn his eyes in that direction. Edward could hear his companion’s heart beat. Discovery would have been destruction to both of them probably—to him certainly. The governor, also—as was his habit—walked along with his eyes on the ground, but those of the worthy Pedro had the custom of continually casting furtive glances here and there, as if he expected some one to jump suddenly upon him and give him a stab in the ribs or a kick in a less noble part, or as if he thought a person was about to creep behind him to listen to what he was saying. Edward had remarked this peculiarity in the governor’s confidant, and had very natural apprehensions that it would lead to their detection. The eyes went up and down, here and there, as usual—now, by a turn of the head, looking over one shoulder, now over the other, now into the governor’s face to ascertain what effect his remarks were producing. Donna Isabel crouched down, really now trembling with fear, for, as far as her gentle nature would allow, she loathed Senhor Pedro even more than his master. Edward stood bolt upright, with his arms by his side and his eyes fixed, to occupy as little space as possible. Round and round went Pedro’s lynx-like orbs. By what possibility could they escape falling on the spot where Edward was endeavouring to hide?

A small matter often produces an important result. A little stone, which hundreds of feet had passed by without touching, lay on the ground. The governor struck his toe against it, on which toe a painful callosity existed. Uttering an oath at the pain he was caused, he stumbled forward, and would have proved the hardness of the rock with the tip of his nose had not Pedro caught him as he fell. So assiduous were the attentions of the confidant, that, though Don Lobo limped on slowly, they had both passed beyond the spot from which they could see the fugitives before Pedro’s eyes turned again towards the quarter where they stood. It might be possible that other persons were following, but no one else appeared.

It occurred to Edward that the governor might be on his way to see him in his cell, and if so their flight would speedily be discovered. At all events, not a moment was to be lost. Donna Isabel must have thought the same, for, taking his hand, she again led him along the chief gallery in the direction in which they were before going.

“The stumble of the governor might be fortunate for more reasons than one,” thought Edward. “If he is going towards my cell, it may delay him and give us a little longer start.”

Distances appear much greater to persons walking in the dark and in an unknown path, and thus Edward believed that they must be close on some outlet long before one was reached. More steps were ascended and others descended, and long passages traversed, when Donna Isabel led the way through a narrow one which turned off at right angles to a main gallery, and hurrying along it for some way, they suddenly came to a door. The cool night air came through an iron grating, showing that it was an outlet, if not to the fort itself, to that portion where the prison was placed. Iron bars secured it, and a strong lock, apparently. The lady beckoned to Edward to undertake the task which her weaker arms were unable to perform, throwing the light of the lantern for the purpose on the door. The bolts having been without much difficulty withdrawn, she produced a key, which she handed to Edward. In vain he attempted to fit it in the lock. It was clearly the wrong key, or they had come to the wrong door. There was a latch, but though he pulled at it and shook it, the door would not open.

“Alas! I trust the error is not fatal. We should have turned to the right instead of to the left,” whispered Donna Isabel. “It was the only point about which I had any doubt.”

Leaving the door with the bolts withdrawn, they retraced their steps for some distance.

“Here! here!” whispered Donna Isabel. “This is the right way.”

Going on, they stood before a door similar to the one they had before attempted. The bolts were withdrawn with ease; they had evidently lately been oiled. Passing through the gateway, Edward and the lady found themselves in the open air. Edward expected to be outside the fort, but he soon discovered that they were still within the outer works. The heavy footsteps of a sentry as he paced the ramparts could be distinctly heard, the bark of a dog in the distance, and the steady lash of the restless sea on the beach. A wide open space had to be crossed. The attempt must be made, and yet they might be seen by the sentry. Fortunately the night was dark. Donna Isabel held Edward back till the man had turned, and then whispering, “Quick, quick!” led the way, running rapidly across the open space. So quickly she ran, that Edward could scarcely keep up with her. Breathless she reached the parapet of the outer works. At the spot where they stood an angle sheltered them from the sight of the sentry above. Edward looked over, and found that it was directly above the shore, and, as far as he could judge in the darkness, the ditch seemed to have been almost filled with sand. Donna Isabel, stooping down, produced a strong rope from under a gun-carriage, to which the end was secured.

“I doubt not its strength,” she whispered; “but I will lead the way.”

And before Edward could prevent her grasping the rope, she had flung herself off the wall, and was descending rapidly. Believing that she had reached the bottom, he imitated her example. The rope stretched and cracked as his weight was thrown on it. Every moment he expected it to break, and he was unable to tell the height he might have to fall, or the nature of the ground which he should reach. It was with inexpressible satisfaction that his feet touched some hard, rugged rocks.

“We have yet farther to go,” said Donna Isabel. “Then, Don Edoardo, I must leave you with those better able than a weak girl to render you assistance.”

Along the rough sea-beat rocks Donna Isabel, with unfaltering steps, held her way. The softer sand was gained, and now faster even than before she fled along, urging Edward to still greater speed.

“Go before me, brave Englishman,” she exclaimed. “Even now we may be pursued, and my failing strength will not bear me on as fast as you can run. On, on; care not for me; I will follow.”

This, however, Edward could not bring himself to do. It was contrary to all his manly feelings, his ideas of chivalry. Half lifting and half supporting the young lady, he bore her on towards the harbour. As they went, the idea occurred to him, “What could be Donna Isabel’s intentions? Did she propose flying with him?” The question was perplexing. “I’ll tell her at once the truth, and return to prison rather than place her in a wrong position.”

While thus hurrying on, however, he found it impossible to express his sentiments.

The beach which formed the inner side of the little harbour was at length reached, but no boat could Edward discern.

“It is farther out, concealed under the rocks,” said Donna Isabel. “We must endeavour to reach it by walking along them.”

The undertaking appeared very hazardous to Edward, who remembered that there were numerous crevices, and smooth, slippery places, down which it would be difficult to avoid falling. Donna Isabel, however, assured him that she was acquainted with a secure path which had been cut in the rocks.

After searching for a short time the path was found, and cautiously she led the way along it. It was necessary in the dark to feel every step in advance, lest a false one might precipitate her into the water. The delay was very trying. Neither of them had once looked behind; there would have been no use in so doing. Even if pursued, they could not have fled faster than they had done. Suddenly Donna Isabel stopped.

“I cannot find the path,” she exclaimed, after searching round for some time.

In vain Edward tried to discover it.

While stopping in consequence of this, their eyes were directed for the first time towards the castle. In front of it appeared several bright lights; they were those of torches and lanterns. After flitting about for some time, the lights began to move towards the harbour. They were pursued. If the boat could not be found, they would inevitably be captured.

“I will go first and search for the boat, at all hazards,” exclaimed Edward.

He walked on. Donna Isabel in her alarm had fancied that they were out of the path, though it was but some roughness of the rock that had misled her. They were soon again in it. With renewed spirits Edward pushed on. He fancied that he saw the boat close under a projecting part of the rock. He hailed.

“All right, huzza!” answered a voice. He recognised it as that of Dick Lizard. “We are here, most of us. The Portugals have got three still, but they’ll be out soon and come on here.”

Dick, being low down, had not seen the lights near the castle. Edward told him of the circumstance.

“Then the poor fellows will be caught,” cried Dick. “If we had a chance we’d go back and help them; but we’ve none. It’s the chance of war. If the scoundrel Portugals kill them, we’ll avenge them some day. But step in, sir, and we’ll shove off. We are sadly short-handed, that’s the worst of it, if we are chased. However, it can’t be helped.”

Edward had not spoken to Donna Isabel for some seconds, or it might be a minute or two; certainly not since he had heard Lizard’s voice. Now came the perplexing point, what would she do? Don Joao was not in the boat, nor any of her countrymen. Would she desire to accompany him? He turned to address her, to express his deep gratitude for her noble exertions, and the arrangements she had made thus far so successfully to enable him to escape. Great and painful was his astonishment, however, when, on turning, Donna Isabel was nowhere to be seen. Lizard had not perceived her.

“When I first caught sight of you, Master Raymond, you were alone; that I’ll swear, sir,” he replied.

Edward sprang back horrified.

“Donna Isabel! Donna Isabel!” he shouted. He felt as grieved and alarmed as he would have done had she been a beloved sister. The dreadful idea seized him that she must have slipped off the rock and been drowned; for calm as was the sea, the swell sent a constant current into the harbour, which would instantly have drawn her away from the spot where she had fallen.

“Donna Isabel! Donna Isabel!” he again shouted.

No answer was given. To delay longer would have been useless. Dick and the other men had joined in the fruitless search. They now literally forced him into the boat, and, shoving off, began to pull down the harbour. As they did so, one of the men declared he saw an object floating by—an uplifted hand. On they pulled; it was ahead. Again it was seen. At that moment lights appeared on the beach, and advancing along the rocks. The fugitives were, however, on the element they loved. They were free. A few strokes more and they would be out of the harbour, when, alas! the stem of the boat struck against a chain drawn tightly across the mouth, and the loud cries and derisive shouts of the Portugals told them that their hopes of escape were vain.

Chapter Seven.

It would be impossible thoroughly to describe the feelings of disappointment which the Englishmen experienced when they discovered that they were caught like fish in a net. The Portugals were advancing along the rocks on both sides of the harbour, and in the narrow channel where they were they would all be shot down, or must yield directly they were summoned. In vain they tried to break through the chain. Again and again they dashed the stem of their boat against it. No weapon of sufficient strength to cut it was to be found in the boat. Dick and another man leaped overboard, and, balancing themselves on the chain, attempted to lift the boat over, but she was far too heavy to allow them a chance of success. Hitherto the Portugals had not fired; it might have been because they believed that Donna Isabel was with them, or that, having to scramble along the rocks, they had left their weapons behind them.

“Oh, boys! if we had but a place to swim to, we’d swim rather than be caught by these baboon-faced Portugals,” cried Dick, as he reluctantly re-entered the boat.

Lights were now seen as if on the water itself.

“The Portugals have launched some boats, and are coming in pursuit!” shouted Lizard.

“Never mind, lads; if we can but get through their chain, we’ll hold them a long chase yet. Now, lads, a hearty pull and pull all together.”

Heartily the seamen did pull, and stove in the bow of the boat, and sprang every one of their oars. With no very complimentary remarks on the Portugals’ rotten spars, they broke them completely in two, and each man, grasping the inner end, prepared to use it as a quarter-staff. Scarcely had they thus armed themselves when three boats dashed up alongside them. Several voices ordered them to yield themselves prisoners.

“Yield ourselves prisoners!” exclaimed Dick. “Come and take us, you blackguards! We’ll just have the pleasure of cracking some of your skulls first.”

Although the Portugals did not understand Dick’s polite observations, they concluded from the tone of his voice that they were not conciliatory, and therefore, with threats of vengeance, they pressed round them. Great was their astonishment and indignation as they were about to jump on board the fugitives’ boat to find showers of blows descend on their heads with such hearty good-will, that with many a cracked skull they sprang back into their own boats faster than they had left them. The Portugals in the boats so thickly surrounded the English that the former could not use their fire-arms, while those on the rocks were also afraid to fire for fear of hitting their friends. Bravely and gallantly the seamen held out.

“Hurrah for the true English quarter-staves, lads!” cried Dick, as he dealt blow after blow on the heads of the Portugals, his example being ably followed by the rest of the men.

Edward shouted and encouraged his followers, though less vociferously. Several of the Portugals were knocked overboard; others, stunned, fell back into the bottom of their boats; and others, with broken arms and bruised shoulders, shouted—“Treachery! treachery! Help! help! Fire! fire!” and all sorts of cries, under the belief that the numbers of the fugitives were far greater than was the case.

As long as the enemy could be kept at close quarters the English had greatly the advantage; but at length so greatly worsted were the Portugals that the survivors and the unmaimed, getting out their oars, and shoving off from the boat which contained the audacious English, fairly took to flight, and pulled away up the harbour, maliciously shouting as they went—

“Fire! fire at the chain!”

Their cries were heard, and the rattle of fire-arms followed, and the bright flashes were seen, while the shot whistled over the only spot at which the prisoners could hope to make their escape, even if they could manage to cut or force the chain. As it would have been certain death to make the attempt, Raymond proposed a still more daring scheme—to pull up the harbour after the Portugal boats, to board one of them before the people had recovered from their panic, to seize their arms, and then to try and make terms with the enemy, or to die fighting bravely with weapons in their hands which might be used at a longer distance than could their quarter-staves. The idea was no sooner suggested than put into execution. The boats had only gone up a short distance, and before the Portugals were aware that they were pursued, the English, with their dreaded quarter-staves, were battering away on their skulls, and in a few seconds had possessed themselves of all the fire-arms, ammunition, and swords to be found on board. Another boat was overtaken, and before those on board had recovered from their astonishment they were also deprived of their arms. The English now dashed on so as to reach the shore before their opponents, and be ready to stand on their defence. Their success was greater than they anticipated. As the Portugals were looking in other directions, no one opposed them, and they had time not only to leap on shore, but to reach a rock on the beach which Raymond recollected so close to the water that it prevented any one approaching on that side, while the rock itself formed a rampart in front, behind which they could fight. Here Edward found himself with Dick Lizard and ten other men, some of them more or less wounded, but all able to use their weapons. Although they knew that they must ultimately be starved out or overwhelmed by numbers, yet, like brave men, they agreed not to yield while resistance could by any possibility avail them. Some time passed—no enemy appeared. What were the Portugals about to do? was the question.

“They don’t know where we’ve got to, and they’re boasting that they’ve killed us,” suggested Dick in a low voice.

Edward had still a lingering hope that they might escape. The minutes were very long, but they increased into hours, and at last the day dawned, and Dick, looking out from behind his hiding-place, could see the Portugals scattered about among the rocks near the harbour still looking for them. Daylight, however, exhibited the boat on the beach, and the marks of their feet on the sand. Their place of refuge was soon discovered, and now in numbers the Portugals came crowding up from all quarters, thinking that they were about to take their prey on easy terms, and vowing vengeance on their heads. The rock, however, formed a breastwork which no bullets could penetrate, nor even could round shot from ordnance make any impression on it. The shape was that of a half-moon, the convex side being towards the shore, with the two horns running some way into the water where it was too deep for any one to wade, except the sea was unusually smooth.

On the sea side there was deep water, outside of which was a ledge of broken rocks here and there showing their heads, forming a barrier no boats could pass, with what may be described as a lagoon of smooth water inside the rocks. Thus Raymond and his party were completely protected from the sea, unless a boat could be dragged overland and launched beyond the rock into the lagoon. This could easily have been done under ordinary circumstances, but any persons now attempting it would have been exposed to the fire of the English from the rock. Edward had noted some of the advantages offered by the rock as a place where a few determined men might defend themselves, but the strength of its position surpassed his expectations. It was the recollection of this rock which made him propose the bold attack on the Portugals in their boats which proved so successful. Some of the Portugals, it was observed, advanced bravely enough, but others, whose heads were bandaged, though they shouted and urged on their countrymen, hung back, and seemed in no way inclined to encounter the daring Englishmen. Dick Lizard pointed them out to his companions.

“Ha, ha! the varlets!” he exclaimed. “They know the flavour of our English quarter-staves, and don’t want a second taste of them.”

Raymond had no necessity to counsel his men to be steady, for every one had his weapons ready, and stood as cool as if no enemy were advancing to the attack. Still the number of their opponents was sufficient to daunt the stoutest hearts. Not only were there Portugals, but swarthy natives in light garments and long matchlocks, nimble fellows who looked capable of climbing over the rocks like wildcats, and proving troublesome at close quarters. There were some gayly-bedecked cavaliers on horseback, but of them the seamen took but little account.

“All we’ve to do, lads, is to kill the steeds, and then your horsemen become clumsy footmen,” exclaimed Lizard as he saw them galloping up over the sand-hills from the interior.

The Portugals, who, like wise men, seemed to be lovers of long shots, began to fire towards the rock, not all together nor taking good aim, but as each man thought he could hit an enemy without being hit himself. The leaden bullets mostly flew high overhead, but a few came spluttering against the rock to fall flattened into the crevices or to roll down into the sand. Edward ordered his followers to keep under cover, he alone watching the progress of their foes. On they came, the showers of shots increasing in thickness, but being perfectly innocuous. The nearer they got the higher the shot flew, so that no harm was done except to the Portugals themselves by the bursting of some of their fire-arms.

“Wait, lads, till they get close up to the rock, and then fire and knock over the foremost dozen at the least,” he cried out. “Maybe they won’t expect the warm reception we can give them.”

Raymond, like a good officer, having made the utmost of his position and taken every proper precaution to insure success, did his best to encourage his men and to make them despise their enemies. Foolish and ignorant officers neglect the necessary preparations and precautions, and yet fancy that they are exhibiting their bravery by despising their foes. This has ever been a great cause of defeat and disaster. There was a pause. The Portugals had not the heart to make a rush forward, and the English were unwilling to throw their precious shot away.

The Portugals were seen to halt, as if to hold a consultation. The perfect quietness of the English alarmed them more than loud shouting and noise would have done. They did not know what to make of it.

“Ha! ha! they’ve no stomach for the fight,” whispered Dick, who had popped up his head to see what was going forward. “They’re just thinking whether they’ll go back to their wives and families, or come on and be shot. We’ll teach them the wisest thing to do.”

The pause was broken by the sound of a trumpet, and a cavalcade was seen approaching from the direction of the castle. As it drew near, Edward recognised by his dress and bearing Don Lobo at its head. An officer was now seen to gallop forward towards what might be called the storming party, but that they appeared to have no great inclination to storm. His message seemed to expedite their movements, and with loud shouts and a hotter fire they once more advanced. Finding also that the garrison of the rock did not reply, their courage increased as did their shouts and their speed, although it requires a stout heart to march towards an enemy over heavy sand.

“They’ll go back, an’ I mistake not, faster than they are coming on,” whispered Dick.

“Steady, my merry men,” cried Raymond as the Portugals were crowding on within a few paces of the rock.

Numbers had already begun to climb its slippery sides, pressing on each other, the hinder ones urging on those in front, the rearmost feeling their valour at the highest pitch, when Edward perceived that the time for action had arrived.

“Now, lads, give it them!” he exclaimed, setting the example by firing his piece, which was of the blunderbuss genus, rammed full of shot, and knocking over three if not more of the stormers. The rest of the party discharged their fire-arms at the same moment, lodging their contents in the bodies of some score or more of their assailants. They, the most part killed, with many who, though unhurt, were terribly alarmed, tumbled back on their comrades in the rear, all rolling down the rock together, and so thoroughly bedabbled with blood that it appeared as if the whole party were desperately wounded. This damped the courage of the rest. Some stood irresolute, others actually ran, and others shouted to their comrades to go on, but did not themselves advance. This enabled the English seamen to reload their fire-arms, and as it was evident that the fight would be carried on at close quarters, each man put as many shot into his piece as it would hold.

“Now we are ready once more for the Portugals! Hurrah, lads! give it them again!” shouted Dick, while the enemy hesitated to advance.

Several fire-arms had been taken from the boats besides those of which each man had possessed himself. These were also loaded and placed ready for use. The spirits of the seamen rose as they saw the way in which the first attack had been repulsed. Of the future they did not think. Edward, on the contrary, could not help thinking of the result, and felt that their lives must be sacrificed in the end, and that, as they had resolved to sell them dear, the longer they fought was but adding to their price. Still he kept his courage up and resolved to persevere to the end. Still the enemy did not advance. The governor was seen in the distance, and appeared to be furious at the hesitation of his men. Message after message was sent to them to goad them on. The trumpets sounded the charge, and with shouts and cries they once more advanced to climb the rock. Again Edward allowed them to approach till the most daring had got high enough to bring their breasts up to the muzzles of the pieces.

“Fire, my merry men, fire!” he shouted.

The result was even more terrible than at first, and numbers of killed and wounded men rolled back on their comrades, throwing their ranks once more into confusion. This time, however, others attempted to come on, but Edward, leaving two of his party to reload the fire-arms, led on the rest armed with their quarter-staves, and leaping on the rock gave the foe so unexpected a reception that they were driven helter-skelter back and fairly put to flight. Edward restrained his men from firing a volley after them, as ammunition was too precious to be thrown away. This success gave them a short breathing-time. Raymond had little hopes, however, of obtaining fair and honourable terms. Carrying off their wounded, but leaving their dead under the rock, the Portugals withdrew to a distance.

The Englishmen had time now to consider their position and what was to be done. They were as unanimous as at first in determining to hold out to the last gasp. Indeed, Edward reminded them that if they yielded they would certainly be put to death. Without saying any thing, Dick slipped from among the rest, and with a large knife in his hand rushed into the water. He speedily returned with a large bunch of clams and other shell-fish.

“Ha! ha! the Portugals will not starve us out as quickly as they think,” he exclaimed triumphantly. “That’s the reason, I take it, that they hold back.”

Probably Dick was right in his conjecture. There was no want of driftwood under the rock, and, though raw shell-fish have often been eaten, even seamen prefer them cooked. A fire was soon lighted, and all the garrison were speedily employed in roasting the shell-fish. The Portugals on seeing the smoke must have guessed its cause, for they were soon again seen assembling to renew the attack. Edward saw that the time had come when they must prepare to die like brave men, for he could not hope to repulse another attack as successfully as he had done the first. Often did the brave band wish they were on the deck of a stout ship prepared to do battle on somewhat equal terms, with a prospect of victory in the end, or at worst to go down with colours flying to find their graves in the element they loved so well. Ever and anon, and naturally enough, they turned a wistful gaze over the ocean, and a sail was now descried in the horizon. The circumstance could scarcely give rise to hope, and yet often and often, as men would do, they turned their eyes in the same direction to watch her progress. She was, however, not directly approaching the shore, for the land breeze yet blew strongly off it, but she was standing along it close-hauled from the southward.

“She is edging in for the land!” cried Dick Lizard. “She may be a Portugal, or a Spaniard, or a Hollander; but oh, boys! she may—she may be an honest Englishman, and bring us help at our great need.”

“The Lord grant that so it may be!” said Edward, who, without pretension, had true religious principles, and was not ashamed of his feelings. “We are in his hands. Let us pray for protection, and he will not desert us.”

And then and there, on the sand and rocks, like sturdy believers as they were, they knelt down, with their arms in their hands, and humbly poured out their petition to Heaven for aid. Then they rose and looked out for the enemy. The land wind, as has been said, was blowing, and the heat was very great, especially on the sands, and the Portugals seemed rather inclined to take their siesta than to fight with enemies whom they believed they had got securely in a trap from which they could not ultimately escape death or capture.

As the sun rose the wind died away, and the heat became almost unbearable. Some of Edward’s party declared that they should be roasted alive, and that they felt themselves bubbling and hissing already.

“Never mind, lads, a plunge in the sea will soon cool us; and that’s what I propose we take to when our ammunition is all gone,” cried Dick.

Even while he was talking, however, a ripple was seen to play over the surface of the lagoon, and a faint breeze fanned their scorched cheeks.

“Hurrah, lads! here comes the honest sea wind,” exclaimed Dick. “May it blow us good luck!”

Stronger and stronger it blew, and now the strange ship was seen to be rapidly approaching the land under all sail, having squared away her yards before it. Had the Portugals been more wide awake they would have long since seen her. They seemed, indeed, in no way disconcerted at her appearance. After a time, the Portugal flag was seen flying at her peak, and they were evidently prepared to welcome her as a friend. The hopes of most of the party again sank low. Dick, however, constantly kept his eye on the stranger, scanning her sails and rigging and lofty hull. He had not much time to engage in this agreeable occupation before Raymond called his men to their posts, for the enemy were seen mustering in great numbers, probably ashamed that their countrymen should find them kept at bay by a mere handful of foreigners. Don Lobo himself rode forth from the castle with his staff of officers, and drums beat, and trumpets brayed, and cymbals clashed as the troops rushed forward to the assault. On they came.

“Steady as before, my brave men, and we’ll beat them off again,” cried Edward.

Up the rock they climbed with fierce shouts and denunciations of vengeance, but the same mistake was again committed as at first—the bravest had been allowed to go first, the more cowardly following. Again the little English band of heroes let fly their pieces, knocking over the leaders, who, falling back, threw the rest into disorder. Some struggled on, and the English quarter-staves again came into use. Several of the English were, however, wounded by the pistols of the Portugals. Raymond got a severe cut on his left arm, and a bullet went through the brain of another man. Still the seamen struggled on, and making a rush all together, drove the Portugals once more to the bottom of the rock. Now, had the cowards led the way they would have undoubtedly been killed by the volley of the English; but before the latter could reload, the braver men would have been upon them, and would probably have ended the unequal contest. As it was, so great was the awe inspired by the English seamen’s determined bravery, that it was some time before the Portugals could be again brought up to the attack.

During the interval the stranger ship had approached as near the shore as it was safe to venture, and had there cast anchor, just beyond the range of the guns of the castle. Several boats were seen to be lowered from her lofty sides. They were at once filled with men and pulled towards the shore, under cover of the ship’s guns. The ship had come to an anchor while the fighting was going forward, and no sooner were the enemy repulsed than Lizard turned his eyes towards the ocean to ascertain what the stranger was about. He took a steady gaze at her, and then giving a loud slap with his hand on his thigh, he exclaimed—

“The Lion, lads, the Lion! Hurrah! Old England for ever! Hurrah!”

His shouts made all his companions turn their eyes in the same direction, and so absorbed were they in gazing at the stranger, that had the enemy stormed at that moment the little English band would have been cut to pieces. A second glance was not necessary to convince Edward that the ship he saw was indeed the Lion herself.

The Portugals, it seemed by their movements, began to have some suspicions of the character of the stranger, and of the object of the boats in coming on shore. It made them still more eager to recapture their former prisoners, and to retire to the fort. Doubly resolved, however, were Raymond and his men to hold out till their countrymen could come to their rescue. The boats were steering for a bay between the rock and the castle. Again the Portugals began to assail the rock with fierce cries of vengeance. The seamen shouted in return. Hotter and hotter grew the fight; the eleven defenders of the rock stood boldly at bay, hurling the Portugals down the rock, casting their pistols, which they snatched from their hands, after them, and often bringing their own quarter-staves into play. Still, from loss of blood and the constant attacks of the enemy, their strength began to fail; even Edward felt that nature would give way, when the stranger’s boats reached the beach. Each boat was full of men, who leaped on shore and formed in two parties—one pushing towards the castle, the other, shouting “St. George and Merry England!” towards the rock. On they came. There was no doubt that they were friends. Some of the Portugals faced about to meet them; but so furiously did the strangers charge, that, after exchanging several blows, resulting in not a few cracked skulls, those who could run took to their heels and fled. Edward, seeing this, charged down on his assailants, driving them before him to the bottom of the rock, which his friends at the same moment reached. The remainder of the enemy, finding themselves between two fires, made no attempt at defence, but as many as could escape ran off inland, the rest being cut to pieces or made prisoners.

Hearty were the greetings as shipmates, long separated, clasped the hands of shipmates—for the new-comers were the brave Lions. Raymond’s first inquiry was for Antony Waymouth.

“The captain is leading the other party,” was the answer. “Our orders are to push on to join him.”

“Oh, let us go!” cried Edward, forgetting his wounds, fatigue, and every thing, and eager only to join his friend.

On they went over the hot sands, not altogether unmolested; for the Portugals fired at them from a distance, and here and there one of the party was hit; but no one seemed to care for wounds—the Castle of San Pedro, with the reputed riches of its savage governor, was to be their prize. The two parties met under the walls. There was a short but hearty greeting between Antony Waymouth and Edward Raymond.

“We have no lack of gold and jewels already aboard the Lion,” exclaimed the former; “but an’ we become masters of what this castle holds we may turn our bows homeward, and no longer go roaming the world around for gold; that those who have lady-loves may wed and live like lords of the land to the end of their days. Yet I tell thee, Ned, I am more glad to see thee alive and hearty than if I had gained this fortress.”

There was no time for Edward to tell his story. Waymouth assured him that, had he suspected he was with the defenders of the rock, he should have come in person to his assistance. Waymouth’s party had landed with some scaling-ladders and a small ram used for battering open gates. The men were all eager to begin the attack. They had halted under shelter of some rocks near the forts. With a loud cheer the men sprang forward as the bugles sounded for the assault. Some placed the scaling-ladders against the walls, and began to climb up with a celerity and activity which only seamen can display; others bore on the battering-ram towards one of the gates, which they battered with vigorous blows; while a third party, armed with arquebuses and crossbows, shot bullets and bolts towards the walls, bringing down all who appeared upon them.

Although, from so great a number of the Portugals having been put to flight, the defenders were few, the walls were high and the gates strong, and, to get into the castle was no easy matter. As to the gate, the Portugals let the battering-ram do its worst without interfering, while they united all their efforts in opposing the escaladers, who, as they reached the summit of the ladders, again and again were hurled down, some with broken heads and gashed shoulders and arms, and others killed outright, though not a few were ready, as at first, to climb up and renew the attack.

Waymouth and his officers exerted themselves gallantly, but discovered that stone walls are hard things for men to knock their heads against, and many began to fear that the exploit must be abandoned, when Edward, who, in spite of his wound, had not been behindhand in exhibiting his courage, recollected the gate out of which Donna Isabel had conducted him the previous night, and the angle of the wall down which he had slipped. Telling Waymouth what he proposed doing, he summoned Dick Lizard and some of his companions in captivity, with a few other fresh men, and, briefly explaining his plans, led them round close under the walls on the sand where it was evidently generally washed by the sea. The angle was reached, and by the rope which Edward had left hanging over when making his escape he prepared to climb up, though each of his men was eager to lead. Young Marston, who was the only midshipman of the party, especially entreated that he might go.

“I’ll be at the top in a moment, sir,” he whispered. “I’ll let you know if there are any Portugals near, and if they tumble me over it will matter nothing.”

Edward, however, would allow no one to precede him. He grasped the rope, and began his ascent. How different were his feelings from what they had been when descending a few hours before! Marston followed directly after him. Up he climbed, expecting every moment a Portugal’s head to appear over the parapet, and to see the rope cut above him. On he went, though. The summit was reached, and throwing himself on it, he drew his sword and stood ready to defend the spot till his men should have likewise gained a footing. Marston was by his side in a moment. When they looked around, not a Portugal was to be seen to stop their progress. Forward they rushed accordingly, and got half way across the open before they were discovered by one of the garrison. The man who first saw them summoned others, and a pretty strong party was collected to oppose them, who, rushing down, met them before they reached the gate at which they were aiming. So furiously, however, did the seamen charge the enemy, that they were driven back, cut down, or put to flight before any one had time to shut the gate, which, as Edward had hoped might be the case, was left open. A few rushed in before them, and a desperate struggle ensued. In the end not a Portugal remained alive. The passages resounded with the tramp of armed men, the clash of steel, the reports of pistols, and the cries of the wounded, while clouds of smoke rolled along them.

“On! on!” was the cry.

Dick Lizard happily knew the way to the principal gate.

“I’ll tell you, Master Raymond, by and by how I came to know it,” he remarked. “It’s all of the lady who helped us out.”

On they went. It was every thing to reach the principal gate without further opposition. As Edward had hoped, all the defenders were on the ramparts. No one had remained inside the gate, which from its strength it was supposed would withstand any attempt to batter it down. Dick was not mistaken. The thundering of the battering-ram guided them also to the spot. Passing under a broad archway, they found themselves just within the great gate. The din of the battle outside had prevented their approach being heard, while every one was too busy to observe them. Bars and bolts innumerable guarded the gate. These Edward and his followers began to withdraw, but they were so huge and rusty that it was with difficulty they could be removed. While the seamen were still labouring away, Raymond, turning his head, saw at the farther end of the passage a number of men approaching. At their head he recognised Don Lobo himself. With cries of vengeance, the governor led on his men. The blood of the Lusitanian was up, and, cruel tyrant and extortioner as he had been, when he found himself pushed to extremities, and his enemies already within his stronghold, he resolved to drive them out or die as became him in its defence. As the governor approached, Edward and part of his company faced about to encounter him, while Dick Lizard and the rest plied crowbars and hammers in beating back the huge bolts which secured the gate. The battering-ram was all the time thundering away outside. The object of Don Lobo was to destroy the daring band of Englishmen who had got inside, and to replace the bolts before the ram had forced the gate. Nobly Edward and his little party kept their numerous foes, hard pressing on them, at bay. Don Lobo himself rushed forward at length in desperation, and his blade crossed that of Edward.

“Ha, ha! I hate you, and you know the reason, vile Englishman!” he exclaimed, as he made a lunge at his opponent’s breast.

Edward turned the weapon aside, and that instant Dick shouted—

“Stand from under, lads! stand from under!”

For the huge gate was cracking in every part, and with a loud crash down it came, crushing one poor fellow, the rest with difficulty escaping. Don Lobo heard the shout and the crash. His eye was for an instant withdrawn from his sword’s point to look at the falling gate. That instant was fatal to him, and Edward’s weapon entering his bosom, he fell backwards to the ground, while his own sword fell useless from his grasp. As the gate gave way, the fierce and eager countenances of the English seamen were seen in the entrance, led on by Waymouth.

“St. George and merry England!” they shouted. “Down with the Portugals! Hurrah! hurrah!”

“An’ you cry ‘Down with the Portugals!’ just be sure if there are Portugals to put down,” cried Dick. “The mouse has got into the cheese before you, mates; but there is no lack of mites yet to eat. On—on, lads!”

Dick narrowly escaped a clout on the head by his facetiousness. Fortunately, daylight came in through the open gateway, and through the smoke and dust his features were recognised in time. The whole party now rushed forward. Some of the Portugals in narrow, passages made a stand, but they were forced back and driven from chamber to chamber till every part of the castle was in the hands of the English.

“The miser’s gold! the miser’s gold!” was now the cry. “Where are his strong boxes? Bring him forth, and make him tell us.”

Several hurried off to search for the late governor. Edward might have told them of his fate, but he, mindful of poor Don Joao, had gone to look for his unfortunate acquaintance, and to save him, if possible, from insult or violence.

Here and there the sound of strife might still be heard as a few of the braver spirits who had retreated, not aware how entirely the castle was in the power of the English, were defending themselves in rooms and galleries from small parties of adventurers who had separated from the main body in search of plunder.

Edward had made inquiries both of Portugals and English if they knew aught of Don Joao. At length, led by the sound of clashing steel, he found his way, with the few men he had got to follow him, into the circular chamber of a distant tower. There in a deep window recess clustered three or four priests holding crucifixes in their hands, some dark-skinned women in their picturesque costume, and some native attendants. Before them stood Don Joao, with five or six Portugal soldiers, defending themselves with their swords against the attacks of four or five English sailors, who were hewing and hacking away, not with much science, but with such furious blows that they had already cut down two or more Portugals, and were now hard pressing the old soldier. He was bleeding from more than one wound, and was evidently little able to hold out against assailants so persevering. Edward hurried forward, ordering the Englishmen to desist; but they either would not or did not hear him, and before he could interpose his own weapon, a heavy cut from a rapier brought the old man to the ground.

“For shame, men!” exclaimed Edward, saving the old soldier from another blow. “We war not with grey hairs, with priests and women. Let not another blow be struck.”

The Portugals, finding resistance hopeless, threw down their arms. Edward knelt down by the old man’s side, and raised his head. It was very evident that his last hours were passing by.

“My daughter?” he asked in a faint voice. “Brave Englishman, can you tell me any thing of my daughter? She had my leave to aid in your escape. I would have accompanied her had I been able.”

Edward felt sick at heart at having to tell the poor father of his daughter’s fate. Yet what could he say?

“Alas! I cannot say but I fear the worst,” was his reply.

“I dreaded to hear this, but do not blame you, noble Englishman. The last link which bound me to earth is broken, and I am ready to quit this world, which man’s folly and wickedness has made so full of woe and suffering.”

These were almost the last words the old man spoke, though the priests came round and administered the rites of their faith ere his spirit quitted its frail tenement. Even the rough seamen, despisers and haters of all papistical ceremonies, looked on with respect and awe as the old soldier’s head sank on his breast, and his hand fell powerless by his side.

Waymouth had taken precautions to secure all the entrances to the castle while the garrison were committed to the dungeons in which they had been accustomed to confine the enemies who had the misfortune of falling into their hands. Those who had gone in search of Don Lobo soon returned, bearing on a litter his dead body, an officer holding up in triumph a bunch of keys which had been found in his pockets, and shouting—

“The keys of his money-chests! the keys of his money-chests!”

“The keys are but of small service to us without the chests,” remarked the captain. “Find the chests, men, and we may make small account of the keys.”

A diligent search was therefore commenced for the reputed wealth of the old governor. It was said that he had employed thirty years in collecting it, and that he had purposed shortly returning to Europe, under the vain belief that it would afford him enjoyment and contentment. Every passage, and corner, and crevice of the castle from top to bottom was searched, and not a sign of a money-box could be discovered. Some declared that the governor’s wealth was really fabulous—that is to say, it had no existence; while others affirmed that it did exist, and would somewhere be discovered. Midshipmen generally consider hunting for rabbits very good fun, but hunting for money-chests was very much better. All the cabin-boys of the Lion hunted round and round and up and down with wonderful zeal. The captain at last promised that whoever found the wealth should have a tenth portion of it. This still further excited the diligence of all hands. Still no chests were forthcoming. Some, in revenge, proposed burning down the castle, till the captain announced that whoever set it on fire should be cast into the flames. Again and again the search was renewed. The prisoners were interrogated, but no one could tell. Rewards were offered without effect. It was evident that they did not know. Several said that Pedro Pacheco knew; but that worthy had been run through the body by a pike, which had struck him in the back as he was making his escape with a bag of gold under his arm, which he refused to stop and deliver. The booty was, after all, not so contemptible, for there were silver plate in large quantities, and jewelled ornaments, and golden coin; but, as it was not what was expected, no one was contented.

At last Oliver Marston happened to strike his foot against a ring in the corner of a small room on the ground floor of the castle. It served as the handle of a stone which without difficulty he lifted. Lights were brought. A flight of stone steps led to a vault, in which was an iron door. Crowbars, eagerly brought, forced it open, and there exposed to view were a dozen large iron chests. The governor’s keys were applied, the lids opened, and exposed to view ingots of gold and silver, and jewels and coins scarcely to be counted. Wild were the shouts of delight as chest after chest was opened, and each one in succession appeared to contain more gold and jewels than the first. The chests were computed to contain property of even greater value than what was already on board the Lion. It was no easy work to carry off the chests, but it was accomplished before the eyelids of one of the victors closed in sleep. The prisoners were allowed their liberty, the castle was set on fire, and, while the flames were bursting out on all sides, the Lion made sail with her rich freight, and stood away to the southward.

Chapter Eight.

Away sailed the Lion, those on board exulting in the rich booty they had obtained, and looking ere many months had passed by once more to tread the shores of Old England and to enjoy the wealth they had gotten with so much toil and danger. Good Master Walker, the minister, did his best to warn them not to trust to the riches they had acquired, that riches are apt to take to themselves wings and flee away, and that it in no way follows that because people possess wealth they will have the power of enjoying it. These and other similar remarks were received by the officers and men in general with no good grace, and Master Walker lost popularity simply because no one could deny the truth of his remarks.

“There is many a slip between the cup and the lip,” he added one day, most greatly to the annoyance of his hearers.

The more conscious people are that a thing may probably come to pass, the more angry they are, if it is against their wish that it should happen, when they are told so. Antony Waymouth was no despiser of gold—or rather the good things of life which gold procures—but he loved his honour more, and he considered it his duty to go in search of the commander-in-chief and the rest of the fleet, if haply they might have reached the rendezvous at Bantam. Waymouth had full experience of the responsibility of power, though he had able assistants in Raymond and his first officer, Carlingford. Several of the crew had for many months shown a mutinous disposition, though the storms to which they had been exposed, the fights in which they had been engaged, and the prospect of the attack on the Castle of San Pedro, had prevented any serious outbreak. Now, however, they loudly expressed their disapproval of continuing the search for Captain Wood, declaring that he and his consorts must long since have perished, and that they, having collected so large an amount of wealth, would be acting like fools to remain out a day longer than they could help. Round the mess-table by day and during the watches of the night the only subject of conversation was the way in which they would spend their wealth when they got on shore. Their disappointment and anger therefore increased greatly when they found that the time for their return might be indefinitely delayed. Those even who had hitherto been obedient began to express themselves in a mutinous manner, and to hint that the sooner another man was captain the better it would, be for all hands fore and aft. This state of things was not unknown to Waymouth and his officers, and it put them on their guard; but while no overt act was committed, it was impossible to take active steps to bring about a change. As at first, Peter Hagger, the boatswain, with his mate and Dick Soper, a seaman, were supposed to be the ringleaders. Though narrowly watched, nothing could be proved Against them. The captain’s two cabin-boys, Oliver Marston and Alfred Stanhope, proud of the approval they had before received, determined to discover, if possible, what was wrong. They had taken Dick Lizard into their councils, assured that he, at all events, might be depended on. In spite of all their wealth and their anticipations of the pleasures it might procure, none of either high or low degree on board could boast of much enjoyment. The happiest person was Master Walker. He was doing his duty, and leaving the consequences in the hand of Heaven. The Island of Java was once more sighted and the Harbour of Bantam entered. No certain news could there be obtained of Captain Wood. Several large ships of the Hollanders had, however, visited the place since their departure, and the people had done their best to spread evil reports of the English. Waymouth cared little for this, but he vowed, should he ever come across the Hollanders, he would make them pay for their slanders, and those who knew him best had no doubt that he would put his threat into execution. Still his chief desire was to go in search of his friends, but even this could not be done without delay, for, he having ordered a survey of the Lion, the carpenters reported that she must undergo a thorough repair before she would be fit to put to sea. No man knew better than the bold captain of the Lion how to get into the good graces of people in power, and he soon gained the confidence and good-will of the King of Bantam. At the same time he was too wise to put more confidence in his majesty than was necessary; he therefore carefully kept concealed from him the amount of wealth the Lion had on board, and rather let him suppose that he and his company were needy adventurers who had yet their fortunes to make at the point of their swords, at the same time that the little they possessed they were ready to expend liberally. This policy answered so well that the repairs of the Lion were allowed to proceed without interruption.

One enemy, however, could by no means be kept at a distance. It was the black fever. While still many necessary repairs were yet to be done, it made its baneful appearance. Strong men who had boldly confronted the fiercest foes and the raging storm turned pale when they heard that it had already carried off six of their shipmates. From that time not a day passed but two or more died. Every one of the company laboured hard to get the ship ready for sea, under the belief that they should leave the fell destroyer behind them. Now the qualities of Master Walker, the chaplain, shone forth brightly, for while others shrank back from attending on the plague-stricken, he boldly went among the sick and attended the dying, giving them spiritual counsel and consolation, tending them, and administering medicines prescribed by the surgeon. Full thirty of her brave crew had succumbed to the destroyer, before the Lion, having been got ready for sea, once more ploughed the waters of the ocean. Still the fever raged. Gladly would those on board have given all their wealth to have escaped with health from the plague-stricken ship. Day after day more and more were called away. A small number only of those who were attacked survived, but so sick and weak did they remain that their recovery was hardly expected.

Waymouth had received intimation that some ships, supposed to be English, had been seen farther to the eastward, and from the description given, believing them to be Captain Wood’s squadron, he steered a course in that direction. On sailed the Lion on her solitary course. The Angel of Death still pursued her, continuing to summon one after another of her crew. Hope of finding his consorts, however, allured the brave captain on in spite of the ravages of the plague and the warnings given him of the increasing discontent of the crew.

“I know the varlets, and fear them not,” he answered. “I showed them before who was master, and will show them again to their cost.”

Meantime, Peter Hagger, the boatswain, had been biding his time and strengthening his party by every device he could think of. He well knew that he was watched, but he strove to throw the captain off his guard by a frankness of manner, an unusual attention to his duties, and the strictness with which all orders were obeyed. He appeared to have succeeded so far as to make Waymouth believe that he had abandoned his evil designs, and might be trusted. In the fore-part of the ship, far down in her inward depths, was situated his principal storeroom. There the light of day had never entered since the huge structure had been put together, nor had fresh air penetrated. It was redolent of pitchy and tarry odours, with numerous others of a far from fragrant character. A large horn lantern hung from a beam above, and shed a sickly light throughout the chamber. Here, seated on chests and casks, with their heads bent forward together as if in earnest consultation, were about a dozen seamen. Their naturally ill-favoured countenances were not improved by long exposure to the burning sun of the tropics. The presiding spirit among them was evidently Peter Hagger, the boatswain.

“Are we all agreed, mates?” he asked in his usual gruff voice.

“All,” said several. “Provided we take no lives,” added others. “The fever has been doing enough of that work lately among us.”

“Dead men tell no tales,” observed Hagger.

“If we secure the gold we need fear neither dead nor living men,” observed one of the men, who, from the tone of his voice, was evidently of superior education to the rest. “If they were ever to come back without a stiver in their pockets, who would take their word against ours, when we are rolling in wealth?”

“But if we don’t heave them overboard or run them up to the yard-arm, what are we to do with them?” was a question put by another speaker.

“Why, land them on a desolate island, or sell them to some of these Easterns, or put them on board a prize with provisions to take them to the nearest shore, that would be giving them a fair chance of escape, and no one need complain,” was the remark of a mutineer who had sided with Hagger.

“That will do,” observed the boatswain. “And now, mates, the sooner we set about this work the better. To my mind there’s no time like the present. Every day we are going farther and farther to the eastward, and every day getting more and more out of our reckoning. Now d’ye see? All we’ve to do is to sail west, and when we get into the longitude of Bon Esperanza Cape, steer north, and we’ll find our way back to Old England, never fear.”

“Ay, ay! with you as captain, Master Hagger,” exclaimed several mutineers, “we shall go straight forward, not be running here and there, looking into this port and that port, and all to no purpose, to look for people who have long since gone to Davy Jones’s locker. Peter Hagger for captain! He’s the man we want.”

Peter Hagger bent forward, for the height of the cabin did not allow him to stand upright.

“Mates, I take your terms,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve no wish to injure any man, least of all Master Waymouth, who has good qualities, I’ll allow; but we must have our rights, and if he has lost his wits—as there’s no doubt he has—it is seemly that some better man should take his place, and as you choose me, mates, why, I’m not the man to gainsay you.”

“All right, Captain Hagger; all right,” said several of the men. “But what is it you would have us do?”

“That’s what I was coming to,” answered Hagger, still more lowering his voice till it was only audible to those who put their ears close to his mouth.

The men talked long and earnestly together, till all their plans seemed matured. Not only were their plans matured, but they appeared confident of success. One by one they stole off from their place of meeting. They had no fear of having been overheard, for, suspecting that such had before been the case, they had now placed sentries to give notice of the approach of any one they might suspect. Separating, they went to their hammocks, and, what may seem strange, all except the arch-mutineer slept as soundly as if their consciences were free from blame. He could not rest; for though he believed that he was on the point of obtaining the object of his desires—the larger portion of the store of wealth contained in the Lion—yet all the time he was conscious that he had not the ability to retain command over the lawless band who had selected him as their leader, nor the knowledge necessary to navigate the ship to an English port. Still he was determined to persevere in his mad course. He trusted to chance for the future. The wealth he was resolved to have at all risks. The following night had been fixed on for the outbreak.

It was the middle watch. The weather even for those latitudes was hot and close. Many of the officers found their cabins too warm to allow them to sleep, and had come on deck to endeavour to obtain rest. Some had thrown themselves down in spots where they were unobserved, and had gone to sleep. Miles Carlingford had charge of the watch, with the two young cabin-boys, Stanhope and Marston, under him. The captain, accompanied by Edward Raymond, after a time came also on deck. Waymouth cast his eyes round the horizon several times as he slowly paced up and down with Raymond.

“I like not the look of the midnight sky,” he observed to Carlingford; “I have known black storms, with fury so terrible that scarcely the stoutest ships could withstand them, spring out of such. We must be on the watch. With our weakened crew we cannot shorten sail as we were wont to do, and yet I would not rouse up the men unnecessarily.”

“Ay, ay, sir, I’ll not let my eyes wink,” answered Carlingford; “but I hope the weather may clear without the storm. Still, there is no telling in these latitudes what may happen. I would we were out of them.”

“So do I, Master Carlingford, believe me, most heartily,” answered the captain. “I promise you, too, that if in two days we do not discover the admiral we will shape a course for the Cape of Bon Esperanza; after recruiting ourselves there we will lose no time in sailing for Old England.”

“It will be a happy time indeed, sir, when we again see the white cliffs of our native land,” remarked Raymond, anxious to keep his chief up to his intentions. “I would that the crew were made acquainted with your intentions; it would tranquillise their minds, and banish the discontent in which they now indulge.”

“They will know in good time,” answered Waymouth, somewhat angrily. “It does not do to yield to their fancies, or they will become masters over those they are bound to obey.”

Scarcely had he spoken when from each of the hatchways, which had been left open on account of the heat, numerous dark forms sprang up, though so silently that neither did he nor the other officers who were looking seaward hear or observe them. Like tigers on their prey the men threw themselves on the knot of officers, who were instantly brought violently to the deck, and pinioned before they had time to cry out. In vain they struggled; they were dragged to the guns, to one of which Waymouth, Carlingford, Raymond, and the two cabin-boys were securely lashed almost before the rest of the officers on deck had sprung to their feet, aroused by the cries they made. None had arms; and the rest of the mutineers, rushing aft, grappled with them, threatening vengeance if they resisted. Surprised and bewildered by the suddenness of the attack, scarcely aware by whom it was made, they were easily knocked down and secured.

The Welsh surgeon, Ap Reece, was below, sleeping soundly in spite of the heat and the noise, fatigued with his attendance on the sick, who were still numerous. The shouts and cries of his struggling brother officers awoke him, and, seizing a rapier and a brace of pistols, which he stuck in his belt, he was about to spring on deck to their assistance, when it occurred to him that it would be wiser to ascertain exactly what was occurring. The words which reached his ears—“Mutiny! mutiny! Help! help! Loyal men to the rescue!”—showed him clearly the state of the case.

“The scoundrels will be waiting to knock all who are below on the head as they come up,” he thought to himself; “but I will disappoint them.”

Thereon he began to make his way forward, where he was sure of finding some of the men ready to side with him. There was a passage from one end of the ship to the other, and at the division between the officers’ quarters and the fore-part a sentry was usually placed, but sickness had so diminished the numbers of the crew that there were not enough men to perform any but the most necessary duties. Ap Reece groped his way on in darkness. He heard some men hallooing out, but it was evident that they were bound, and could render him no assistance till they were released. On a sudden a hand grasped his arm.

“Who is this?” said a voice which he recognised as that of honest Dick Lizard.

“A friend to all hands,” answered the surgeon. “I hope that you have not turned mutineer, Dick.”

“No, indeed, I should hope not, sir,” replied Dick indignantly; “I have a guess of what’s going on. What can we do to help the officers? All the true men are bound hand and foot, and I’m the only one who managed to slip away.”

“We won’t despair, Dick; are you armed?” asked the surgeon.

“I’ve a hanger, sir,” was the answer.

“Come here and I’ll give you some pistols,” said Ap Reece. “Now we’ll first loose all the true men, and then make a rush together and release the captain, if we can find him. With a sword in his hand he’ll soon give good account of the mutineers and bring them to terms.”

The surgeon, stepping back, armed Dick as he had promised, and together they found their way without interruption to the fore-hatch. As they got their heads up to the coamings they perceived that the scuffling had ceased, though the voices of a few of the officers were heard upbraiding the men for their treachery.

“My friends, I beseech you to be silent. Let me speak to these misguided men,” said a voice which they recognised to be that of Master Walker, the minister. “Mutineers!—for such you are—you are triumphing now in the success of your scheme, and the fancied possession of all the wealth this ship contains; but first let me ask you what does it advantage you now? Nothing. What can it ever advantage you? You can never enjoy it; for be assured that the vengeance of Heaven will overtake you sooner or later; even now, wretched men, it is preparing for you.”

“Cease, cease, Master Walker,” exclaimed Hagger, stepping up to the minister. “We wish you no ill; necessity makes us act as we do. We want to injure no one, but we won’t stand opposition, and I for one cannot be answerable for the consequences.”

It is needless to say that this threat was accompanied by numerous oaths which need not be repeated; in truth, Peter Hagger never spoke without interlarding his remarks with expressions of that description.

Ap Reece guessed correctly that the appeal of Master Walker would have no present beneficial effect, and therefore he and Lizard slipped down below again and made their way to the cabins of some of the inferior officers whom the latter believed had not joined in the mutiny. Two of them, the gunner and carpenter, were found lashed in their berths, not having the slightest conception of what had occurred, and believing that they were the only sufferers. A few brief words explained matters to them. Three other men who had positively refused to join the mutiny were found lashed in different parts of the ship. They were released, hangers were placed in their hands, and, together, led by Ap Reece, they sprang on deck and rushed aft to where the officers lay bound, their principal object being to release Captain Waymouth and then to attack the mutineers.

As they were on their way, a shout and a loud oath from Hagger, who saw them coming, called the attention of his followers, the boatswain throwing himself before the captain at the moment Ap Reece was about with his hanger to sever the lashings which bound him. The surgeon was therefore compelled to use his weapon to defend his own life, for the boatswain, seeing what he was about, attacked him with the greatest fury, and a desperate combat ensued. Lizard and the other men, foiled in their attempt to release some of the officers, were fighting for their lives. Dick and his party were, however, able to keep their immediate opponents at bay, the chief interest centring between Ap Reece and the boatswain. Hagger was a huge, powerful man, with around bullet-head covered by black shaggy hair, and a face of the bull-dog type. Ap Reece, on the contrary, was a slight active man, but he made up by activity what he wanted in strength. He, too, had science, which the boatswain had not, and altogether the combatants were not unevenly matched. The great strength of the boatswain gave him, however, somewhat the advantage, as he wisely only stood on the defensive, allowing the surgeon to exhaust his powers. Ap Reece sprang round and round him—now he retreated, now he advanced, but to no purpose—Hagger was not to be betrayed into abandoning his tactics. He waited his opportunity. It came. The surgeon’s foot slipped, and unable to recover himself, his knees came with great force on the deck. At that instant a flash of lightning darting from the clouds revealed the combatants to each other.

“Hagger, I saved your life once when all hope seemed gone,” exclaimed Ap Reece, as the mutineer’s weapon was about to descend on his head. “I don’t ask for my life from you or such a one as you. Strike, and add a gross act of folly to your crimes and madness. But the fever has not left the ship yet; and the time will come ere long when you and your comrades in your night’s work will want my aid, and will be ready to give for it all the gold you have got in your possession. Strike, I say.”

The boatswain’s hanger was again lifted as if to strike, when one of his own party sprang forward.

“Hold, hold, Master Hagger,” he cried out, interposing his own weapon. “Our surgeon speaks the truth. We, any one of us, may want doctoring ere an hour be over, and who’s to doctor us an’ we trust to Tim Rosemerry, who swears he knows the whole art, from having served an apprenticeship for six mouths to a foreign leech in the city of Westminster? I put it, mates, are we to have a doctor who knows nothing, or a friend who has set many of us on his legs when we thought that we were never to walk again?”

“Let the doctor live! let the doctor live!” exclaimed all the men, surrounding the boatswain, who dropped the point of his weapon.

“Thanks, friends. I accept my life, for I have no wish to lose it,” said Ap Reece, rising to his feet. “The sick I will doctor as before; but remember, I will sanction no act of violence or cruelty while I remain with you.”

“Oh, we are all honourable men here,” cried several of the men in a derisive tone, to which remark the surgeon thought it imprudent to reply.

While this scene was acting, Dick Lizard and his companions were exchanging blows with the rest of the mutineers; but overwhelmed by numbers, two were killed, and Dick and another were brought to the deck badly wounded. Dick had been a general favourite; and although the mutineers were exasperated with him for the attack he had made on them, and for the unmeasured abuse he now heaped on their heads, they agreed he was too good a fellow to be put out of the way, and that if he would keep a civil tongue in his head, he should live. This was a somewhat difficult task for honest Dick, though, when his life was offered, like a wise man he accepted it without thinking it necessary to make any stipulations.

The mutineers had now decidedly gained the day; the officers were forced at the sword’s point to go below, and each was confined in his own cabin. The threatening state of the weather made Hagger anxious to arrange matters. There was no wind, but an ominous swell had got up which made the ship roll heavily, and loud claps of thunder rattled through the sky, while vivid flashes of forked lightning darted from the clouds, hissing like fiery serpents along the surface of the ocean, or playing round the masts and threatening the Lion with destruction.

Waymouth lay in his cabin, feeling like a chained beast of the forest eager to be loose, indignant at the treachery practised on him, and feeling also the probability that the ignorant men who had been guilty of this act of atrocity would wreck the ship, and involve both themselves and him and his officers in a common destruction. He knew that they were totally unaware of the intricacies of the navigation through which the Lion had got so far to the eastward, and that it would be impossible for them unaided to retrace their course. He had perhaps a grim satisfaction in contemplating this, though all his own prospects of wealth would vanish, and life itself be lost. At length, however, the very intensity of his feelings overcame him, and he fell asleep. His sleep was far from refreshing, and his dreams were strangely troubled. Yet on he slept for some time, he believed. Whenever he felt himself waking, he forced himself to doze off again rather than awake to the disagreeable realities of his position. At length, however, the violent rolling and pitching of the ship roused him completely up. The roar of the sea, the howling of the wind, the dashing of the waves on the side of the ship, the rattling of blocks and ropes, and the tramp and shouts of men overhead, convinced him that the long-expected strife of the elements had begun. The rolling and pitching and jerking of the ship became more and more violent, the washing of the water up the sides and over the deck showed him that the sea was running high, and the way in which the ship occasionally heeled over showed him that the gale was blowing furiously. The sounds which reached him from the deck told him also that efforts were being made to shorten sail.

“The mutinous varlets! Now is the occasion to prove their seamanship, if they have any,” he muttered to himself. “What the idiots will do it is hard to say, except let the good ship drive on the rocks. What are they about now? There’s not one of them can stow the mainsail properly but Hagger in a gale like this. They’ll capsize the stout ship, or send the masts over the sides—the idiots!”

Thus he spoke, or rather thought, for some time. The ship plunged on through the mountainous seas, her timbers creaking and groaning as if they were about to be torn asunder. The cabin was in obscurity, for all the hatches were battened down, and not without good reason, for the foaming seas often broke so completely over the ship that without this precaution she might have filled and gone bodily down. Waymouth believed that the day was advancing from the sensations of hunger which he was beginning to experience. In vain he tried to release himself from the ropes which bound him. The more he struggled the tighter they became. Nor could he manage to get his mouth down to any part of the rope, or he would have tried to gnaw it asunder with his teeth. He shouted over and over again to his friends in captivity; but though the sound of his voice reached them, he could not, from the noises in the interior of the ship, make out what they said in return. They were evidently as securely bound as he was, and also confined in their cabins.

“Patience is a virtue, I doubt not, but it is sore difficult to exercise it just now,” he said to himself, with a mocking laugh.

Suddenly the ship heeled over more than ever—there was a loud crash—the sea seemed with fierce roars to be washing over her—shrieks and cries of distress reached his ears even where he lay. Again she righted, and seemed to go tearing on through the ocean as before.

“One or more of our masts have gone,” muttered Waymouth. “Well, let them go; it is but the beginning of the end. The sooner those scoundrels find out their folly the better. Had we shortened sail as I was about to do, this disaster would have been avoided.”

On, on went the ship, plunging down, again to be lifted up, truly reeling to and fro like a drunken man. Once more she was pressed down; another fearful crash followed, and there were piercing shrieks and cries. Waymouth believed fully that the ship was foundering; but no, she rose again, and rushed on still more unsteadily than before. On, on she went. Time was pressing. A hatch was removed for an instant, and a gleam of light penetrated into the cabin. Again it was obscured, and a lantern was lighted; three or four men descended. Waymouth heard them go to his lieutenant’s cabin. They were offering him the command, if he would help them out of their difficulties. An indignant refusal was the reply.

“Scoundrels that you are, you may all sink with us before I’ll take charge of the ship while the rightful commander remains alive,” said Carlingford.

They then applied to Raymond, who was known to be a good navigator. His reply was of the same nature. None of the temptations the mutineers could hold out would induce an officer of any rank acquainted with navigation to take command. A consultation was then held, and after some time the mutineers approached the cabin where Waymouth lay. The light of a lantern flashed on his eyes, and, the door opening, Hagger, Soper, and other mutineers stood before him.

“What is your pleasure with me, knaves?” he asked in a haughty, undaunted tone.

“An’ please your honour, the ship is driving we know not where, and is like to strike on some strange rock or island, if she go not down first,” said Hagger, holding his hat in his hand.

“Maybe: it is what I expected,” answered Waymouth calmly. “When fools take the helm, they are certain to steer to destruction.”

“An’ please your honour, we wish to know whether you will please to take charge of the ship, and save her and all on board,” said Soper humbly.

“Likely enough—to have my throat cut, and the throats of the gentlemen with me, by you mutinous varlets, when you find the ship in safety,” answered Waymouth. “No, knaves; you have brought yourselves into this strait, and you may get out of it as best you may.”

“If your honour will take command and save the ship, and overlook our conduct, we will be obedient in future,” said Soper, who acted as spokesman.

“Seize that man, then, and put him in irons first,” answered Waymouth, casting his glance on Hagger, who clapped his hand on his hanger, as if about to defend himself, but the rest threw themselves on him, and bore him in spite of his great strength to the deck.

“Now haste and release my officers, and beg them to come here,” continued Waymouth, addressing one of the men who was not required to hold the chief mutineer.

Raymond, Carlingford, Master Walker, Ap Reece, and the other officers quickly made their appearance, surprised at the turn matters had taken. In their presence he made the mutineers cast off his fetters, and ordering Hagger to be bound and secured in a place of safety, he exclaimed, “Follow me, gentlemen!” and sprang with an elastic step on deck. The scene which met his eye was, however, far from encouraging. Two of the masts had gone by the board, and now hung with a mass of rigging and shattered spars over the sides. Part of the foremast only was standing, on which the foresail was set, driving the ship on furiously through the water, while the seas, foaming up on either hand, threatened to overwhelm her, and sent the masts and spars dashing like battering-rams against the sides as if about to stave them in. All the boats were gone or knocked to pieces, and booms and caboose—indeed, the sea had made a clean sweep of every thing movable on deck. Fearfully, too, was the number of the crew diminished—not a dozen mutineers remained alive; the rest had been carried away when the masts fell, or had been swept off the decks by the raging seas which had broken on board. The officers and men who had remained faithful outnumbered the mutineers. It appeared, however, that human skill and courage would be but of little avail, and that the gallant ship was doomed to destruction.

“The scoundrels have summoned us too late,” said Waymouth to Miles Carlingford, a sigh, unheard amid the howling of the tempest, for the first time escaping his bosom. “Howbeit, we’ll do what men can do to save the ship. Summon all hands with axes to clear the wreck of the masts.”

In an instant every man, accustomed to the commanding voice of his chief, was actively employed. Ropes and broken spars were quickly severed, and the shattered masts and their heavy rigging were soon floating away astern. The huge foresail, which had hitherto threatened to tear the mast out of the ship, was skilfully reefed, and with somewhat diminished speed the Lion plunged onward through the foaming ocean. Still the rate at which she drove was far too great for safety, yet all had been done that could be done, and Waymouth and his followers resigned themselves like brave believing men to the rule of Him who rules the universe, and without whose will not a sparrow falls to the ground. As they tore on, the masts of a tall ship appeared ahead. Her more lofty spars and masts were snugly housed, and with the little sail she carried, evenly balanced, she rode hove to nearly head to wind. On, on drove the Lion. It was feared that she might strike the stranger. With difficulty this was avoided. People were seen on the stranger’s deck, but no assistance could be expected from them. No flag flew from her peak. Her nation could not be ascertained; she might be a Hollander or a Portugal—scarcely English, from the appearance of the people and her build; certainly not one of Admiral Wood’s squadron. The people on board waved and shouted, but their voices were unheard. A board was shown, but ere what was written on it could be deciphered the Lion had driven a long way by. Soon the stranger was lost to sight; no aid could be hoped for from her. On, on drove the once-gallant Lion, now, a helpless wreck on the waste of waters. Far from abating, the fury of the storm increased. Another damage was discovered; the wreck of the mast had struck the rudder, and now a sea carried it away. Dreadfully the battered ship laboured through the foaming seas. The well was sounded. Aghast, the carpenters declared that there were seven feet of water in the hold.

“To the pumps! to the pumps!” was the cry.

The diminished crew began to labour at the pumps, but weakened by disease they could hardly gain on the water. Buckets were employed, and those who could not work at the pumps passed them from hand to hand from below, but even thus but little progress was made in freeing the ship. All hands must work. The arch-mutineer Hagger was released from his shackles, and came to take his spell at the pumps. Without remonstrance he obeyed, though somewhat sulkily. The sick came from below, but soon sank overcome with the exertion. Others, too, who had hitherto escaped were struck by the fever. Those whom the sea had spared disease now grasped, and the numbers of the crew of the ill-fated Lion began again fearfully to diminish. Still the gale blew, and still the ship drove on. At last, the almost unknown Pacific was entered. What land would bring them up no one could tell.

They had no chart to guide—no knowledge of the unmeasured ocean across which they were driving. Thus the Lion helplessly pursued her course, the sport of the raging tempest, and vanished, as it were, into obscurity.

Chapter Nine.

We left Antony Waymouth and his companions in misfortune on board the ill-starred Lion, which was driving at furious speed across the wide Pacific. For many days no observation had been taken, for neither sun nor stars had been visible. One compass alone remained uninjured, and that told them that their course was still easterly, and some began to assert that they would meet with no land till they struck on the vast continent of America. Would their crazy, battered bark float as long? Would their provisions and water hold out till they could reach some hospitable shore? No longer was the once docile ship under control; the rudder had been carried away, and with the scant materials at their disposal they could not construct a new one, nor while the sea ran so high could they attempt to rig it. The foresail still stood and dragged the ship forward, nor could it with safety be lowered, for without it she might have broached to, and all on board have been swept from the decks. By constant bailing and labouring at the pumps the leaks could with difficulty be kept under. Yet hope in the bosoms of Waymouth, Raymond, Ap Reece, and some of the braver spirits, was not extinct. The more ignorant men, however, began to despair, and would, had not strict watch been kept, have broken into the spirit-room and drunk till they became unconscious of all that was occurring around.

The fever caught at Bantam had not yet left the crew, and many still lay struck down by it in their berths, while one or more continued every day to be added to the list of victims. Not a day passed that one was not carried off. No one knew who would next be called away. Seldom that more than one died in the day, yet that circumstance seemed to create greater terror than had several died together. “Who has gone to-night?” was the question asked by the survivors as each morning they met on deck after their troubled rest below. Thus gradually the crew diminished in numbers. How valueless appeared the wealth they had with so much toil and danger collected! Of the officers, Waymouth, Raymond, Carlingford, and Ap Reece, with Master Walker and the two young cabin-boys, were the only ones who had hitherto escaped. All the rest whose names have not been mentioned in this chronicle had sunk under the fell disease. Honest Dick Lizard was among the survivors, and so likewise were Hagger and Soper, and several of the mutineers. Including them, of seamen, soldiers, and idlers or landsmen not a score and a half still lived. Master Walker had not exhorted in vain, and, abashed and confounded, many of the mutineers believed that they had by their crime brought down the vengeance of Heaven on their heads.

Still Hagger and others clung to the idea of possessing the gold, and, hoping that the ship would escape foundering, waited for an opportunity to make off with it, though not knowing whither they could go. They had set their hearts on the gold, though, like the miser gloating over his hoard, they did not recollect how utterly without value it would be unless it could be exchanged for objects they might require.

For many days the storm had continued without abating. With short intervals of rest, every one on board had laboured at the pumps, and the full, clear streams which flowed from the scuppers as the ship rolled from side to side showed the quantity of water which found an entrance between the planks. Now, as on she drove amidst mist and spray, dim outlines might be seen of land, or seeming land, often high as if composed of mountain-ranges, at other times low, like banks just rising above the water. Some, however, deemed the forms but those of clouds either floating high in the sky or resting on the ocean, and that could they have approached the spots where they were supposed to be, they would have vanished from the sight.

For several days no such appearances were observed; then, again, more were seen, and once more the ship drove on without a break in the circle of the horizon. At length the storm gave signs of breaking—the seas began to lessen in height, and the wind to howl less shrilly through the rigging of the remaining masts. Almost as suddenly as it had commenced, the tempest ceased, and the sea, no longer stirred by its power, went rapidly down.

Next day, as the sun rose brilliantly over the waste of waters, the wind fell altogether. Not a ripple broke the glass-like surface of the ocean; there was a perfect calm. Slowly at first the huge ship rolled from side to side, and then by degrees all movement ceased, and she lay like a log on the watery waste. No longer tossed to and fro, the planks between which the sea had found an entrance closed, and the pumps gained triumphantly on the leak. Waymouth, with his few surviving officers and friends, stood on the deck of the shattered bark; the crew lay or sat grouped about forward.

It was evident to the officers that no longer had they power to guide their ship, and it was proposed to build a boat and in her seek some island where at all events they might find food and water, and no longer be the sport of the elements.

Waymouth shook his head.

“I in no wise object, gentlemen and dear friends, to build a boat,” he observed. “By her means we may guide our ship into a port; but while a plank of her holds together, I, her captain, can by no means desert her. Others may do as they judge convenient—I will not counsel; but my maxim has ever been to stay by the ship to the last.”

“And I, dear friend, will stay by you!” exclaimed Raymond, stepping forward and grasping Waymouth’s hand. “We are in the power of Providence, and if it is thought fit that we die on some foreign strand why should we complain? Or, if not, the means will be found by which once more we may visit our native shores.”

“Well spoken and truly,” said Master Walker. “I, too, will abide with our brave captain and share his fortunes.”

“I never thought of doing otherwise,” cried Ap Reece, “for, to say the truth, I was sure that the knaves who would have deserted him would not be worth caring for.”

The two cabin-boys declared that their only wish was to remain with their brave captain.

A boat, however, must be built as the surest means of guiding the ship into a harbour or to an anchorage, and at once all hands set to work to accomplish the object. Planks, and ribs, and nails enough for the purpose were found, and all worked most diligently. There was no idleness now. No one showed greater zeal than Peter Hagger and his former associates. Waymouth, in the generosity of his heart, believed that he was desirous of making amends for his former misconduct.

The boat was of good size, so that she might, if it was required, carry all hands, either should the ship be about to sink, or be driven against rocks, or cast on shore. Masts and sails were fitted to her, and long sweeps, at each of which two men might pull. She was speedily ready, and with reason, for no one could tell at what moment she might be wanted.

“I hope that we may not want her to carry us all, for it would be a brave thing to take back the good ship, if so be we may find a harbour of refuge to refit,” observed the captain as he contemplated the boat just completed.

The storm had continued long, but it seemed as if the calm was about to continue for a still longer period. Day after day the sun rose and shed a hot glare over the glass-like surface of the ocean; but there the storm-battered ship lay like a deserted wreck, scarcely capable of holding human beings, so forlorn and helpless she looked. Hopeless was the attempt to rig jury-masts, for not a spar remained of a size sufficient to bear a sail. Exertions, however, were made to build a rudder, by which, when the breeze returned, the ship might be guided free from any dangers which might appear ahead, or steered towards a promising anchorage. Materials, however, were scanty, and little expectation was entertained that it would stand any rough usage of the sea. Death, in taking away so many of the crew, had left fewer mouths to feed, and thus there appeared to be a sufficiency of provisions to last for many months, and of water there were many casks full.

Strange to narrate, the fever at length, in spite of the calm, had quitted the ship; those who had last been taken ill were recovering, and the spirits of all somewhat revived. They expected deliverance of some sort, though they could not tell whence it might come. Some had spoken with seamen who had sailed with the famous Sir Francis Drake, and they told of beautiful islands with lofty hills, and fountains of bright waters, and groves of cocoa-nuts, and many trees with delicious fruits, and roots of various descriptions fit for food, so easy of cultivation that the happy natives lived at ease without the necessity of labour. They failed not, also, to tell of other advantages peculiarly attractive to the taste of seamen. It is not surprising that the delights offered by a life in one of these happy islands became the constant theme of conversation among the seamen, till they began to persuade themselves, that, although their gold might be of little value, they might pass their days with no small amount of contentment.

Few on board felt their situation more painfully than Edward Raymond. For the sake of one he dearly loved he had become an adventurer that he might make his fortune. He had obtained the wealth he coveted, and now it appeared that he was doomed never to enjoy it.

While the gale lasted the ship was driving onward, and might in reality be approaching home, but now she was motionless, and it seemed that thus she might remain till their food should be exhausted and all should die, and the rigging should rot, and the bulwarks and decks decay, and at length the ship herself go down into the depths of the sea. That such had been the fate of many a stout ship with her gallant crew there could be no doubt. Waymouth fully believing, however, that some island would be reached ere long where provisions and water could be obtained, had in no way stinted the crew of their usual allowance. One day, however, the carpenter desired to speak with him. His countenance, expressive of consternation, showed that something was very wrong.

“What ails it with thee?” asked the captain, concealing his own anxiety.

“An’ it please your honour, the casks which I deemed full of water have leaked till not a drop in most of them remains,” was the appalling answer. “We have not water for another three days.”

“Bad news indeed, Master Auger, but, ere three days are over, maybe we shall reach some green island where there will be no lack of water and other things to refresh the men,” answered the captain calmly. “Make not the news public, however. We must lessen the allowance, and trust that a good Providence will send us relief.”

More than ever was a breeze prayed for. All on board were placed on an allowance of water sufficient only to moisten their parched tongues; yet even thus, as the calm continued, it appeared too likely that it would altogether fail. Gladly would the hapless crew have given all the gold on board the Lion for a few casks of the precious fluid. Waymouth made every effort to keep them employed. A great object was to ascertain the situation of the chief leaks; and this by perseverance he was enabled to do, as well as to stop them. By making the men constantly bathe he prevented them feeling so much as they might have done the want of fresh water; but, in spite of all his watchful care, there were some bad hearts among the crew who did not cease to plot against him. For a time, notwithstanding all their trials and hardships, the bold Gentlemen Adventurers kept up a gallant appearance; but now, at length, their sufferings began to tell upon them, and their sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and haggard looks told plainly what they endured. No longer in brave attire with elastic step they paced the deck, but unshaven and with unarranged garments they leaned against the bulwarks, or slowly dragged their feet for a few minutes where they were wont to walk so briskly.

With longing eyes the horizon was scanned for the signs of a coming breeze. The wind came at last from the west, and once more the ship moved slowly through the water. Hope revived. For two days she continued her course, towing after her the boat which had been launched during the calm in readiness for use. Again the fitful breeze ceased, and the ship lay motionless as before. A slight breeze came, and clouds assembled, and showers fell. The grateful rain was collected in sails and buckets, and saved by every means, and afforded important relief to all remaining on board. So light was the wind that it scarce moved the heavy ship through the water. Three more days passed, and once again the ship began to move. More and more rapidly she glided along towards the east.

“America will be reached at last, friends, and then it will be hard if some Spaniard fall not in our way whom we may compel to convoy us back to Old England,” observed Waymouth as he watched the progress of the ship through the water.

Once more the hearts of all on board revived; and well might they, for the sea was calm, the air pure, and the sun shone brightly from out of the blue firmament. Of provisions there were sufficient to last for some time, and the water, if husbanded with good care, might hold out till more rain should fall. The want, however, of fresh meat and vegetables began to tell, and that scourge of mariners, the scurvy, made its appearance. More than ever, therefore, did Waymouth desire to meet with some green island where his crew might refresh. The pleasant breeze continued, and wafted the ship along at moderate speed.

So limited was the number of officers that Waymouth took his watch like the rest. He had been on deck all the afternoon. Edward Raymond took the first night watch. He walked the deck thinking of home. Should he ever return there? Should he ever be united to her he loved? He believed in her truth and constancy, and until she received undoubted proof of his fate, she would not believe him lost. What a solace, what a pure delight was it to him to think of her, of her bright love, of all her noble qualities! He pitied his friend, and wished that he, too, had before he left England fixed his affections on one worthy of him. His watch at length was out, and he was relieved by Carlingford. The boatswain had appeared to be so completely contrite that he had been allowed to return to his duty, and was to have the morning watch.

Waymouth had slept longer than usual. He knew not how it was. More than once he had tried to arouse himself, and had again fallen off into slumber; while his cabin-boy had neglected to call him at the proper hour. At length he sprang up, and, dressing with the rapidity of a seaman, he hastened on deck. He gazed for a moment around with mute astonishment. No officer stood ready to receive him, not a man was to be seen on deck. The sails were lowered, and the ship lay motionless like a log upon the water. He looked astern; the boat was gone. A dreadful suspicion flashed across his mind: he was deserted. Yet could this be possible? Surely no. Raymond, his long-tried friend, the soul of honour—he would not have left him! Carlingford, the gallant seaman! Master Walker the minister, he surely was no hypocrite. Ap Reece, though hot-headed, was warm-hearted and true as steel. He shouted, again and again, “All hands on deck! all hands on deck! Your captain calls!” There was no reply. Was it fancy? A sound came forward. Before going there, he shouted once more down the after-hatchway. He had got down about half the length of the deck when Raymond’s voice arrested him. He for some moments could with difficulty comprehend what had happened. He, too, had likewise only just then awoke from an unusually sound sleep. Together they hastened forward. There lay, bound and gagged, Mr Carlingford, Dick Lizard, and several of the crew. They had all felt unusually drowsy on their watch. Suddenly they had been set upon by Hagger, Soper, and the wretches who had mutinied and been pardoned, and, before they could offer any resistance, they were all knocked down, prevented from crying out, and bound hand and foot. Several of the watch below were treated in the same manner, and without delay chests of treasure and provisions had been got up from the hold and placed in the boat, and the mutineers, leaping into her, after lowering the sails, had quitted the ship. For some time afterwards there had been a breeze, so that the sails in the boat must much have aided them in getting to a distance. Waymouth on hearing this at once suspected the whole plan of the treacherous plot which had been so successfully carried out. The mutineers had obtained some narcotic, with which he and his officers and the loyal part of the crew had been drugged, and thus the watch on deck had been easily overpowered, and allowed them time to load the boat with all they desired and to make their escape. The rest of the officers were found below, unconscious of what had happened; and Ap Reece, on awaking and examining his medicine stores, discovered that certain drugs had been abstracted which were calculated to produce sleep.

“Let the villains go. I wish them no further evil than their own deeds will assuredly produce,” said the captain.

“Add, my brother, that they may be led to see the error of their ways and repent,” said Master Walker. “They have souls, and those souls are precious; never let us forget that.”

A theft of far greater value than that of the gold was the two casks of water, one only, partly consumed, being left.

“It behooves us to husband this with even greater care than before, though we may be thankful that we have fewer mouths to consume it,” was the only remark made by the captain.

Still the truth must be said. The hearts of those left could not but burn with indignation at the treachery of their late shipmates. It was soon discovered to be even greater than at first supposed; for as soon as the sails were again set and hands were sent to the helm, it was found that the newly constructed rudder had been cut adrift, and that the ship was once more left without the means of being guided so as to escape a threatened danger or to enter a friendly port. Yet there was faith in the hearts of those brave men in God’s mercy, which had preserved them hitherto so long, not in their own strength and wisdom, which they had found so utterly to fail them, and they did not despair.

Towards evening a breeze arose, and once more they were wafted onward in the same direction as before. Such means as seamen have often used were employed to guide the ship, by towing several boards, weighted at one end, astern; but they only served to keep her head in one direction. All night long they sailed calmly on. When morning broke there was a cry, “Land, land on the larboard bow!” The sun arose, the blue sea sparkled brightly, and a lovely island appeared, with yellow sand fringed by palms and numerous graceful trees and shrubs, and picturesque hills covered with wood, and waterfalls dashing down amid rocks, and pure streams flowing towards the ocean, and blue mountains rising towards the sky in the distance. The ship glided on, nearing the shore. Should she cast anchor there? A boat was seen ahead. It was their own boat, carried off by the mutineers. There was a calm spot between the rocks; the boat ran in. The ship’s course would carry her clear of the land unless great efforts were made to guide her in. They watched with anxiety the proceedings of those in the boat. From amid the beautiful groves numerous bands of natives rushed out. Their skins were dark; their hair strangely dressed. They had bows and large clubs in their hands. Those in the boat made signs to show that they desired to be friendly, but the dark-skinned natives disregarded them. The seamen endeavoured to shove off, but the savages, sending a thick flight of arrows, rushed into the water and seized the boat. The hapless crew in vain endeavoured to defend themselves. The savages surrounded them, grappled with them, tore them from the boat with uplifted clubs, and ere many seconds had passed their brains were scattered on the sands. The remaining crew of the Lion gazed with horror on the scene. Not one of their late shipmates remained alive. Truly had retribution speedily overtaken them.

Quickly, however, the savages were seen to be launching canoes of large dimensions, each capable of containing three to five score of men. It was evident that pursuit was intended. The Lion’s guns might have put them to the rout, but her powder had been well-nigh expended, and the little that remained had been greatly damaged by the water.

Had the ship been under proper government, she might, it was supposed, have run down the canoes, or, at all events, have avoided them, and not allowed them to come alongside; but as it was, there appeared great probability that the fate of the mutineers might be theirs. Still, like brave men, they felt that they had to do their best and leave the rest to Providence. Thus, with the little powder they possessed fit for use, four of the after-guns and a number of the small arms were loaded, and they continued their course. Should any reef be in the way on which it should be their fate to strike, they knew that their fate must be sealed. They could see the black savages making violent and threatening gesticulations as they laboured at forcing their canoes into the water. Happily the operation was a long one. The canoes when afloat appeared even larger than on shore; they were like two large boats united by one wide deck or platform, with one mast. On this a vast sail of matting was set, and over the water they glided at a rapid rate. The warriors on board meantime were brandishing their weapons, and leaping, and dancing, and shouting. More and more canoes were launched till a whole fleet was in pursuit of the Lion, which glided on in silence as if unconscious of their presence. A fair breeze had been blowing—it began to increase. The farther the Lion got from the land the stronger it blew; the sea, too, became rougher and rougher. The canoes were closely approaching, for in the smooth water they sailed three times as fast as the Lion. Their numbers were overwhelming. Should they persevere, even the Lion’s shot would avail nothing against them. Waymouth ordered that not a gun should be fired till he should give the word. On came the foe. The leading canoes were almost up to the Lion, but, no longer steady, she began to roll and pitch in the rising sea. Still eager for their prey, the savages persevered. The headmost darted alongside. The Lion’s guns were depressed. “Fire, my brave men! Fire down into them!” cried Waymouth, setting the example and bringing down a savage, who, by his appearance and gestures, seemed to be a chief. Not a shot was thrown away. Some of the savages who were climbing up the ship’s sides were driven back, but others, as the canoes came up, succeeded them. More and more were coming on. Just then a heavy squall struck the ship. Like a restive steed she gave a plunge forward, then rolled from side to side, shaking herself clear of the canoes surrounding her. The savages were driven from their hold; the canoes were thrown one upon the other, and on sprang the gallant Lion free from her foes. Her after-guns played upon them for a few minutes, but when, baffled and confused, they showed no signs of pursuing, the English ceased firing, and the ship pursued her course unmolested. Grateful as they were for their preservation, it was tantalising to the crew to sail away from that seemingly lovely shore where water and the vegetables they so much needed might be procured in abundance.

“Were it not for the light of gospel truth we might be such as they are,” observed Master Walker, pointing at the island. “See the earth in that sweet spot as God hath made it, and see man in those savages as sin has made him, and as he will continue till that blessed light irradiates his mind and heart.”

Chapter Ten.

The sorely-battered Lion pursued her course across the wide Pacific. The island of the black savages was soon lost sight of.

“It was the wretches’ skins made them so fierce and savage,” observed Dick Lizard to a messmate in the minister’s hearing.

“White or black thou wilt find it the same, Dick,” he remarked. “The skin is in no way to blame. It is the heart of man which is by nature so desperately wicked. Maybe we shall fall in with some white savages and find them no wise better than the black who have destroyed our late shipmates and from whom we have escaped.”

The health of the survivors of the once-gallant company of officers and men of the stout ship became worse and worse. Scarcely one but showed some signs of the dreadful disease which had attacked them. It appeared too probable that the fears of those who predicted that they and their ship would rot away in that mighty ocean—their fate unknown—would be realised. Again scarce a drop of water remained, but when the last drop was gone, clouds gathered and grateful showers gave them a supply for a few days longer.

“Were those showers sent without design?” asked Master Walker. “Surely not; let us hope on, still trusting in the Lord.”

On, on they glided, sometimes becalmed if driven west, always regaining their lost ground and advancing to the east. Once more their water failed. With parched mouths they began to wish for death to end their sufferings. There was a shout from those on the lookout on deck—“Land! land!” Nearer they drew: they could not miss it. An island with hills and groves of trees; pure water must be there. Some spoke of savages to oppose their landing. As they advanced, a reef was seen over which the sea broke. Were all their hopes to be disappointed? A passage appeared through the reef, wide enough, it was hoped, for the ship to pass. Could she be taken through? Anxiously all watched her progress. A temporary steering apparatus, which in smooth water partly served the purpose of a rudder, had been rigged. It required, however, the united strength of all on board who could be spared to work it. Thus no one was idle. Raymond was stationed at the bowsprit end to watch for the appearance of sunken rocks or reefs and to give timely notice to Waymouth, who stood aft to direct the steering and to manage the sails. The land looked more and more beautiful as the Lion approached; greater would be the disappointment to the suffering mariners should they be unable to land. Before them rose the land as if just painted by the hand of Nature. There were the glittering sands, the palm-trees laden with refreshing fruit, the shady groves beneath which the cool breeze played wantonly, fertile valleys, hills of fantastic shapes covered with a rich verdure, rugged rocks projecting from their sides, and amid them sparkling waterfalls leaping downwards and sending up wreaths of snowy foam as they reached some crystal pools or rushing streamlets at their base. What rest, what quiet, what luxury might be theirs if they could but reach that lovely land! No natives were seen to impede their landing or to interrupt their enjoyment. That dreadful reef of hard coral was still before them, the sea, elsewhere so calm and blue, dashing against it with fury as if enraged at the barrier it offered to its approach. Still there was that one narrow passage clearly defined, and within they hoped to find a calm lagoon where the ship at length might be brought to an anchor if they could pass through it in safety.

The breeze increased, driving the Lion either to safety or to utter destruction. Raymond stood pointing right ahead, with his hand now diverging slightly on one side, now on the other.

“Haul away, lads, haul away!” shouted Waymouth. “Now steady! steady!”

The foam rose high on either side, curling over and falling in showers on the inside of the reef, the wind blowing it here and there, and, as the ship plunged onward amid it, almost concealing Raymond, who, however, made no sign of alarm. The ship pitched violently, the breakers roared, the foam flew around her, and then gliding, on, her crew perceived that she floated in a tranquil lagoon sheltered completely from the howling gales or raging seas. A cheer burst from their throats—very different from the battle-shouts of former days which were wont to make the Portugals tremble in their shoes. The sails were furled, the anchor let go.

“Brethren, let us, as is becoming, offer our humble thanks to a merciful Heaven, which has brought us into this haven of safety,” exclaimed Master Walker, and all joined heartily in the good minister’s prayer.

Those were days when men were not ashamed to worship together and to acknowledge the loving Providence which guarded them from danger. Boats were lowered, and while one-half of the remnant of the once-gallant crew remained on board to guard the ship in case of surprise, the other, well armed, proceeded on shore to explore the island, and to procure, without delay, the much-longed-for fruit and water. The party in the boats, led by Waymouth, proceeded cautiously. They had had evidence of the treachery of the natives in those regions, and they every moment expected to see a band of savages rush out from among the rocks and trees to attack them. All was silent. Eagerly they stepped on shore. Waymouth posted a few men on the lookout, while the rest proceeded to knock down the cocoa-nuts and to suck out the delicious juice, not forgetting to take some to their comrades on guard. Then they hurried on to the nearest fountain, which gushed forth from the rocky side of a hill. Here filling their water-casks, they rolled them down to the boats, one of which, laden with them and cocoa-nuts, forthwith returned to the ship. Waymouth, with his small band, next proceeded to examine the island. He could scarcely believe that so lovely a spot should remain uninhabited, yet so it seemed—no sign of life, at all events, was there. The whole circuit of the island was made, and not a human being was seen. On their return, however, Ap Reece, who was exploring in a sheltered bay hitherto unvisited, shouted to Waymouth and the rest to come to him. They descended, and a spectacle met their view which told too clearly the sad history of those who had once inhabited that lovely island. Scattered about above high-water mark lay the fleshless bones of numbers of men, the spears and arrows or darts which had deprived them of life still remaining. They were warriors, for the bony fingers of some still grasped the spears or clubs with which they had in vain attempted to defend their native shore. But where were the women and children? They had undoubtedly been carried off by the conquerors. It was a melancholy scene, on which, probably, from the day of the battle no human eye had rested—no tear had been dropped for their fate. A stricter search was now instituted. Fields were observed in which roots and various plants were cultivated. On ascending the hills, in sheltered nooks, and always in some picturesque situation, habitations were discovered of curious and neat workmanship, apparently not long deserted. Ap Reece declared it as his opinion that the island was of volcanic origin, and that probably a burning mountain would be found in it. They continued their explorations, and on reaching the summit of one of the highest hills in the island they observed in the distant horizon what looked like faint blue clouds resting on the water, but which Waymouth pronounced positively to be land. It was, therefore, probable that, although the island on which they were was uninhabited, they had neighbours from whom a hostile visit might some day be expected.

“Lest they should come we must be prepared for them,” said Waymouth.

“What we have seen, dear friends, proves that, lovely as is this earth, wherever man is found there a paradise does not exist,” observed Master Walker. “Those who search for such a spot search in vain, believe me.”

Many of those who heard Master Walker’s remarks might at other times have refused to acknowledge their justice, but suffering had tamed the pride of all, and all were inclined to agree with one who had ever shown himself a true friend and counsellor. One thing was certain, that the island would afford them ample means for refreshment, and a delightful abode; the land was evidently fertile in the extreme, the scenery lovely, and the climate delicious. Having come to this conclusion, they returned on board to take the place of their comrades, who had been panting to put foot on shore.

Waymouth had a consultation with his officers, and it was agreed that their first work should be to land the guns, and stores, and freight, and to heave down the ship that her damages might be examined, and, if possible, repaired. Short-handed as they were, this was a work of time. The freight was very great, and although the mutineers had carried off much gold, still a vast quantity of immense value remained. There was gold and silver in bars and coins, and in numberless utensils, and figures, and crucifixes, and candlesticks, and there were precious stones, and silks, and spices, and all sorts of rare and rich commodities; but as their owners hoisted them with aching arms out of the hold, and conveyed them to the shore, they sighed as they thought how utterly valueless they were to them now, and how, too, probably they might never reach England, where they could be enjoyed. Huts were built in which all these valuables were stored, even before the adventurers erected habitations for themselves. Those were warlike times, and, accustomed to fighting as they were, their next care was to dig trenches and to place their guns in position, so that they might defend themselves and their property should any foes attack their island. A considerable time was consumed in these labours, though, Waymouth setting the example, the officers worked as hard as the men. Often, indeed, so unequal at first was their strength to the task they had undertaken, that even the strongest fell fainting to the ground from their exertions. Gradually, however, with the pure air and water, and the ample vegetable diet they enjoyed, they regained their health and strength, even though the rest they so much required was denied them. Having completely emptied their ship and dismantled her, even her ballast being got out, they waited till a high tide, and placed her on shore. It was with anxious eyes that they watched the carpenter as he made an examination of her hull. With auger and mallet in hand he went over every part of the ship. He then desired to speak to the captain alone. It was some time before Antony Waymouth again appeared among them.

“Friends, hear me,” he said in a firm voice. “You are brave men, and will dare all that men can dare, but it is the opinion of our carpenter (and you know that his judgment is good) that our once stout ship is not in a fit condition to continue our voyage. Had we the means of repairing her we might do so, but they do not exist, and we must be content to abide our time here, or to proceed by such other means as Providence may send us.”

This address of the captain was warmly received, and his spirit appeared to be infused into theirs. Raymond probably heard the announcement with more pain than any one else. His hopes of returning home seemed forever cut off. Should he ever again see his beloved Beatrice? What probability was there of a ship visiting that island? In building the boat carried off by the mutineers they had exhausted so large a portion of the remnant of their stores that they had not sufficient to build another. One thing he was determined to do. He would cherish his love for Beatrice to the last gasp of life, and would make every effort which strength and means would afford to return to Old England. Waymouth highly applauded his resolution.

“Beshrew me, dear coz,” he said, “it was a cruel wrong that I unwillingly did thee when I induced thee by my persuasions to come out to these savage regions; yet I did it for love of thee, and with good intentions, and thus I know that thou harbourest no ill-will towards me in consequence. But keep up thy heart, Ned; we know not what happy turn fortune may take. Perchance, after all, we may patch up the old Lion so that she may perform the remainder of the voyage across this wide Pacific. We have well-nigh performed half of it already. Then courage, Ned, courage. Let us live on in hope.”

“Thanks, dear captain. I neither blame thee nor allow hope and my heart to part company,” answered Raymond. “I know not how it may happen, but still I hope to see the white cliffs of England before I die.”

“So, marry, do I,” exclaimed Waymouth, his own spirits rising as he talked with his friend. “We’ll make the old Lion swim. There are trees for planks and spars; we must set our saws to work, and try what can be done. It may take time, but what matters that, provided we succeed in the end?”

The people generally, however, made no complaint of their lot, and as Waymouth kept them constantly employed without over-exerting them, they had no time to contemplate the future.

The most important question which arose was how they should support existence after the provisions which they had brought in the ship were exhausted. Fish might be caught, and there were roots, and fruits, and herbs which Ap Reece and Master Walker pronounced to be nutritive and good when properly cooked, but such diet would scarcely suit the stomachs and support the strength of Englishmen accustomed to the meat diet of their native land. There were no beasts on which they could feed, and the birds, which were mostly water-fowl, could only be obtained by being shot. Now although there was no want of fire-arms, nor of lead for bullets and small shot, there was only powder enough left to enable them to discharge the great guns once, or fire a few rounds of musketry. This matter caused the officers considerable concern. Should they repair the ship or build another craft, they must have provisions, and powder for their defence and for procuring provisions; crossbows, to be sure, might be manufactured, but they were inefficient weapons compared to fire-arms, though several on board were well accustomed to their use.

There was a great probability, also, that they would be attacked some day by the natives of the islands they saw in the distance, and although victory would be certain if they could use their fire-arms, without them they might be overwhelmed by numbers and conquered. Still they went on strengthening their fort, improving their dwelling-houses, and making experiments in the cultivation of the various roots and fruit-bearing plants and shrubs they found in the island, as if they fully expected to remain, at all events, some time on the spot. They then began fashioning planks and spars for the ship, setting up a forge for the iron-work, and, as their canvas had been almost exhausted, in converting some of their rich silks—damaged, however, by the water—into sails by sewing many folded together, thus making them far stronger than any ordinary canvas. All these were works which must of necessity occupy a length of time. There was but one carpenter and one artificer who understood the blacksmith’s craft. All the others had to be instructed before they could render any efficient aid, but as all were anxious for the result they laboured willingly and learned rapidly.

On examining the stores which had been landed, four well-secured casks were discovered which had been taken out of one of the last prizes captured. The contents were not known till one day Ap Reece, searching for a chest of drugs, examined one of them, and pronounced them to contain saltpetre.

“Ah! that villainous drug of which Will Shakespeare speaks,” exclaimed Waymouth. “To us it might be precious if combined with charcoal and sulphur; but whence is the latter to be procured?”

“We’ll see; perchance it may not be so hard to find as my noble captain supposes,” answered Ap Reece.

On hearing this Waymouth cheered up greatly.

“Many are the obligations we are under to you already, my good friend, and a still greater debt shall we owe to you if you discover the means of thus supplying our chief wants. Sulphur, I know, is brought home in ships from Italy, but in what other parts of the world it is found I know not,” answered Waymouth, who made no profession of scientific knowledge.

“In a few days I hope to prove that I am right in my conjectures,” answered the surgeon. “At all events, I pray thee have the saltpetre carefully guarded. I will set forth at break of day to-morrow in search of this article we so much covet.”

When Master Walker heard of the search for sulphur, he shook his head, exclaiming—

“Alack! alack! but the other day we were all pronouncing this isle to be a paradise on earth, and now are eagerly seeking for the means of destroying life. Believe me, no paradise can exist where the shafts of death can reach.”

Ap Reece was right in his conjectures. After searching for several days, he not only discovered a large amount of sulphur, but the crater of a volcano whence it had proceeded. Charcoal was next to be made, and when that was produced the surgeon commenced his preparation of gunpowder. Great was the disappointment, however, when the result appeared to be a complete failure. A black powder was produced, which burnt, but its explosive qualities were very imperfect.

Nothing daunted, however, he again set to work. Numberless experiments were made, and at length success crowned his efforts. The powder was pronounced as good as that in the small cask they had remaining. Months, however, had rolled on from the time of their first landing till the powder was produced. Though all had worked hard, the repairs of the big ship had made no great progress. Want of skill and want of tools was the cause of this. They had now, however, forged tools, and were gaining skill. Necessity truly is the mother of invention. Those who had never before handled axe or hammer were becoming fair carpenters and smiths. Sometimes as they examined the old Lion, and timber after timber and the whole lower part of the planking was found to be rotten, they were almost in despair. Some even declared that it would be useless to continue the work, till Waymouth’s cheerful voice aroused them.

“Look at those noble trees, lads! Cannot they be made to produce as good timbers and planks as those that are rotten, think ye?” he exclaimed. “See the planks we have already formed! All we want is time. What we may not effect in six months we surely can in twelve. Cheer up, brave lads! cheer up!”

Such were the encouraging words he was wont to address to his men, and they had their effect. Two canoes had been formed; they were merely trunks of trees hollowed out, but they served the purpose for which they were intended—to fish from in the calm lagoons round the coast. Since a supply of powder had been obtained they were used for shooting wild fowls, whose haunts could be approached by their means on the water far more easily than by land.

Such was the state of affairs when one day Edward and Carlingford, with the two young cabin-boys, Dick Lizard, and another man, had gone out in the canoes prepared either to shoot birds or to fish. The weather being calm, and they also being on the lee side of the island, they ventured outside the reef to a greater distance than was their custom in order to visit a rock some little way off on which they expected to find an abundance of birds. They reached the rock in safety, and found not only birds but eggs in vast quantities, which would afford a healthful and pleasant change of diet. Well pleased with thus obtaining an ample supply of food with little trouble—for the eggs were to be had for the picking up, and the birds by knocking them down with sticks without firing a shot—they at once began to fill their canoes. They had well-nigh completed their cargoes, when, on looking seaward, Edward’s eye fell on an object on the water seemingly approaching them. They soon discovered it to be a large double canoe. They had had proof of the treacherous nature of the savages of those regions. They soon came to the conclusion that unless they wished to engage in a sanguinary contest with the people on board the big canoe it would be wiser to return forthwith to the mainland. By the aid of their fire-arms they might undoubtedly come off victorious, but not without killing many of the savages, and this Edward was most anxious to avoid doing. All the scenes of battle and bloodshed through which he had gone had not hardened his heart, and he longed for the time when he might sheathe his sword and never draw it more.

The Englishmen took their seats in their small skiffs, and the savages in their large vessel approached the rock. They had come probably for the purpose also of collecting eggs and birds. The canoes had got about half way to the main island when they landed on the rock. They could not have been long there before they must have discovered that it had been visited, and their eyes being directed towards the island, they must have discovered the canoes.

Although the large double canoes of those seas sail at a prodigious rate when once launched, they are so heavy that they cannot with ease be pushed off from the land. Before this was accomplished the wind had risen, blowing from the island towards the rock. Edward and his companions paddled on with all their might. Their fire-arms would avail them nothing if the strangers were to attempt to run them down. It was with great satisfaction, therefore, that they saw the breeze rise, which as they drew near the shore offered no opposition to their light canoes.

“Very probably those savages are some of the people who destroyed the inhabitants of this island,” said Carlingford. “They will have discovered our traces on the rock, and will fancy that some of their enemies must have escaped them.”

“Whatever they think, we may expect a visit from them ere long,” answered Edward. “We must be prepared for them, and as maybe there is no time for delay and we cannot afford to lose these birds and eggs, we must load ourselves with them and carry them across the island.”

Drawing their canoes out of the water and concealing them in the bushes, they loaded themselves with the birds, carrying the eggs in baskets, and hurried on, leaving Mr Carlingford to watch the proceedings of the strangers.

On receiving the information brought by Edward, Waymouth summoned his followers from all directions into the fort and made arrangements for their defence. The canoes which had pursued them must have each carried a hundred men or more, and as they did not muster altogether more than thirty souls, they could not expect without some difficulty to drive off their assailants. All their preparations were completed when the lieutenant brought word that the strange canoes had sailed away towards the land in the north-east. This incident showed them more than ever the necessity of being on their guard against surprise, and consequently lookouts were stationed on two high points in different parts of the island to give notice of the approach of any strange canoes.

Fortunate was it for the adventurers that they had a leader possessed of so much judgment and discretion as well as bravery. Some had begun to grumble at having two persons taken off every day from the important work of repairing the ship, when, ten days after the circumstance above mentioned, one of the watchmen came hurrying in to announce the appearance of a large fleet of double canoes—there might be fifteen or more, but it was difficult at the distance they were off to count them. The other lookout-man having been sent for, the first, with Lizard, went out to watch the proceedings of the strangers. Waymouth, urged by Master Walker and Raymond, resolved, if possible, to treat them as friends, and to avoid bloodshed as long as he could. One of the chief objects in building the fort was to defend the ship, and some of the guns were so placed as to play upon all approaching her.

Every possible precaution had been taken, when, in the evening, Lizard arrived, bringing the information that the enemy had landed, and appeared to be making preparations to encamp on the shore. He computed that there could not be much fewer than a thousand of them. There were no women or children; and as they were all armed, and decked out with paint and feathers, there could be no doubt that they had come with some hostile intention. Night came on, and the savages did not approach. It was possible that they might not be aware of the presence of the white men; or if they had by any means discovered the erection of the fort, they might purpose to attack it during the night. At all events, it was necessary for the adventurers to keep a vigilant watch.

The hours of darkness passed away. No foes had appeared. It was possible, however, that they might be watching in ambush in the neighbourhood to rush into the fort as soon as the little garrison were off their guard. Waymouth was not a commander to be thus taken by surprise. As soon as dawn had broke he sent out scouts to examine the thickets around. No foes were there concealed; they therefore advanced farther and farther. Gaining a height which commanded a valley along which the savages would probably approach, a party of them were seen advancing along it and examining the country on either side; some going first were evidently scouts, and tracing out the track made by the adventurers as they crossed the island. The savages were seen to halt, and they remained stationary till they were joined by a considerably larger body. The English scouts hurried back to the fort. They had not long reached it when the scouts of the enemy were seen emerging from the valley. They drew back when they caught sight of the fort, and evidently understood its object. One thing, however, it was very evident that they did not understand—the power of the guns mounted within it—for in a short time their whole army collected within range, so that it would have been in the power of the English to have destroyed a large number without giving them warning.

At Master Walker’s suggestion, Waymouth, before allowing a shot to be fired, resolved to try what negotiation might effect. A white flag was hoisted in the fort, but it was totally disregarded: the savages did not understand its meaning. Several then volunteered to go out and speak to them; but as no one comprehended their language, that would be of no use. Master Walker recommended that some presents should be carried and placed on the ground midway between them. This was done; but the savages, instead of placing others in their stead, rushing forward, carried them off with shouts of derisive laughter, taking the gifts more as a tribute than as a token of amity.

Another effort was to be made. Edward and Carlingford advanced, making signs of amity, but it seemed that they were not understood, for suddenly some hundreds of the savages, with fearful yells, rushed forward, with clubs uplifted as if to destroy them. Such evidently was their intention. Waymouth saw that there was but one way to save the lives of his friends, and he gave the order to the arquebusiers to open their fire to the right and left of the English and over their heads, while at the same time the great guns belched forth flame and shot on the advancing masses. The effect was magical. Numbers fell to the ground overpowered by fear rather than by wounds, some fled, others stood still, but none advanced. Before any had recovered from their panic, Edward and his companion were in the fort. The savages, after a short time regaining courage, collected in vast numbers on the land side of the fort, gazing with wonder at it, and at the ship, of which they could obtain a good view. The artillery had not done sufficient execution to show them its power; and once more flourishing their clubs, and leaping and shouting, they advanced towards the fort.

This was no time for trifling. Should they persevere in the face of the fire-arms, they might by their numbers alone overwhelm the little garrison. Waymouth ordered the guns to be fired this time directly at the foe. The effect exhibited when the smoke cleared off was indeed like the work of magic; the space lately filled with leaping, shouting beings was entirely emptied, except here and there a few dark forms which lay writhing or stretched at length and motionless on the ground. Not another savage was to be seen.

A shout was bursting from the lips of the adventurers at this speedy repulse of their foes, when there was a burst of flame, a terrific roar, the earth shook under their feet, earth, and rafters, and clods of grass came showering down on their heads, and the cries and groans of wounded men struck the ears of the rest with alarm. Their magazine had exploded, and every grain of powder, except such as was in the guns turned seaward and in the pouches of the arquebusiers, was destroyed. Two of their number had been killed by the explosion, and several were wounded by the falling fragments of the building. Even the bravest began to despair, and to believe that they were about to be slaughtered by the savages. The voice of Waymouth once more restored their confidence.

“What, lads I are we, who have for years past fought and conquered countless numbers of Portugals, Turks, and infidels of all sorts, to be downcast because a few casks of gunpowder blow up and a few score of naked savages are shrieking away in front of us?” he exclaimed. “Cheer up! What has happened is but the fortune of war. Probably the savages, having had a specimen of our prowess, will not venture again to molest us, and if they do we have still some powder and sharp swords with which to defend ourselves.”

These words had the effect intended. Ap Reece attended to the wounded. The two poor fellows who had been killed bringing out the powder were buried, and the adventurers waited with calmness for the return of the savages, should they again venture on an attack. Waymouth was certain that they still remained in the neighbourhood, as now and then a person could be seen passing in the far distance, and he was loath to send out a scout lest he might be set on by any natives lying in ambush and carried off.

Darkness returned. Strict watch was kept, and few of the adventurers closed their eyes in sleep. Long and dreary seemed the night. Would the savages pluck up courage and return to the attack? If they were of the same character as those who had destroyed the mutineers, more ferocious savages it would be hard to find. Sounds were heard during the night, but the stars were obscured by clouds and mist, and no object could be discerned at any distance from the fort.

Morning at length returned, and by the light of day it was discovered that both the dead and the wounded had been carried off. It was important to ascertain whether the enemy still lurked in the neighbourhood. Several of the party volunteered to go out for this object. Waymouth accepted the offer of Carlingford and young Martin. Their progress was anxiously watched from the fort. They at length disappeared among the trees. Their friends trembled lest the savages might set on them. Now two objects were seen moving on a hill in the distance: it might be them. Two hours passed away. They did not appear. Either the enemy having taken their departure, they had proceeded across the island, or they had been set upon and destroyed. Several wished to go out to search for their friends, but this Waymouth would not allow. Their fears were, however, banished when their lost friends were seen approaching. They brought the intelligence that the savages had embarked in their large canoes and had sailed away. This was satisfactory news.

In vain, however, did they endeavour to manufacture some powder instead of that which had been destroyed. Without saltpetre they could do nothing. For some time, also, they could make no progress with the ship. The carpenter and smith had both been injured by the explosion, and the two men killed had been among the best artificers. Often as Waymouth and Edward examined the work, they agreed that it might have been wiser to have built a new vessel altogether of much smaller dimensions. Still, notwithstanding all their disappointments and difficulties, they proved themselves to be true men by perseveringly labouring on. One error was allowed to be committed. When all fears of the return of the savages had subsided, the desire to obtain birds was so great that the powder was expended to shoot them, those on the rock having been mostly frightened away. Many more months passed away. Had it not been for good Master Walker, who ever reminded them of the Sabbath, and exhorted them on that day to refrain from work, they would have lost all note of time.

The hull was at length almost completed; the sails were manufactured, and a supply of cordage; the masts had next to be formed and got in, as also the spars. The larger trees best suited for the purpose were on the opposite side of the island, and a party had gone across to select some for the purpose required, when, after a time, they were seen hurrying back with looks of consternation. They had cause for alarm. A fleet of canoes twice as numerous as that of their former visitors was seen approaching the island, and would soon be on shore. Signals were made to recall all those at a distance into the fort. Every means which could be thought of was taken to strengthen the fortifications. An examination was made of the remaining powder. The error which had been committed was evident; there was not enough to load all the great guns, leaving none for the smaller pieces, and of that little which remained a considerable portion was damp, and would require to be dried before it could be used.

Waymouth, in this emergency, endeavoured as before to inspire his followers with courage. He ordered three guns to be loaded pointing in the direction by which it was expected the savages would approach if their purpose was to attack the fort. The rest was divided among the arquebusiers, who were charged not to throw a shot away. There were a few crossbows which were eagerly brought into requisition, and every man had besides a pike, battle-axe, and sword, so that, compared to the savages, they were well armed. Still it was fearful odds for eight and twenty men to contend against a thousand. The night was approaching. The sun went down in an angry mood, and the wind began to blow strongly, and went on increasing till it raged fearfully among the tall palm-trees, which bent like willow wands before its fury. Fiercer and fiercer it blew.

Sentinels were posted round the fort, for it was conjectured that the savages might make their approach during the darkness, in the hopes of taking the garrison by surprise. The grey dawn appeared. No foe was in sight. Just, however, before the sun should arise—for his beams could not penetrate through the dark canopy of clouds overhead—suddenly from every quarter on the land side appeared from among the trees large bodies of savages dressed with their war ornaments, and wildly flourishing their weapons, while, as they rushed on, they uttered the most fearful shrieks. Nearer they approached. At a signal from Waymouth the guns opened on them; but though many were laid low, this did not stop the rest. The guns no longer roared. The foe came on as before; like ants they swarmed round the fort. The arquebusiers reserved their fire till the enemy was close upon them. Now began the fierce strife. As the savages rushed on they were driven back with the bullets which hailed on them, with thrusts of pikes and blows of battle-axes. Still more came on. These were no ordinary savages. It was evident that they were well accustomed to scenes of bloodshed: they fought more like demons than men. They were driven back only to return with greater fury, like the waves of the stormy ocean.

Three of the adventurers lay dead, several more were wounded; still the brave band encouraged each other to persevere. They mostly fought with desperation, not expecting to escape, but resolved to sell their lives dearly. More savages were coming on, when suddenly they paused. Those who were fighting drew back with astonishment in their countenances. Waymouth, who was everywhere, rushing here and there to aid those the most hard pressed, turned his eyes seaward, and there he beheld a fine ship with her tacks aboard, endeavouring to beat off the island, which it was evident she had discovered at daybreak, when too late, close under her lee. She might escape the most dangerous reef, but there was a point of land on which he judged that she must inevitably strike. All the canvas she could carry was set, and heeling over to the gale she plunged furiously through the foaming seas. He shuddered to think what would be the fate of her crew should they fall into the hands of the savages, and he longed to be able to hurry to their assistance. The savages, meantime, it seemed, believed that she was some being sent to the assistance of those with whom they were fighting, and, calling loudly to each other, they sprang back out of the conflict, and the whole body rushed away into the cocoa-nut grove, and were soon hid from view.

Chapter Eleven.

Beatrice Willoughby was seated, with her embroidery before her, in the withdrawing-room of the old hall where her childhood’s happier days had been passed. Her dress showed that she had lost some near relative. In truth, the Lady Willoughby, her mother, had been summoned to happier realms, and she and Hugh were left orphans, alone in the world, all in all to each other. Hugh had altered much for the better. He felt his responsibilities—that his dear sister was greatly dependent on him—and her happiness had become his chief care. She was not, however, dependent for support on him, for she had a handsome dower, which would enable her to live as became her rank. She was not alone; Hugh was there, seated at a window, engrossed in a book of travels, for to see the wide world had become the great desire of his heart. Unable himself to wander forth to foreign lands, he obtained every book in his power which described distant countries and the adventures of those who had visited them.

Beatrice had a more sociable companion than her brother in sweet Constance Raymond, who, having lost the old knight her father, had lately taken up her abode with her friend. Both girls were mistresses of themselves, and enjoyed no small satisfaction in feeling their independence. Hugh no longer affected Mistress Constance. He had been so long in her company that he had learned to look on her in the light of a sister whom it was his duty to protect and support as he felt that he should his own sister Beatrice. In truth, sweet Mistress Constance, being a year or more older than Hugh, and of a somewhat vehement if not imperious temper, had herself done much to cure him of the tender sentiment which at one time seemed about to spring up in his bosom.

The young people were not, however, without one who acted the part of a guardian, although he could not claim the legal right of being so. This was honest John Langton—Captain John Langton—a devoted friend and follower of their honoured father, Sir Hugh Willoughby. Sickness had prevented him from going that fatal voyage from which the brave knight never returned. Captain Langton was an experienced seaman; he had made many voyages to various regions, and was a man of great judgment and discretion. Although the snow of the winter of life had already sprinkled his head, his health and strength were unimpaired, while the spirit of adventure which had tempted him abroad in his younger days lay smouldering within his bosom, ready to burn up should occasion blow upon it. He lived in a small mansion close by the hall, where he was an almost daily visitor.

It may be supposed that the very constant subject of conversation between the two young maidens was the fate of him who had been so long absent, and of whom since they had last received tidings more than two years had passed—long, long years they had been to them. Still they lived on in hope of hearing of Edward, or some day of seeing him walk in, full of health and strength, and to hear him recount the adventures he had gone through. As to the wealth he had coveted, it mattered little to them whether he brought it or not, provided he was never again tempted to go in search of it. There was another, too, in whose fate, though he knew not of it, the lovely Constance was interested. When Edward had written home he had spoken little of his own deeds, but he had enlarged greatly on the gallantry of his friend Waymouth, and her enthusiastic imagination adding lustre to his acts, she had pictured him to herself as worthy of being a hero of romance, and had without hesitation encouraged that sentiment towards him, which, if not love, was nearly allied to it.

Hugh, who had come to the end of his book, and was gazing out of the window, wondering when he should have the opportunity of visiting the scenes described therein, suddenly exclaimed—

“There is a stranger coming along the paths. His dress, much the worse for wear, betokens him to be a seafaring man, and his features are dark and weather-beaten. Maybe he brings tidings from the distant Eastern seas.”

The hearts of his fair hearers beat quick as they heard these words. Who could this weather-beaten stranger be? They in the same breath entreated Hugh to hasten out and to bring in the seaman lest he should pass by, not that it was likely he would so do without stopping to ask an alms or the means of proceeding on his way. He was evidently footsore and weary, and probably hungry and poor, and as such alone claimed their compassion. Hugh gladly hurried out, and soon returned with the wayfarer. He was a man of middle age, and, though his countenance spoke of toil and torrid climes, he was stout of limb and broad of shoulder, and had no lack of work in him; and, though his garments were worn almost to tatters, they had once been of a rich description. He doffed his battered beaver as he entered the hall, and stood before the fair dames in a humble posture, waiting till they addressed him.

“Whence come you, stranger, and what brings you into these parts?” asked Beatrice in a gentle voice calculated to give encouragement to the person she addressed.

She spoke not without hesitation, and in truth she had no great expectation of hearing aught of him she loved.

“I come, lady, from far-distant regions; my calling is on the sea, my birthplace near Gloucester; and landing at Plymouth without rhino in my purse, food in my pouch, or friends to afford me any, I have been working my way as best I could to that home where I hope to find rest and quiet after all my toils,” answered the stranger bluntly.

“What took you to those foreign lands?” asked Beatrice, somewhat disappointed with the answer.

“My own folly, and, maybe, greed of gain,” he replied in the same tone. “I gained wisdom, and might have gained wealth had it not taken to itself wings and flown away.”

“But with whom did you sail to those far-distant realms? Surely you went not alone?” said Constance in a tone which showed that she might not be inclined to brook a saucy answer.

“Your pardon, fair ladies; I saw not the drift of your questions,” replied the seaman. “I sailed in the company of a brave admiral, Captain Lancaster, on board his tall ship the Red Dragon, with several other goodly ships, the Serpent, the Lion, the Lion’s Whelp—”

“Can you give us tidings of any on board the Lion?” exclaimed Beatrice, eagerly interrupting him.

The stranger shook his head.

“Bad tidings only, I fear, sweet ladies,” he answered with some feeling. “Of all that gallant company, captains, and officers, and men, I am the only one, to the best of my belief, who yet breathes the air of heaven—except,” he added, seeing the effect his words were producing on his fair auditors, “one of the ships, storm-driven, found a haven of which I know nothing; the remainder of the brave squadron I saw go down into the ocean depths with all their gallant crews—”

“What—what was the name of the ship which may have escaped that dreadful doom?” exclaimed both the fair girls at once in accents scarcely articulate from agitation.

“The Lion was the ship, once commanded by Captain Wood, and, when he became admiral, by Captain Antony Waymouth, as brave an officer as ever held a sword,” answered the seaman, evidently now wishing to speak to the purpose. “We had long been parted from him, I being still on board the Red Dragon, when a fierce tempest arose—so fierce I had never before encountered. One by one we saw consorts, long battered by the waves and shattered in battles innumerable, go down, all on board perishing. Scarcely could the Red Dragon keep afloat, much less render assistance to others. Her turn came. We had been driving to the east, hoping to find a haven where we might repair our damages, when, even in sight of land, the tempest still raging, a whole plank, it seemed, started, for, without many minutes for preparation, the big ship began to settle bodily down into the sea. There was no time to cut loose the boats—no time to form a raft. I felt the deck sink under me; shrieks and cries arose. I clutched a large spar which had been left unsecured on deck, and found myself floating amid the foaming waves. My companions in misfortune gradually disappeared. One by one they sank down till I was alone. The storm subsided. For nearly, two days I clung to the spar, and when my strength was well-nigh gone, a ship of the Hollanders, sailing from land, took me aboard. The gale had but sunk to rest for a season. It rose again, and the stout ship was driven before it far to the east amid islands with which no one on board was acquainted. We explored among them for a long time, but the hurricane season was not over. Our captain observed signs of a coming storm, and with a sagacity for which those Hollanders are justly famed he brought up inside a reef, where, sheltered from the sea, we might lie safely at anchor. While there, the gale continuing, I saw a ship approaching, and feared greatly that she might be dashed on the reef. Anxiously I watched her as she drew near. I knew her at once, having so long sailed in her company. She was the once tall ship the Lion, now sadly shattered and shorn of her beauty. She escaped the reef but by half a cable’s length, it seemed, and on she drove to the westward. As long as I could see her from the mast-head, to which I ascended, escaping all dangers, she drove in the same direction. Scarcely could I hope, however, with the numberless islands which besprinkle that ocean, she could drive clear of them all. Still she may have escaped. The gale continued for many days. Sometimes the wind dropped, but the skipper refused to leave the shelter of the reef, and sure enough before long the storm raged again more furiously than ever. It was his opinion, too, that the gale would continue blowing on towards the east, so that a ship might be driven half round the world by it before she would again find herself in a calm. But I weary you, fair ladies.”

“Go on, go on, good friend!” exclaimed Beatrice, her bosom heaving with agitation. “Didst ever gain further tidings of the Lion?”

“No, lady, not from that day to this,” answered the seaman. “All I know is that it was the Hollander’s opinion if any of her company survive they must be dwelling on one of the islands of the Pacific, on whose shore, undoubtedly, the ribs of the good ship are lying.”

“Beatrice! Hugh! let us go and search for them!” exclaimed Constance, springing up with her eyes streaming, and her hands clasped in an appealing attitude, first turning to one and then to the other. “Stranger, could you guide a ship in the direction in which you think they were driven? We would search every shore, we would visit every island in that mighty Pacific, till we found them. It were a shame if we were to allow my noble brother Edward and that gallant Captain Antony Waymouth to perish on some desert isle without making an effort to save them, and bring them back to their native shores. Hugh, the credit of your manhood is at stake an’ you decline to help us, and I know Beatrice too well to doubt that she will bear me company, and go I will round and round the world if I can find men to man the ship.”

“I promise you, sweet coz, that if you go I will bear you company, and I will answer for brother Hugh,” said Beatrice, taking her friend’s hand. “I would, however, that good Master John Langton could have a word with this stranger; he would understand far more of his account than, with our small knowledge of sea affairs, we can do. What is thy name, friend? We will ask Captain Langton to come up to the hall to see thee.”

The seaman looked somewhat puzzled as he replied—

“I am known, lady, as simple Josiah Weedon, and I will gladly talk with Master Langton, but I have an aged mother and sister, and a wife who was sorely displeased at my leaving her before, and I doubt that she will let me quit home again; yet to please two such sweet ladies as you are, and to bring back to the world two such gallant gentlemen as Captain Antony Waymouth, and his lieutenant Master Edward Raymond, I would again risk the dangers of the sea and part from my loving spouse, provided we were simply to make the voyage out and home, spending some fixed time in the search.”

“Thanks, Master Weedon, thanks!” exclaimed Constance enthusiastically; “we would join our prayers with yours to persuade your wife to let you come, if that would avail.”

“My better-half, ladies, is one woman in a thousand. If she will, she will, you may depend on’t; if she won’t, she won’t, and there’s an end on’t. I will hie me home, and should she consent I will send you word; if not, you will know that I am kept bound in the chains of matrimony.”

Suddenly Hugh recollected that probably the stranger was hungry, which he confessed to be the case. Refreshment was therefore placed for him in the dining-hall, to which he set himself to do ample justice, and while he was discussing it Beatrice sent a messenger to summon Master Langton. The old captain soon appeared. His astonishment at hearing the account given by Weedon was very great, but far greater was it on hearing of the resolution to which his fair friends had so suddenly arrived. He knew Constance too well by this time to attempt to combat it. Before he made any remark, however, he had a long conversation with the stranger. He seemed perfectly satisfied that he was honest and his statements true, though he doubted much the likelihood of the missing ship being found. It was not a matter to be settled in a hurry; much discussion would be required, and he could not find it in his heart to oppose the scheme altogether.

Pressed by Hugh, Master Weedon gladly consented to remain that night at the hall to rest, and if he ate and drank abundantly he deserved his provender in return for the way he plied his tongue for Hugh’s benefit. Hugh would scarcely have allowed him to sleep had he not cried out that his tongue could wag no more. Next morning, while discussing the ale and beef and wheaten bread placed before him at breakfast, he was compelled by the young man to begin again, and before he was permitted to go on his way he had given Hugh a large amount of information about those eastern seas and strange lands among which he had so long wandered. The ladies had filled a satchel with good food, and pressed on the seaman a purse with a store of coin to enable him with ease to reach his journey’s end. There was little doubt that the subject would be discussed by the two maidens and Hugh. In truth, morning, noon, and even, it was the only matter about which they could speak; even Captain Langton caught much of their enthusiasm. Hugh was fully as warm as his sister or Constance. Means would not be wanting between them to fit out a tall ship able to sail round the world. John Langton must be captain; they would take no refusal. Master Josiah Weedon should be pilot if his wife would let him go, and if not, no doubt he could give such directions to Captain Langton as would enable him to sail in the direction they desired, where they might perchance discover the Lion. At length their importunity, if not their reasoning, succeeded in overcoming all Master Langton’s scruples, and he consented to search for a suitable ship, to fit her out and store her, and to find the necessary officers and crew. Not many days had elapsed, and just as Captain Langton was about to set off for Plymouth, when Josiah Weedon arrived habited exactly as before.

“Fair ladies, Master Hugh, I am ready to sail with you to any part of the world you may desire,” he exclaimed as he entered the house. “Things are changed since I left home, and beshrew me I was an idiot to expect it to be otherwise. My good old mother is in her grave; had she been alive I should have had a different tale to tell. My sister is married and gone far away I know not whither, and my wife, why she has gone away with my sister and a new husband of her own into the bargain, and not a soul in the place would acknowledge me. My doublet is threadbare and tattered. Josiah Weedon was always the best-dressed man in the village. I was a wretched beggar. Josiah Weedon was to come back with a dozen packhorses laden with gold and precious stones. Many more bitter remarks were made, and finally I was kicked out of the village as a rogue and vagabond, and glad enough to hurry back that I may lay my sword and services at your feet, fair ladies, right willing to do your behests in any way you may command me.”

The young people did not doubt the truth of Master Weedon’s story, and, after he had fed, Hugh hurried him off to Captain Langton that he might accompany him the next morning to Plymouth. While the captain and pilot were selecting a ship and fitting her out, Hugh, with his sister and Constance, was engaged with those learned in the law in arranging for the necessary funds and the disposal of their estates, should they not live to return to the shores of Old England. Yet so sanguine is youth that not one of them ever for a moment believed that they should not return successful. Hugh was the least likely to be disappointed; he would, at all events, see much of the world, and would meet with many adventures. He forgot that it is possible to meet with disagreeable as well as agreeable adventures.

Before long Captain Langton wrote word that he had purchased a stout ship, which Constance insisted should be called the Esperanza, or Hope. Captain Langton was well known, and he had little difficulty in selecting a goodly company, especially when the object of the voyage was understood. Many young gallants offered their services on hearing that Mistress Beatrice Willoughby and Mistress Constance Raymond were themselves going on it, and were much disappointed on having them courteously refused. Captain Langton selected as his officers staid, steady, and trusty men, who were likely to keep one object in view—their duty—and not to depart from it.

The tall ship Esperanza, with banners and streamers flying and the white canvas spread to the breeze, sailed down Plymouth Sound on her way to the far-off lands of the East. Never ship bare richer freight, for never sailed over the salt seas two fairer damsels with more loving, faithful hearts. Fair blew the breeze, calm was the sea, just rippled by the joyous wind, and bright the sky overhead. Even John Langton caught some of the enthusiasm of his young charges, and could not help predicting a favourable termination to the adventure. Well was the good ship called the Esperanza, for all on board felt hope reigning in their bosoms except Master Weedon, the pilot. When rallied on his gravity he replied—

“I prithee do not ask me to rejoice at the prospect of the future who have been oft so cruelly deceived. If matters turn out well, good; it will be time enough to rejoice then; if ill, it will be but as I expect. I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I have not laughed in vain. Meantime I will do my duty, and guide the ship towards those regions where the fair dames and their brother desire to proceed. May their star be a happier one than mine!”

This was the usual style of Weedon’s remarks. Inside a rough shell there was a tender heart, which had been sorely wounded by the reception he had encountered on his return to the place of his birth.

Hugh Willoughby, on the contrary, was full of life and animation. Every thing he saw was new and strange, and afforded him delight, and he looked forward without doubt to the complete success of their enterprise. The ship sailed on without interruption till the burning rays of the sun, which shone down on the deck, making the pitch to bubble up out of the seams, and driving the ladies to seek the shadow of the sails, warned them that they were already in southern latitudes. The elder seamen laughed at the notion of the weather being hot.

“Do you call this hot?” said Master Weedon. “Why, good friends, we were wont during calms in those eastern seas to cook our victuals on the bare planks or on a sheet of tin placed on the deck. I can certify that we shall have it far hotter than this.”

The breeze still held fair, though coming off the land of Africa, said to lie some twenty leagues away on the larboard beam.

“A sail! a sail!” was shouted by the seaman on the watch in the top. “To the eastward, and seemingly approaching us,” he replied to the questions put to him.

Mariners sailing over the ocean in those days had to be on their guard against foes in every direction. Every preparation was made to give the stranger a warm reception should he prove an enemy. The heavy guns and all fire-arms were loaded; battle-axes, pikes were got up, and placed with slow matches in readiness for use; swords were girded on, and the deck of the Esperanza—generally so quiet and peaceful—assumed a thoroughly warlike appearance.

When all things were ready, Hugh approached the ladies.

“Fair friend and sweet sister, I am about to exert some little authority over you,” he said. “Should yonder stranger prove to be a foe, you must descend into the hold, where you will be free from danger. When we have driven off, or captured, or sunk the enemy, we will summon you from your prison-house to rejoice with us in our victory, and to reward those who have exhibited most valour in the fight.”

To this arrangement neither Beatrice nor Constance showed any inclination to agree.

“But suppose one of the foeman’s shot was to deprive you of life,” argued Hugh. “In battle, methinks, bullets pay little respect to persons.”

“We shall but die in the performance of our duty and in the execution of our mission,” answered Constance.

Hugh, not quite comprehending her remark, observed—

“Yes; but one might die, and one might escape—and alack for the survivor!”

Still the ladies insisted on remaining.

“Take your will, take your will, fair ladies. I would not quarrel with you at such a time,” he said in a mournful tone. “But I pray that neither of you may be killed, though, perchance, a bullet may tear open that fair cheek, or a splinter may deprive sweet Beatrice of an eye. Although I doubt not Edward’s love would stand the test, it would be a sorry plight in which to greet him should we haply discover the land where the Lion is cast away.”

The fair damsels looked at each other.

“Brother Hugh, we will follow your counsel and seek shelter in the hold, where we may offer up prayers for your safety,” said Beatrice humbly, Constance signifying, at the same time, that she agreed with her friend.

The stranger approached. A crescent was seen on her green ensign. She was undoubtedly a Sallee Rover. They were in the latitude where those vultures of the ocean were wont to cruise. Hugh hurried the ladies below. The ports of the Esperanza were closed, and many of the crew hidden away under the bulwarks, so that she looked but little able to defend herself. Not that any ship in those days went to sea unarmed—as well might a lamb attempt to sport among a troop of hungry lions. The Sallee Rover approached, with her infidel banners flying, her brazen trumpets braying, and her deck covered with turbaned swarthy Moors, expecting to obtain an easy victory.

John Langton kept his good ship on her course without replying. He well knew that, should victory not be obtained, the alternative must be death, or—worse than death—a life-long slavery. Not a man on board but resolved to triumph or to go down fighting for his own sake, but much more for the sake of the fair ladies he had sworn to serve and protect.

Louder blew the trumpets of the Moors as their ship came within shot of the Esperanza. Nearer and nearer they drew. Their purpose, it seemed, was to run the English ship on board, and to overcome her crew by superior numbers. Captain Langton watched for the best moment to fire. Already the dark-skinned infidels stood, with their scimitars in hand, crowding the side, and some in the rigging, ready to spring on board.

“Raise the ports, and give it them!” shouted the brave English captain.

His gallant crew cheerfully obeyed, and the next instant twenty Moors were seen struggling or dead, prostrate on the deck of the Rover, which made a vain attempt to haul her tack aboard and sheer off. Again the English crew loaded their guns ready to fire, as with a crash she ran alongside. This time they were pointed at her hull, and fearful was the execution they caused. Many of the Moors endeavoured to spring on the deck of the Esperanza, but they were driven headlong back with pikes and battle-axes, too late to regain their ship, which broke clear of the Englishman, and they fell headlong into the sea. Then fearful shrieks arose as the Esperanza sailed on—the Sallee Rover was sinking. Was mercy to be shown to those who never showed it to others? The choice was not allowed them. Before the canvas could be taken off the English ship, the Rover had sunk beneath the sea, and not a Moor remained struggling on the surface.

Beatrice and Constance, finding that the firing and turmoil of battle had ceased, entreated that they might come on deck. They gazed around in astonishment on every side; no foe was there; and except a few of the crew with limbs bound up, and here and there the white splinters where the shot from the Rover had struck the bulwarks, not a vestige of the fight was to be seen. Even then the eyes of most on board were gazing at the spot where the Rover had gone down, as if they expected to see her emerge again from her watery grave. The damsels could scarcely believe their senses.

“Heaven has fought for us,” said Captain Langton. “We did our duty, but no power of ours could have accomplished what has been done. I pray that it may prove the first of many successes leading to that which may crown our hopes.”

“I pray so too, kind friend,” answered Beatrice, her eyes filling with tears as she thought of the danger from which they had been preserved.

Such was the tone of feeling of the voyagers—ay, and of many of the boldest adventurers—of those days. They gave Heaven the praise for all their deliverances and successes, and threw the blame when they failed on their own folly and neglect. There were clear-sighted, right-judging, and truly pious men in those days, who were laying the foundation of England’s glory and power. The age which produced a Shakespeare produced many other gigantic intellects and true men.

The Esperanza sailed on, hope swelling the hearts of her owners and a fair wind her canvas, till Afric’s southern cape, known by the name she bore, that of Bona Esperanza, appeared in sight.

Master Weedon counselled that they should not enter Table Bay, but proceed on to Saldanha Bay as more convenient for watering, and where they were less likely to receive interruption. As they drew near two tall ships were seen at anchor. They might be foes more likely than friends, where foes were so numerous and friends so few. The captain seemed doubtful whether it were wise to enter.

“We may fight them if they oppose us, and conquer them as we did the Rover,” cried Hugh. “Maybe when they know our errand, whatever their nation, they may be inclined to aid us.”

Master Weedon seemed rather doubtful of this, but Captain Langton sided with Hugh, and the Esperanza was accordingly steered towards the bay, running up a white flag as a signal of truce at the fore. It was well that this precaution was taken, for the strangers proved to be two Hollanders, always jealous of the English who appeared in those parts. The captains, however, when they found that their trade was not to be interfered with, and that there were two fair ladies on board the Esperanza, proved themselves to be honourable and courteous gentlemen. They begged permission to visit the English ship, and offered all the aid in their power to forward the object of the adventurers.

This aid was gratefully accepted, and picked men from their crews being sent by them the rigging of the Esperanza was quickly set up, and other repairs effected, and wood and water got on board, so that slid was able to sail to the east in their company. Scarcely were the three ships out of sight of land when several sail were espied coming from the west. The Hollanders hailed to notify that they must be part of a Portugal fleet which they had reason to expect ere long in those seas. Should the Portugals espy them they would assuredly make chase and not spare either ships or crews should they come off victorious. As more strange ships were seen coming up, flight was their only prudent course. All sail was made, accordingly, to escape. The strangers had espied them, for they also crowded on canvas in pursuit. Captain Langton informed the Hollanders that no English fleet had of late sailed with so many ships as now appeared.

“Then they are Portugals, and we must escape them if we value our lives or liberty,” was the answer.

Though the Hollanders were stout ships, yet the Portugals had faster keels, it seemed, for in spite of the wide spread of canvas set by the former they gained rapidly on them. The Esperanza might have gone far ahead; and though the Hollanders hailed and begged Captain Langton so to do, he replied that it went against his stomach to do such an act—to desert those who had befriended him. Hugh applauded his resolution, and Beatrice and Constance agreed with him. The Esperanza therefore shortened sail that she might not run away from her heavier-sailing consorts. They insisted, however, that she should keep a short distance ahead, that they might bear the first onslaught.

There was ample time to make every preparation for the fight, and the shades of evening were coming on before the leading ships of the Portugals got up with the stout Hollanders. It was now to be seen whether to sail fast or to fight stoutly were of most avail. So fiercely did the Hollanders receive their assailants that the first three of them dropped astern in confusion; others coming up were treated in the same manner. Hugh was so delighted with the bravery of the Hollanders that he begged Captain Langton to drop astern into the fight.

“No, no, the post of honour is the station assigned to them,” answered the captain. “Should any of the Portugals pass our friends it will then be our duty to fight them. Let us not wish to deprive the brave Hollanders of the glory they are winning for themselves.”

Chapter Twelve.

The Hollanders sailed steadily on: the wind freshened. Still more of the Portugal ships were coming up: the three friends held steadily on their way. The Hollanders sent heavy shot from their sterns, sorely discomposing their pursuers. The wind, too, was increasing, and clouds were gathering, and darkness coming on. It was clear that the Portugals were being drawn away from their intended port. This encouraged the Hollanders to hold out; yet they contended against fearful odds. Now the whole Portugal fleet, crowding on still more sail, pressed up to overwhelm them. It would have been wiser of the said Portugals had they allowed their expected prey to pass on their way unmolested. A terrific blast struck their ships, rending sails and snapping spars and topmasts in every direction, and throwing the whole fleet into confusion; while the stout Hollanders, with their stronger canvas, glided calmly on, uninjured by the gale, though sorely battered by the shot of the enemy. Darkness speedily came on, and shut out their foes from their sight. When morning broke, not an enemy’s ship was to be seen. Captain Langton hailed the Hollanders gratefully to acknowledge the gallant protection they had afforded the Esperanza; whereon the two captains appeared, and, waving their hats, assured him that it was their delight and pleasure to serve ladies as fair and excellent as those who sailed on board her. The heavy sea running prevented any further communication for some days. Thus escorted, the Esperanza sailed on towards Batavia; whence it was proposed that she should take fresh departure towards the little-known seas to the east, whither the Lion had been seen driving. Space will not allow an account of all the attentions paid to Beatrice and Constance at Batavia, and the magnificent fête which the governor gave in their honour; for, even in those good old days, fair ladies were not often found sailing round the world in search of lost lovers and mothers, albeit the so doing was a most praiseworthy and commendable act. Certes, few damsels would be so confident as were these two heroines, that, should they succeed in their search, the brothers or lovers would be ready to exhibit that amount of gratitude which Beatrice and Constance looked for as their reward. It was reported that Constance, who was known only to be looking for her brother, received and refused uncounted offers of marriage from the governor, as well as from all the chief unmarried officers of the colony who could aspire to that honour, and that she was entreated to reconsider the subject, and to return to their fair port; while Beatrice was assured, with all the delicacy of which the mind and language of a Hollander is capable, that, should she not succeed in her search, it would be entirely her own fault should she remain long in single blessedness.

Happily, the sickly season had not commenced at Batavia, before the Esperanza was once more ready for sea; and thus the adventurers escaped the fate which has overtaken so many voyagers who have visited those sickness-causing shores. The governor and all the chief officers accompanied the ladies to their boat; the whole population gathered to see them embark; handkerchiefs waved, shouts arose, prayers for their safety were uttered; and the guns from the forts and all the shipping in the harbour fired as the anchor of the Esperanza was won from its oozy bed, and, the sails being spread, she glided forth on her perilous way.

It was reported that the governor and several of his officers shed tears as they thought of all the numberless dangers to which those fair dames would be exposed; but on that point the author of this faithful chronicle feels some doubt, for reasons which he does not consider right to disclose.

The fair damsels themselves felt few alarms or doubts: they were grateful for all the kindness they had received, and still more thankful that they had escaped from the place, and were once more on the free ocean. They had no longer cause to dread interruption from Portugals or from the ships of other civilised nations. The Governor of Batavia had given them letters charging all true Hollanders to render them every assistance in their power, and they hoped by watchfulness and prudence to escape from the hands of the savage people inhabiting the countries towards which they were sailing. They were well supplied with provisions and ammunition, and hoped that they might be delayed in no place, except to make the necessary inquiries for the Lion, and to take in water and wood; for, albeit heroines are described in romances as performing long journeys without food or shelter, ships cannot sail over the ocean without stopping to take in fresh supplies of water that their crews may drink, and wood with which to cook their victuals.

As yet, not a word respecting the Lion or her possible fate had they heard. Still their spirits did not flag while they approached the spot where Master Weedon had last beheld her. Seamen were stationed in the tops to keep a lookout for any strange sail, or for islands where the information they sought might be obtained. Again want of space prevents a description of the many places at which they touched, and the strange people they beheld. The Esperanza held her course to the east, skilfully navigated, and escaping many dangers. Right well and faithfully did Master Weedon fulfil his engagement: he pointed out the very reef within which the Hollander had taken shelter when he had seen the Lion drive by.

“Henceforward,” he concluded, “I will submit to the superior knowledge of Captain Langton in the guidance of our good ship.”

Due east the Esperanza now sailed. Mariners in those days troubled not their heads about circular storms or any such theories; and therefore it was concluded, that if a gale was blowing from the west, before which the Lion was driven, she most assuredly would be found to the east. Now on one hand, now on the other, islands were espied and visited; but no information was obtained. Either there were no natives, or they fled at the approach of the strange ship; or, when natives were found, no means existed of exchanging ideas between the voyagers and them.

At length an isle appeared ahead; its mountains, as first seen, scarcely to be distinguished from the sky, as they rose out of the blue ocean, now growing more and more distinct, till they assumed new and picturesque forms, some exhibiting dark and rugged rocks, lofty precipices, towering pinnacles, or rounded and gentle slopes covered with umbrageous groves. Here bays or inlets were seen, and green valleys and dark ravines extending far inland. A reef appeared, extending partly round the island, with openings in it through which the ship might sail, and find a secure anchorage within. No dangers appeared ahead; and, skilfully piloted, the Esperanza came to an anchor. Captain Langton, however, like a wise leader, observed carefully how he might speedily again get to sea should circumstances require it. Words would fail to describe the beauty of the island to which the adventurers had come,—the brightness of the atmosphere, the purity of the air, the sparkling waterfalls, the yellow sand, the tall palm-trees, the gorgeous flowers, the groves, the valleys, and the mountains before mentioned. There were natives; for their habitations of considerable size and varied form were perceived amid the trees. Before long, some were seen coming off in canoes; but it seemed that the ship was a strange thing to them, for none of them dared approach her. As observed at a distance, they were dark-skinned men, tall of figure, with much rude ornament, and their hair curiously dressed out in various forms. Still it was possible that they might be mild and gentle of disposition; and as the adventurers were anxious to hold communication with them, Master Weedon offered to visit the shore, and, presenting trinkets and such-like things which had been brought for the purpose, invite them on board.

It was with no small amount of anxiety that he was watched, as, with four men in his boat, he approached the beach. No one drew nearer till he had landed: when, taking the treasures he had brought from the boat, he held them up, first towards one canoe, then towards another; and then he placed them on the sand, and returned to his boat. Thus tempted, the savages landed, and quickly made their way towards the articles on the beach. They were soon seized on and examined; and in a brief space of time afterwards the savages seemed as ready to go on board the ship as they before seemed desirous of keeping away from her. Before long, canoes appeared from many other quarters. Captain Langton, observing this, considered a while, and then called Hugh to him.

“There is a saying, Master Hugh, that we should look upon all men as honest till we find them rogues; but methinks it were safer in these regions to consider all rogues till we find from long experience that they are honest,” he observed. “Now, I suspect, from the way these people at first avoided us, they had some reason to believe we would do them harm; but that, seeing that such is not our thought, they now come without fear of us. From this I argue that some other ship has been here, to whose company they gave cause of offence; and they might suppose that our ship is the same, or that we have come to avenge the injury they may have done our friends. We will not say this to the ladies, lest it alarm them without cause; but we will take due precautions against treachery, of which they are assuredly capable, or their looks belie them.”

Hugh fully agreed with Captain Langton in his opinion, and Master Weedon and the other officers of the ship were warned to be on their guard. Many of the savages had by this time collected round the ship, and a few chiefs and others came on board. Beatrice and Constance had retired to their cabin; for they neither liked the appearance of the savages, nor desired to be seen of them. They looked curiously at every thing on board, especially at the guns, of the use of which they clearly had some idea. As evening drew on, they took their departure, seemingly on excellent terms with their white visitors. The seamen began to consider them very well-behaved savages; but Captain Langton warned them not to trust to appearances, nor would he allow any of the crew to visit the shore.

The next day, some large canoes came sailing up from other parts of the coast, and many more savages assembled round the ship. Nearly half the ship’s company had been below, either asleep or engaged in various occupations, when the savages were on board the first day. Captain Langton, remembering this, determined to keep half the people concealed, and at the same time well armed, while those on deck also were armed; the guns, were loaded, the slow matches ready, the cable was hove short, and the sails loosed.

“Maybe the savages mean us well, and these precautions may prove not to have been necessary,” he observed to Hugh, who seemed to think that he was over-careful; “but suppose they mean us ill, and purpose suddenly setting on us, we shall have cause to be thankful that we took them. I know what savages are; and I need not tell thee, if they were to succeed, what would be the fate of those you love best, and of all on board. I like not the looks of these gentry; though, for naked savages, their manners are wondrously courteous.”

Hugh could not but agree that his friend was right; though it was tantalising not to be allowed to wander along that glittering strand, or through those shady groves, or to climb those picturesque hills he gazed at with so much admiration. Water and fuel were, however, to be got off, and, if possible, vegetables: as to meat, as no animals were seen, it was concluded that none was to be obtained. Three or four chiefs and about a dozen followers were allowed on board, and to them was explained by signs what was required. The chiefs quickly understood, and, after talking some time together, ordered away ten of the canoes to the shore; still leaving, however, the same number alongside, full of men armed with clubs and spears. They themselves, however, showed no inclination to quit the ship, but rather to remain to acquaint themselves with every thing about her. They seemed much disconcerted at not being allowed to go below; and for some time sat moodily on the deck, addressing no one. When, however, the canoes were seen coming off, they again rose to their feet, and their animation returned: but, instead of ten, there were now thirty canoes; ten appeared to be laden with calabashes of water, ten with wood chopped fit for burning, and ten with roots and vegetables.

“Surely these people mean us no ill, or they would not thus attend to our wants,” cried Hugh, who had from the first been unwilling to mistrust them.

“Wait till we see how they proceed,” answered Captain Langton.

The savages now thronged more thickly than ever round the ship. Many sprang on board, and they began to hand up the calabashes and wood; but Hugh observed, on looking down over the side, that there was no large quantity of either wood or water, and that many more people had come on board than were necessary to perform the work. The seamen had rolled some casks up to the side, that the water might be emptied into them; so that, for that purpose, no one need have come on deck. The savages, too, began to mingle among the crew; and Captain Langton observed that three or four attached themselves especially to each seaman, and at the same time that more canoes were coming off from the shore. Matters had already proceeded far enough. Ordering his men to be on their guard, and to separate themselves from the savages, he signified to the chiefs that he was ready to pay them with the articles he had promised, but that their countrymen must leave the ship. The chiefs gazed around: there were at least four savages, to one Englishman on board, and ten times as many around the ship. A signal was made, and in an instant each black man raised his club to strike a sailor.

“Hugh, beware!” cried Captain Langton, presenting his pistol at the breast of a chief whose club was about to dash out young Willoughby’s brains.

Hugh sprang aside; the savage fell, whirling his club in the air. The seamen, mostly on the watch, avoided the blows of the savages, returning them with interest with their sharp hangers or battle-axes. The report of the captain’s pistol was the signal for those below to appear. Up through the hatches they sprang, shooting, cutting down, and driving before them, the treacherous blacks. They quickly fought their way up to the guns, one of which, discharged, made the natives in the canoes paddle off in terror towards the shore. Not so the chiefs. Two seamen lay stretched lifeless on the deck from the blows of their clubs; others were wounded. They themselves stood whirling their heavy weapons around them. A shot laid one low; another, the youngest, driven to the bulwarks, having hurled his club at his foes, sprang overboard, and attempted to reach the canoes by swimming; while a third, fighting to the last, was cut down by Master Weedon’s hanger. A few of the canoes were struck by the shots; but the greater number escaped unhurt to the shore.

While the guns were still firing, Beatrice and Constance appeared on deck, and entreated that the savages might be spared. Although Captain Langton and Master Weedon considered such leniency ill bestowed, they obeyed the wishes of the fair ladies they served.

The nature of these savages was, however, before long, proved. Not many hours had passed when warlike sounds of horns and drums, with shrieks and cries, were heard; and round a point were seen coming towards the ship a fleet of large canoes, each like two vessels joined together with one mast and huge sail. Five, ten, nearly twenty, were counted. Nearly a hundred men were on board each; and, by their fierce and frantic gestures, there could be no doubt what were their intentions. It was possible that the guns of the Esperanza might have destroyed many of them, if not the whole: but such a wise commander as Captain Langton considered that nothing would be gained by remaining, and much might be lost; and, as the wind was fair to pass through the nearest passage in the reef, he ordered the anchor to be tripped, the sails to be sheeted home; and, before the canoes got near, the Esperanza, under all sail, was standing out to sea.

“Once on the open ocean, with a fair breeze, I care not how many of those savages come round us,” cried the captain, as he guided the ship towards the passage in the reef.

Every man was at his station to trim the sails; for, should the fickle wind change or fall, the Esperanza might be cast helplessly on the rugged mass of coral near which she was passing. The savages showed that they had no intention of abandoning their prey, while stronger proof was given of Captain Langton’s wisdom in being cautious of them. The rocks, over which the water formed and leaped, were on every side.

The Esperanza glided on. It seemed that a person might spring from her yard-arms to the rocks. It was here the savages must have hoped to overtake her. They were close astern, and the warriors on their decks even now began to cast their darts towards the ship. Had there been but a few minutes’ delay in getting under way, they would have come alongside at a moment most perilous to the safety of the ship. A loud cheer burst from the lips of the British seamen as they found themselves once more on the open ocean. Still their persevering foes came on. By their numbers alone, should they once succeed in getting alongside, they might gain the victory. The after-guns were pointed towards the headmost canoes; but though struck by the shot, and though several of their warriors were killed, they yet came on. So rapidly, too, did they glide over the water, that many of them ranged up on either side. Little could they, however, have expected the shower of shot and bullets which crashed down upon them, tearing open the sides of their frail vessels, rending their sails, shattering the masts, and sweeping the warriors off their decks. It would have been scant mercy to themselves had the adventurers shown mercy. Some of the canoes got alongside; and the enraged savages, attempting to climb up, were driven back with pike and pistol and battle-axe, while the big guns, playing down on them, tore open the sides of their canoes, and sent them to the bottom, leaving those on board to swim for their lives. Soon the whole sea astern of the ship was alive with the forms of the savages as they swam on, either to reach the canoes of their friends or to gain the shore. The breeze increased. The Esperanza rushed through the water. In vain the savages attempted to get on board: numbers had been slain, half their finest canoes had been sunk or disabled. With gratitude and rejoicing the adventurers saw the remainder, suddenly altering their sails, dash towards the shore.

On this one occasion, not an Englishman had been wounded. They waited till they had got far out to sea before they committed to the deep the bodies of their poor shipmates killed in the morning. The breeze which had enabled them to escape from the savages increased rapidly to a gale, and the gale to a fearful storm. They would thankfully have been within the shelter of some friendly port. Dangers seemed thickening around them. On drove the ship; the wild seas reared their foaming heads on either side, the wind howled and whistled through the rigging, the thunder roared, the lightning flashed. Darkness came on; but still the helpless ship drove before the tempest.

Brave Hugh remembered whose son he was, and never lost heart. He went into the cabin, where his sister and Constance were seated,—their hands clasped together,—for the purpose of encouraging them; for the way in which the stout ship rolled and pitched and tumbled about, the timbers and bulkheads groaned and creaked, the water washed overhead, combined with the sounds before described and the shouts of the seamen, made him conclude that they would be overcome with terror.

“Why should we be alarmed?” asked Beatrice, looking up. “We have been protected hitherto: why not to the end? We calculated the risks we were to run before we embarked: we are prepared for all the dangers we may have to encounter.”

“Brave sister!” cried Hugh as he left the cabin to return to his duty on deck. “I pray that Edward, for whom you have sacrificed so much, may prove worthy of you, should we succeed in finding him.”

All night long the ship drove on before the gale. No object even a cable’s length ahead could have been discerned, except when the bright flashes of lightning, darting from the inky clouds, played over the foam-crests of the heavy seas. Who could tell at what moment the good ship might be cast on some coral reef or on some desert shore, and be dashed to fragments? What prospect that the life of any one of them would be saved? or if by any unexpected means their lives should be preserved, that they should escape from falling into the power of savages such as those whom they had lately encountered?

Dawn approached. With daylight, dangers might be seen, and perchance avoided. The spirits of all rose. Those on the watch ahead looked out eagerly for the first faint streaks of light in the eastern sky. Suddenly a cry arose,—a fearful cry to those who knew its import,—

“Land ahead! Breakers ahead!”

“Down with the helm! Haul the starboard tacks aboard, the sheets well aft!” cried Captain Langton in a tone which showed no sign of trepidation. “We may yet weather yonder reef, if the mast proves faithful. Courage, friends; courage!”

Each order was promptly obeyed. The ship heeled over to the blast, staggering through the seas. The reef might be avoided; but there was a point beyond that it seemed impossible to weather. Captain Langton shook his head.

“Heaven may preserve our lives, but the fate of the good ship is sealed,” he answered to Hugh’s inquiries. “Be prepared to bring your sweet sister and Mistress Raymond on deck. Assure them that each man on board will cheerfully yield up his own life so that theirs may be preserved.”

Hugh entered the cabin. In a short time he returned, conducting the two fair girls. They gazed around, not without terror; and yet they retained a calmness and self-possession which many of the other sex might have envied. On one side was the raging sea, on the other a smiling island; but dark rocks, the dread of mariners, intervened.

“Heaven will assuredly hear our prayer, and cause the wild waves to take us, rather than that we should fall into the hands of savages such as those from whom we have just escaped,” said Beatrice in answer to a remark of her friend.

“Yet there are savages. Even now I see a numerous band moving along the shore!” exclaimed Constance.

“Still be of courage, sweet sister. The ship may hold together; and we have arms with which to fight, and brave men to use them.”

The seamen, though striving to the utmost, knew that the unavoidable catastrophe was approaching. Already the ship was embayed, and the captain was looking out for some spot where she might, with the best chance of preserving their lives, be allowed to drive on shore, should the last resource fail. The anchors had been got ready to let go. Trusty seamen stood with gleaming axes to cut away the masts. Hugh hurried his charges under shelter; for Captain Langton’s uplifted hand showed what was about to occur. The shrouds were severed, the axes struck the tall masts, and one by one they fell into the raging sea. One anchor was let go, and speedily another.

“Do the anchors hold?” was the cry.

“Ay, ay,” was the answer. “The ship no longer drives; the wind is falling; the sea breaks here with far less force than farther out. Heaven be praised! Even now the ship may be saved!”

Such were the exclamations uttered by those on board the Esperanza. The ship had driven into a bay, where, against all expectation, the anchors held. Should the gale not again increase, fresh masts might be procured from the shore, and the voyage be continued. All depended on the character of the natives. Persons were observed moving on the beach, and apparently watering the ship; but the sea was yet too rough to allow any boats to come off with safety. Gradually the wind went down, and Captain Langton resolved to communicate with the shore, in order to ascertain the character of the inhabitants, that, at all events, the ladies, and a party to guard them, might be placed in safety till he could get the ship into a secure harbour. The shore was anxiously scanned by all. The natives were still there. One man, who possessed the best eyesight in the ship, affirmed that the savages were white, and wore clothes; though, as might be supposed, his assertion met with the ridicule it deserved.

“We shall soon know the truth,” cried Hugh, who, with his sister and Constance, had been the most eager of the spectators; “for here come two canoes, which will speedily be alongside.”

“Who can those be? not savages, surely,” cried Constance, as the leading canoe drew near.

“My heart tells me, e’en though my eyes might play me false,” exclaimed Beatrice, trembling as she had not with the terror of the expected shipwreck.

In another minute, Edward Raymond had sprung up the side of the Esperanza, and had pressed her in his arms; scarcely heeding, for an instant, his own sweet sister Constance.

“Among faithful, loving, daring women, surpassing all! Now we are rewarded for all our toils and dangers!” he exclaimed, as he looked again and again at the countenance of his beloved Beatrice to assure himself that it was she who rested on one arm, while his other hand pressed that of his devoted sister.

In the second canoe came Antony Waymouth.

Constance received him, as in duty bound, as a relative, albeit a distant one. Whether or not he came up to the picture her imagination had painted of a perfect knight, our chronicle says not. Certain, however, is it, that from the moment his eyes beheld her, and he heard of the sacrifice she had made to friendship in accompanying the fair Beatrice, his heart became enslaved, under the belief that she would be willing to make a far greater sacrifice for love.

Thus had the chief object of the voyage of the Esperanza been accomplished,—the long-lost adventurers were found. Much, however, had still to be done. The boats were lowered, and the ladies, with Hugh Willoughby and a few of the mariners who were sick, were conveyed on shore. The savages, it was found, had made their escape from the island; and, believing that the spirit who protected the white man had come there to punish them for their crime, no more returned to it.

The Esperanza was, the next day, towed into the harbour where lay the battered hull of the Lion. All her company were thankful that they had not repaired her before, and sailed away; and it was unanimously agreed that her rich freight should be transferred to the Esperanza, in which ship all should sail back to Old England. The masts intended for the Lion were placed in the Esperanza, which, in a wonderfully short space of time, was got ready for sea. Certain it is, that, conducted by Master Walker, a service was held, both crews being present, to return thanks for their preservation thus far, and to offer up prayers for their protection for the future. And, moreover, it seemed clear and undoubted, if ladies have to wander round the world, it is advisable, meet, and convenient, if possible, that they should have husbands to protect them: therefore the same excellent minister was called on to unite in the bonds of holy matrimony Master Antony Waymouth and Mistress Constance Raymond, and Master Edward Raymond, the brother of the above Constance, and Mistress Beatrice Willoughby, before the Esperanza once more sailed on her homeward voyage to Old England.

Traversing the vast Pacific towards the east, and rounding the southern point of the New World, the Esperanza reached Plymouth; and never ship returned home with richer freight of gold and of precious stones, or truer or more loving hearts. And here, in the peaceful haven, endeth our “Chronicle of the Sea.”

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Archibald Hughson"

Chapter One.

Archibald Hughson, a young Shetland lad, having a strong desire to go to sea, and his mother withholding her consent, determines to run from home.—He is treacherously assisted by Max Inkster, a wicked sailor, who succeeds in getting him stowed away on board the “Kate,” a Greenland whaler.

“Where are you going, Archy?” asked Maggie Hughson, as she ran after her brother, who was stealing away from the house, evidently not wishing to be intercepted.

The young Hughson’s home stood high up on the slope of a hill on the small island of Bressay, one of the Shetland group. Hence the eye ranged over the northern ocean, while to the eastward appeared the isle of Noss, with the rocky Holm of Noss beyond, the abode of numberless sea-fowl, and to be reached by a rope-way cradle over a broad chasm of fearful depth. The house, roofed with stone, and strongly-built, as it needed to be to withstand the fierce gales blowing over that wild sea, was surrounded by patches of cultivated ground, without trench or bank, or a tree to be seen far or near.

Archy stopped when he heard his sister’s voice; for, though headstrong and obstinate, he loved her more than any other human being.

“I am going over to Lerwick to see Max Inkster,” he answered, looking back at her. “The ‘Kate’ sails to-morrow, and I promised him a visit before he goes.”

“Oh, surely you don’t forget that our mother told you she wished you would not have anything to say to that man!” exclaimed Maggie. “He is bad in many ways, and he can only do you harm.”

“I am not going to be led by any one,” answered Archy. “I like to hear his tales of the sea, and his adventures when chasing the whale, or hunting white bears, and those sort of things away in Greenland, and perhaps some day I may go to sea myself, and I want to know what sort of a life I am likely to lead. I am not going to be kept digging potatoes, and tending cattle and sheep all my life.”

“Oh Archy! don’t think of it,” said Maggie. “It would break our mother’s heart to have you go. You know that our father was lost at sea, and so was uncle Magnus, and many other relations and friends. God will bless you, and you will be far happier, if, in obedience to her, you give up your wild notions and stay at home.”

“I am not going to be dictated to, Maggie, by mother or you,” exclaimed Archy. “Max is a fine fellow, notwithstanding what you say. He is expecting me, and I am not going to break my engagement; so, good-bye, Maggie. Go back home, and look after mother—that’s your duty, which you are so fond of talking about.”

Maggie, finding that her arguments were of no avail, returned home, as she could not venture longer to leave her mother, who was ill in bed.

Archy took his way till he was out of sight of the house, and then from beneath a large stone, he pulled out a bundle, which he slung at the end of a stick over his shoulder, and proceeded across the island till he came to the shore of the sound which divides it from the mainland. Several large black high-sided ships lay at anchor, with numerous boats hanging to the davits, and mostly barque-rigged. They were whalers, belonging to Hull and other English and Scotch ports, on their way to Baffin Bay, or the shores of Greenland.

Archy found a boat just about to cross the sound to Lerwick, and, asking for a passage, he jumped in. On landing, he made his way to the house where Max Inkster lodged. The door was open. Archy walked in. Max was alone in a little room on one side of the passage; he was smoking, and a bottle and glass were on the table.

“Glad to see you, lad,” he said. “Sit down. I doubted that you would come.”

“Why?” asked Archy.

“I thought your mother and sister would advise you to keep away from a fellow like me,” answered Max, looking hard at his young guest. He was a strongly-built broad-shouldered man, with an unpleasant expression in his weather-beaten countenance.

“My mother is ill, and did not know I was coming, and I am not going to be dictated to by Maggie,” said Archy.

“That’s the right spirit, boy,” said Max. “If they suspect what you intend doing, they will take good care to prevent you.”

“I don’t intend to let them know,” replied Archy. “But I wish mother was not ill. I am half inclined to stop at home till next season, and then I’ll do what I choose, whatever they may say.”

“I see how it is,” observed Max, with a sneer on his lips. “You are beginning to think we lead too hard a life for you, and you would rather be looking after the cows, and being at the beck and call of mistress Maggie. I thought you had more spirit. You are afraid—that’s the truth of it.”

“No one shall say I am afraid,” exclaimed Archy. “I have asked several captains to take me, but they refused without my mother’s leave, and that she won’t give, just because my father and uncle Magnus were lost at sea, and so she has taken it into her head that I shall be lost also. If you can help me to go in the ‘Kate,’ I am ready. There’s my bundle of clothes.”

“No great stock for a voyage to the Arctic Seas; but we must rig you out when you get on board,” observed Max, taking up Archy’s bundle, and stowing it away in a large seaman’s bag which stood in the corner of the room. “You will have to keep pretty close till we are well clear of the land, or the captain will be for putting you on shore again. Here, take a glass of grog, it will help to keep up your courage.” Max mixed a strong glass of whisky and water, and pushed it across the table to Archy.

Archy’s scruples soon vanished. He now only thought of the adventures he hoped to meet with among the icebergs.

Max had gained his object. From a quarrel which had occurred years before, he had long harboured an ill-feeling towards the Hughson’s; and, for the purpose of thwarting and annoying Mrs Hughson, he was ready to encourage Archy in his disobedience to her. When once a person yields to the suggestions of Satan, he knows not into what crimes he may be hurried. Those who associate with unprincipled people run a fearful risk of being led astray by them. Archy, notwithstanding his mother’s warnings, had persisted in visiting Max Inkster, for the sake of hearing his long yarns of nautical adventure, and he would at first have been excessively indignant had he been told that he was likely, in consequence, to be led into any further act of disobedience.

“Did any one see you come in here?” asked Max. “No; Nanny Clousta was out, and no one was passing at the time,” answered Archy.

“Well, then, stay quiet here till dark, and I’ll take you on board, and stow you away in the hold,” said Max. “You must remain there till I give you a signal to come out; but, remember, that you are not to tell the captain or any one else that I had a hand in helping you. Just say that you slipped on board in a shore boat, and hid yourself of your own accord. You will promise me that?”

Archy had not been in the habit of telling falsehoods; but he had already made one step in the downward course, and though he hesitated, he at last said, “I promise. I needn’t tell that I knew who took me on board, and I can find my own way below, so there’s no necessity to mention your name.”

“That’s it,” said Max. “You will want some food, though. Here, just fill your pockets with this bread and cheese.” He took some from a cupboard. “And here is a flask of whisky and water. You may have to lie hid for a couple of days, or more, may be; so you must manage your provisions accordingly.”

Max went out, and Archy fell asleep, with his head on the table. It was late at night before his evil councillor returned.

“Rouse up, boy,” he whispered. “It’s time we were aboard. I have got a man to take us off, and he will think you belong to the ship. Here, shoulder my bag, and come along.”

Max placed his heavy sea-bag on his young companion’s shoulder. Archy staggered on under it till he reached the boat. The boatman, who had been paid before, pulled away, and they were soon alongside the whaler. Max clambered up the side, and hoisted his bag by a rope after him. Archy followed. The officer of the watch was aft, and as the crew and their friends were constantly coming and going, no notice was taken of them. Max took up his bag, and as he passed up the main hatchway, which was open, having ascertained that there was no one below, he made a sign to Archy to slip down the ladder.

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” he whispered. “No one is likely to go there at this hour.”

Archy did as he was bid, and felt his way in the dark, till he found himself among the empty casks in the hold, which were stowed ready for use. There were certain spaces between the tiers which would afford him room to hide himself away. Into one of these he crept, and lay down waiting for Max. He fancied that where he was he should not be seen by anyone moving about the hold, unless expressly looking for him. He thought that Max was a long time in coming, and perhaps would not come at all. On the return of daylight, which would stream down through the open hatchway, should he not be discovered? he thought. The crew would certainly be at work at an early hour, and he might not have time to find a more secure hiding-place. Then he would have to undergo the annoyance and disgrace of being put on shore, and severely reprimanded by the captain, a very severe man, he had been told. At last he heard some one moving, and presently a light fell on his eyes. He was afraid to stir, almost to breathe, lest he should be discovered.

“Well, if I had not come you would have been hauled out to a certainty in the morning,” said Max, who had only just then been able to pay him his promised visit. “You must come down lower than this. Here, keep after me. Now crawl in there, and don’t come out till you hear three blows, which I’ll give on the casks above your head. You will know by the movement of the ship when we have been at sea a couple of days or so. There; now you have got your will. Here’s your bundle; it will serve as a pillow, and, remember, don’t take any notice of me. I am your friend, but I am not a man who chooses to be trifled with.” Saying this, Max, putting out the lantern, crept away, and Archy was left in solitude and total darkness. The liquor his evil councillor had given him made him sleepy, so he could not think. Otherwise his conscience might have been aroused, and he might have recollected his poor mother lying on a bed of sickness, and his affectionate sister watching for his return. Satan knows that he has his victims secure when they are in that condition.

Archy Hughson was at length awakened by the loud tramp of the crew on deck, the boats being hoisted in, the anchor hove up. He could hear the ripple of the water against the sides of the ship. The “Kate” was under way, but she was not yet even out of Bressay Sound. The hours passed by. He began to grow very weary of his imprisonment, and to long for the expected signal from Max, even though he should soon afterwards have to face the captain, and perhaps be punished for having concealed himself on board. As he thought of this, he began to wish he had waited till he had overcome his mother’s objections, and been able to go sea, like other lads, with a proper outfit. Now and then a better feeling, akin to remorse, stole over him, when he thought of the sorrow and anxiety his absence must cause his mother, who, though over-indulgent, had ever been affectionate and kind to him. Still he did not perceive the wickedness of his own heart, or the cruel ingratitude of which he had been guilty. “She should have let me go, it’s her own fault,” he repeated, hardening himself. “It’s too late now to draw back. I should look very foolish if I was to be set on shore on Unst, and have to find my way home by myself.”

Unst is the most northern of the Shetland Islands, and Archy guessed that by that time the “Kate” was not far off it.

He had little appetite to eat the food he had brought, but he soon drank up the contents of the flask. The mixture was somewhat strong, and sent him off to sleep again. Once more Satan had him at an advantage, for even then, had he gone to the captain, he would have been sent on shore, and retrieved his fault by returning home and relieving his mother’s anxiety. Undo it he could not; for a sin, once committed, can never by man’s power be undone, never forgiven. All sin is committed against God—the slightest evil thought, the slightest departure from truth, is sin against God’s pure and holy law, and He alone can forgive sin. He forgives it only according to the one way He has appointed. He blots it out altogether from remembrance. That way is through faith in the perfect and complete atonement of Jesus Christ, whose blood, shed for man, “cleanseth from all sin.” There is no other way. He accepts no other recompense for sin. There is no undoing a sin, no making amends. All sins, from such as those which men call the smallest to the greatest, are registered, to be brought up in judgment against the sinner, and the all-cleansing blood of Jesus can alone blot them out. Man, as a proof of his living faith in Christ’s atonement,—of his sorrow for sins committed,—of his hatred of sin, of his repentance,—will, of necessity, do all he can to make amends to his fellow-man for the wrong he has done him; he will restore what he has taken; he will explain the truth where he has spoken falsely; he will be kind and gentle to those he has treated harshly; he will give to those of his substance, or forward their interests whom he has injured in any way. But all this cannot blot out one letter in the eternal register of accusations to be brought against him at the day of judgment. Oh! that people did but know this, and would remember that when they sin they sin not only against their fellow-man, but against the all-pure, all-holy God, who can by no means overlook iniquity; in whose sight even the heavens are unclean, without whose knowledge not a sparrow falls to the ground, and by whom the very hairs of our head are numbered.

Chapter Two.

Appearing on deck, Archy is severely reprimanded by the captain, a strict, yet a kind and religious man—His first Sunday at sea—Among the icebergs and ice—Capture of a whale.

Archy Hughson felt very weak and very wretched. The ship had for some hours been tumbling fearfully about, so it seemed to him, now pitching into the seas, which struck her stout bows with heavy blows, now rolling from side to side. He knew that a strong gale was blowing, and he could not help dreading that the casks might break loose, and come down upon him. He longed to escape from his prison, and began to think that Max must have forgotten him altogether. At length he again fell asleep. He was awakened by three heavy knocks above his head, Max’s promised signal. He waited the time agreed on, and then began to crawl out, and grope his way upwards. At last he saw daylight above him, and scrambling along, he reached the foot of a ladder. Climbing up with uncomfortable feelings at his heart as to the reception he might meet with, he gained the upper deck.

The first person he encountered was an old man with weather-beaten features, but a kind expression of countenance, Andrew Scollay by name, a boat-steerer, who was at that moment about to descend.

“Why, lad, where do you come from?” asked old Andrew, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“I wanted to come to sea; so I hid myself away,” answered Archy. “I hope I have not done wrong.”

“You have not done right, boy, or you would not have needed to hide yourself away,” said Andrew, scanning his features. “I think I have seen you before. What is your name?”

Archy told him.

“What, widow Hughson’s son? Oh, boy, boy, you have acted a cruel part towards your poor mother. Anyhow, I would we had found you out two days ago. However, come along with me to the captain—you’ll hear what he has to say.”

Andrew led Archy aft, where Captain Irvine was standing, and explained in a few words what he knew of him. Captain Irvine, looking sternly at him, inquired how he had managed to conceal himself so long on board? On that point Archy gave a truthful reply.

“How did you know you could find a place where you could hide yourself?” asked the captain.

“I have often before been on board whalers, and knew how the casks were stowed,” answered Archy, hoping that he should avoid further questions which might implicate Max Inkster.

“You are deserving of severe punishment for coming on board without my leave,” said the captain. “I must consider how I shall treat you. If we fall in with a homeward-bound ship, I shall put you on board. If not, see how you behave yourself. Had your mother asked me to take you I would have done so, and you would have come in for a share of profits; but you have done more wrong to her than you have to me; and though I might flog you, as you deserve, I shall let your own conscience punish you. I hope you have got one, which will make you mourn for your fault. Now go for’ard. You must not eat the bread of idleness, and Mr Scollay will put you to some work or other. I must speak to you again about this, and let me see, as you have chosen to come on board, that you do your best to learn your duty.”

Archy’s conscience was not aroused. He went forward, well pleased at having, as he thought, got off so cheaply; yet he did not feel at his ease. He looked, indeed, very pale and sick, and miserable. Old Andrew’s kind heart was touched, as he remarked his woe-begone appearance. He took him below, and got the steward to give him some food. He then sent him to wash himself.

“I must see about rigging you out,” he said. “The clothes you have on are not fit for the work you will have to do.”

Archy felt grateful to old Andrew, and thanked him warmly.

“Don’t speak about that, boy,” remarked Andrew. “It’s not that you deserve what I may do for you; but you are poor, and helpless, and wretched, and that’s just the state man was in when Christ came down from heaven to help him; and so I have a notion that it becomes His disciples, who desire to be like Him, to assist the helpless and miserable.”

The crew generally did not treat Archy as kindly as old Andrew had done. They attacked him, as soon as he got among them, with all sorts of questions, laughing and jeering at his folly. No one laughed at him more than Max Inkster. Archy felt inclined to retort, but he remembered his promise to Max, and gave him no sign of recognition, he was treated as one of the ship’s boys, and was put to do all sorts of drudgery and dirty work. Often and often he wished that he had remained at home, to look after his mother’s farm, and help Maggie in attending to her.

Several days passed by—Archy was beginning to find himself at home among the crew—Max at length spoke to him as if to a stranger.

“We must make a sailor of you, boy, as you have chosen to come to sea,” he said, when the order had just been given to reef topsails. “Lay out on the yard with me, and I’ll show you what to do.”

Archy had several times been aloft, but had never assisted in reefing. He now followed Max up the rigging. There was a heavy sea running, and the ship was pitching violently.

“Now, don’t be afraid—come out on the yard,” said Max. “There—lean over, and catch hold of those reef points. Cling tight though, with your knees and elbows, or you will pitch down on deck, and have your brains dashed out.”

Archy did as he was bid. He felt very nervous, though, and was thankful when he was safe off the yard. It was coming on to blow harder and harder, and the canvas was still further reduced. Max did not again invite him to go aloft—none but practised seamen could have ventured on the yards. At length, all the canvas was taken off the ship, except a close-reefed main-topsail, when the helm was put down, and she was hove-to. The wind whistled shrilly through the bare poles and rigging. It was blowing a perfect hurricane. All around appeared mountains of heaving water, each succeeding sea threatening to swallow up the labouring ship. Archy was surprised at the calmness of the officers and crew, when he expected every moment that one of those tremendous seas would come on board, and send the ship to the bottom. He wished that he could pray, as his mother had taught him to do, but he dared not; yet he trembled at the thought of what would happen.

Night came on—the gale seemed to increase. He, with all except the watch on deck, had gone below.

“What, lad, art afraid?” asked Max, who observed his pale countenance. “You thought a life at sea was all sunshine and calm.”

“I have found out what it is, and I wish that I had not been fool enough to come,” answered Archy, with some bitterness.

Max laughed. “Many a lad thinks like you,” he said. “They get accustomed to it, and so must you, though the training is not pleasant, I’ll allow.”

While Max was speaking, a tremendous blow was felt, as if the ship had struck a rock, and then came a sound of rending and crashing timbers, while the water rushed down the hatchway.

“The ship’s on her beam ends,” cried several voices, and all hands sprang on deck. Archy followed. A scene of wreck and destruction met his sight. The sea had swept over the ship, carrying away the staunchions, bulwarks, and rails, the binnacle, and the chief portion of the wheel. A fearful shriek reached his ears, and he caught sight for an instant of a man clinging to the binnacle. No help could be afforded him—the poor fellow knew that too well; still he clung to life; but in a few seconds a sea washed over him and he disappeared.

The captain was on deck, calmly issuing his orders,—the crew flew to obey them, while Archy clung to the main-mast, expecting every moment to be his last. Things were at length put to rights; spare spars were lashed to the remaining staunchions—life lines were stretched along the deck, fore and aft. The names of the crew were then called over—two did not answer, another, it was found, had unseen been carried to his dread account.

The next day was the Sabbath. The gale had moderated, and the ship was again put on her course. On that day the captain invariably invited all not on duty to assemble for service in his cabin; Max and a few others generally made excuses for not attending. The captain took this occasion to speak of the uncertainty of human life.

“The fate of our shipmates may be that of any one of us, my lads,” he observed. “I do not ask how they were prepared to meet their God, but how are you prepared? Even if you are living pure and blameless lives, have you made peace with Tim according to the only way He has offered to reconcile you to Himself? Have you a living faith in the atoning blood of Jesus shed for you? He wishes you to be reconciled to Him, and He has offered to you the easiest and simplest way, the only way by which you can be so. Remember, ‘now is the accepted time,’ ‘now is the day of salvation.’ It is God tells you this. If you put off that day it may be too late—for He says nothing about to-morrow. Some of you may say that you lead hard lives, have little enjoyment, and much suffering, and that that must satisfy God and give you a right to heaven. God does not tell you that; but He says, ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved. He that believeth not is condemned.’ Oh lads, if you knew of the love of Jesus for you, and how He longs for you all to be saved, you could not stand aloof from Him as you do, and try to keep Him out of your thoughts, and do nothing to please or serve Him. I speak to young and old, for He loves the youngest boy on board here as well as the oldest, and His blood, which cleanseth from all sin, will wash away the sins of the greatest criminal as completely as it will cleanse the most harmless youngster, though he, too, needs to be washed as much as the other.” Such was the substance of Captain Irvine’s discourse on the Sunday after the storm. Archy had attended, and the words were continually haunting him. Max, as usual, had kept away.

“I wonder you can stand that sort of thing,” he said to Archy, when he next met him. “I have no fancy for those discourses of the skipper; but if you want to curry favour with him, by all means go, just as old Andrew and Dr Sinclair, and some others do. They have prayers with him every morning in his cabin. You will not turn psalm-singer, I hope, lad.”

“I don’t suppose I shall,” answered Archy. “But still I should not like to be washed overboard, as Bill and Ned were the other night.”

“As to that, you must run your chance as others do,” answered Max. “I don’t let such things trouble me.”

Archy could not help letting them trouble him, though.

The next day the whole crew were busily employed in getting the whale boats ready and the gear fitted. There were seven boats in all—three slung to the davits on each side, and one over the stern, with a harpooner to each. The whale lines were spliced and coiled away in the stern of the boats; the harpoons were spanned, that is, fastened to the ends of the lines, and various articles were stowed away in the boats, so that they were all ready to be lowered, and to shove off at a moment’s notice, should a whale appear. The crow’s-nest was also got up to the main topgallant mast-head. It is like a tall cask with a seat in it, where the officer can take his station and look out far and wide over the ocean to watch for the spouting of the monsters of the deep.

Next morning, when Archy went on deck, he saw at no great distance from the ship a vast white towering mass, glittering like alabaster in the rays of the sun. At the lower part were projecting points and curious arches, and a deep cavern, with numberless columns and long icicles hanging from the roof, while the summit was crowned with pinnacles and towers of every possible shape. From the higher points, as the ice melted under the rays of the hot sun, came down two or three tiny cascades of bright water, leaping from ledge to ledge till they fell with a splash into the calm ocean.

Archy had often heard of icebergs, but he had formed little conception of what they really were. He stood gazing at it for some minutes, lost in wonder.

“Well, boy, what do you think of it?” asked Andrew Scollay, who was passing at the time.

“It’s very wonderful,” said Archy.

“All God’s works are wonderful,” observed old Andrew. “You will see thousands of such bergs as this where we are going, all formed by God’s will, just as He forms everything else in the world; and yet if all the kings of the earth and their people were to try and build up one like them, they could not succeed. Now, Archy, I put it to you, whether it is not wise to try and be friends with such a God—to know that you are under His care and protection, instead of disobeying Him and daring His power? The time may come before long when you will feel how helpless you are to take care of yourself, boy. I have seen stout ships crushed in a moment between masses of ice, as if they had been made of paper, and once I saw one of those large bergs come down and overwhelm a passing ship, not a soul on board escaping. Ay, and I have known numbers of poor fellows, when their ships have gone done, wandering over the ice till they have been frozen or starved to death. I don’t tell you these things to frighten you, but that you may learn to put your trust in God. The person who truly trusts Him is never frightened. It is a blessed thing to know that He cares for us.”

Archy was unable to make any reply; but the old man’s words were not forgotten.

The next day many more icebergs were seen, and as the ship passed near some of them, Archy could not help dreading that they might topple over and carry her and all on board to the bottom.

In a short time the ship made the ice. As far as the eye could reach, the whole ocean was covered with broken sheets of ice,—some several miles in extent, others of smaller size, which the seamen called floes,—huge icebergs towering up among them. The ship sailed along the edge of a large floe for some distance, till an opening appearing, her head was pointed towards it. She entered and sailed onwards for a considerable distance, the water being as smooth as in the most sheltered harbour. The captain, or an officer, was continually stationed in the crow’s-nest to look out for the widest openings. Into these she forced her way, now and then being impeded by pieces of ice, against which her bow was driven to turn them aside. At length, after running through a narrow passage, her further progress was stopped by a sheet of ice through which she could not force her way, while beyond the water appeared perfectly open. The sails were furled; the ice-saws got out, and the crew commenced sawing out large blocks, so as to form a passage towards the open water. The work was very laborious; for, in addition to the operation of sawing, each block had to be towed out into the wider channel. At length a canal was formed, and the ship glided through it. Once more the sails were set and she steered to the northward. Again, however, she had to encounter similar obstructions. Still the captain pushed on, eager to get to a part of the bay where whales were plentiful. Generally there was a breeze, and she made good progress through the open water, but sometimes she lay becalmed, with her sails hanging against the masts. All the time a sharp look out was kept for whales, but hitherto, although a few had been seen, the wary monsters had escaped the harpoons of their pursuers.

At that season, in those northern regions, when the sun but just sinks below the horizon ere it rises again, night and day are much alike.

Archy, with the watch below, had turned in. He was awakened by a loud stamping on the deck, and the cry of “a fall, a fall.” The men rushed up on deck, carrying their clothes with them, and dressing as they went. Instantly running to the boats, they began to lower them. In the distance was a boat with a flag flying, a signal that a whale had been struck, and was fast. The boats shoved off, and away they went at a rapid rate to the assistance of their friends. The monster soon appeared on the surface. The boats pulled towards it, and numberless lances were darted at its body. Again it sounded, to reappear shortly still closer to the ship. Once more the boats dashed on—the water around the animal was dyed red with blood, mixed with oil, which issued from its wounds and blow-holes. The boats again drew near, and more lances were hurled at it. Suddenly the creature reared its tail high in the air, whirling it round with a loud noise, which reached the ship. At the same moment the nearest boat was thrown upwards several feet, while the crew were sent flying on every side into the water, the boat itself being reduced to a mass of wreck. Their companions went forward to rescue the drowning men, who were seen to be hauled into the boats; but whether any had perished could not be discovered by those who, with Archy, were eagerly watching what was taking place, from the deck of the ship. Directly afterwards the whale rolled over on its side, and remained perfectly quiet. The flag was lowered, and the men, standing up in the boats, gave three loud huzzas, which were echoed by those on board. Two holes being made in the tail of the whale, ropes were passed through them, which being made fast to the boats, they towed their prize in triumph to the ship. The animal now being secured alongside, the process of flensing or cutting off the blubber commenced. Tackles were rigged with hooks, which were fixed in the blubber. This was cut by means of spades, and the tackle being worked by a windlass, as the blubber was cut off in long strips, it was hoisted on board. Here it was cut into pieces, and stowed in casks in the hold. Thus, as the whale was turned round and round, the blubber was stripped off, till the whole coat was removed. The whalebone, of which the gills are formed, being then extracted, the carcase was cast adrift, when it was seen to be surrounded by vast numbers of fish and wild sea-birds, coming from all directions to banquet on the remaining flesh. The operation, which lasted five hours, being concluded, the crew were piped to supper.

“There, Archy, you have seen our first whale killed,” observed Max. “I hope we shall have many more before long, and soon be back home again; and if you are tired of the life, you can go on shore and look after your mother’s farm.”

Chapter Three.

The “Kate” encounters a fearful gale amid icebergs, and narrowly escapes a falling berg.—Calm after storm.—Though scoffed at by his shipmates, Archy tries, unsuccessfully, to follow the advice given him by Captain Irvine.

Captain Irvine was anxious to reach the northern point of Baffin Bay, where whales were said to abound. He used, therefore, every exertion to force the ship through the ice. Sometimes she threaded her way through narrow passages, at the risk of being caught and nipped by the floes pressing together; at others, to avoid this catastrophe, she had to take shelter in a dock, cut out as rapidly as the crew could use their saws, in one side of a floe. Scarcely had she been thus secured when another floe, with a sullen roar, pressed on by an unseen power, would come grinding and crashing against the first with irresistible force, and the before level surface, rent and broken asunder, would appear heaved up into large hillocks, and huge masses, many hundred tons in weight, would be lifted on to the opposing barrier, threatening to overwhelm the ship. Suddenly the whole field of ice would be again in motion, the broken fragments would be thrown back on each other or pressed down beneath the surface, and a lane of water would appear, edged on each side by a wall of ice. The boats would then be lowered to tow the ship along, or, should the wind be favourable, the sails were set, and in spite of the blows she might receive from the floating fragments, she would force her way onwards towards the open water.

Often and often as Archy watched what was taking place, he fully expected to find the ship crushed to fragments, and wondered that Captain Irvine could venture into so fearfully dangerous a position. Still the ship, escaping all dangers, made her way to the north, and by degrees Archy grew accustomed to the scenes he witnessed, and viewed them with the same indifference as the rest of the crew.

For a whole day she had made her way through open water, with a strong breeze. The weather began to lour—the wind blew stronger and stronger—numerous icebergs appeared ahead—in a short time the ship was surrounded by them. Now one was passed by, now another. It seemed often as if no power could save her from being dashed against their precipitous sides. Perhaps the captain expected the gale to moderate, if so, he was mistaken. It soon blew fiercer than ever. At length the ship got under the lee of a large berg, which towered up a hundred feet or more above the mast-heads. The sails were furled—the boats carried out ice anchors and made them fast to the foot of the berg. There the ship rode, sheltered from the gale, in smooth water, while the wind howled and roared, and the sea, hissing and foaming, dashed with fury against the bergs, which were observed at a distance on either side.

Archy recollected the account Max had given him some time before of icebergs suddenly overturning, and as he looked up at the frozen mountain above him, he could not help thinking what their fate might be, should the gale, which blew on the other side, force the berg over. Still he had not learned to put his trust in God. Fear made his heart sink within him, but he dared not contemplate the future. All he could say to himself was, “I hope it will not. How dreadful it would be. What would become of us!” He had no one to whom he could go for consolation. Max, he knew, would only laugh at him and call him a coward. He wished that Old Andrew would speak to him, but he was on duty on deck, and had the ship to attend to.

Several hours passed by, still the gale did not abate. Archy thought the captain and officers looked more serious than usual. Several of them turned their eyes ever and anon towards the summit of the berg. At length the chief mate came forward. He had just reached the forecastle, when a small piece of ice, the size of a bullet it seemed, fell splashing into the water just ahead of the ship. Another and another followed. With a startling cry, the captain shouted, “Cut the hawser, loose the jib and fore-staysail, hands aloft for your lives lads.” The head sails were hoisted, the fore-topsail sheeted home. The ship, coming round, shot away from the berg. The after sails were speedily loosed. In another instant, with a crashing thundering noise, down came vast masses of ice, falling into the water, with loud splashes, close astern, while numerous smaller pieces fell with fearful force on deck. Happily no one was struck, but a piece went right through one of the quarter boats. The ship, as if aware of her danger, flew on. Downwards came the vast mountain of ice with a crashing roar, louder than any thunder, directly on the spot where she had just before floated, sending the spray in thick sheets flying over her poop. Had she remained a moment longer she must have been overwhelmed. Many a cheek of the hardy crew was blanched with horror. Even now it seemed that they had scarcely escaped the fearful danger, for the berg astern of them rocked to and fro as if still intent on their destruction. The first mate and one of the best hands were at the helm; the wind whistled loudly, the sails appeared as if about to fly from the bolt ropes, as the ship heeled over to the gale. Numerous other bergs appeared ahead, and as she rushed onwards, it seemed impossible that she could avoid them. No sooner was one weathered than another appeared in her course. The yards were braced sharp up. She dashed by a huge berg, her masts, as she heeled over, almost touching its sides. Now an opening appeared between two large ice mountains. The only way to escape was by passing between them. The ship dashed into the passage, now she glided onward in comparatively smooth water. The bergs were moving. Nearer and nearer they drew to each other. In a short time they might meet and crush the hapless vessel into a thousand fragments. To escape by the way she had entered the passage was impossible. The wind came aft. The yards were squared, more sail was set, faster and faster she flew onwards, yet fast as she went, it seemed as if the masses of ice would catch her ere she could escape them in their deadly embrace. Every man and boy was at his station, ready to clew up and haul down directly the ship should be free, and again exposed to the fury of the gale. No one could tell but that other bergs might be ahead, or in what direction it might be necessary to steer. Archy, as he held on to a rope he had been ordered to tend, looked up at the vast ice-cliffs with horror in his eyes, expecting every moment to see them falling over upon the ship. He glanced aft, and saw the captain standing calm and undismayed, ready to issue whatever orders might be necessary. The channel seemed interminable, for, fast as the vessel glided on, still those terrible cliffs frowned down upon her. At length the open water appeared ahead, with fewer bergs than had before been seen floating on it. The ship glided out into the heaving ocean; and as she heeled over, Archy thought the masts would go over the side; but sail (though not without difficulty) was rapidly shortened, and the masts stood firm. Onwards, as before, she flew in her course; several other bergs were weathered, till at length all present dangers were passed, and she was now hove-to to await the termination of the storm. In a few hours the gale ceased, and once more she proceeded on her course.

A calm succeeded the storm. The ship floated on the smooth water. It was the Sabbath-day; the captain as usual had summoned the crew to prayers, the greater number went willingly, for they were well aware of the imminent danger they had escaped, and were glad to express their gratitude to Him who had preserved them. Max Inkster, with a few others, made excuses for staying away.

“What, lad, are you going to hear the old man preach?” he asked, with a sneer, as he saw Archy making his way aft. “For my part, I think we have too much of that sort of thing aboard here. I have made up my mind to cut and run from the ship if I could find a few brave fellows to accompany me. We should have more liberty and a larger allowance of grog, with less psalm-singing, on board other vessels I know of, and reach home sooner again into the bargain. But don’t you go and tell others what I say; I only ask you, if we go, will you join us?”

“I’ll think about it, Max,” answered Archy, “but I promised old Andrew that I would attend prayers.”

“Much good may your prayers do you,” sneered Max. “You are the fellow who sneaked off from his dying mother, and now you talk of praying.”

“I did, I did,” groaned Archy, “and I feel how wicked I was to do so.”

As all the other men had by this time collected in the cabin, Archy could stay no longer, and hurried off, the words last spoken by Max ringing in his ears. He thought of them all the time the captain was offering up prayer, and returning thanks to God for having mercifully preserved him and his crew from the danger to which they had been exposed, and humbly petitioning for protection for the future.

When the service was over, as Archy was leaving the cabin, Captain Irvine called him back.

The old captain had been ill for some days. Archy was struck with his peculiarly grave and solemn manner. He kindly took the young boy’s hand.

“I have a few words to say to you, lad,” he said. “I knew your father; he was a God-fearing man, and I believe he is in heaven. Your mother, too, is a Christian woman, and she, when she leaves this world, will join him there. Now lad, I have to ask you what is your hope? There is but one way to go there, remember that. Have you sought that way?”

Archy hung down his head. “I know I was very wicked to leave my mother as I did,” he answered, “and I could not help thinking the other day, when the iceberg was about to come down upon us, where I should go to.”

“Ah, lad, it’s a great thing to see your sin, but God wants you to do more than that. You must acknowledge it to Him and seek His way for blotting it out. Do you know that way, laddie, which only a God of infinite love and mercy could have devised for saving weak fallen man from the consequences of sin? Have you sought the Saviour? Sorrow will not wash away sin. The blood of the Saviour, which He shed when He suffered instead of man on Calvary, can alone do it. Only those who seek Him and trust in Him can benefit by that blood. Have you earnestly sought him, laddie? I am sure if you do seek Him, desiring to turn away from your sins, that you will find Him.”

Archy could only repeat, “I am very sorry I ran away from mother and hid myself aboard the ship, and I thought when we were so near being destroyed the other day, what would become of me.”

Archy exactly described his state, and the captain knew he spoke truly. There are too many like him, who only think of their sins at the approach of danger.

“Ah, laddie! I should be thankful if you could honestly tell me that you mourn for your sins, because you have grievously offended our loving Father in heaven, and that you have sought forgiveness from Him, through the all-cleansing blood of His dear Son, shed for you on Calvary,” said Captain Irvine. “Do you ever pray?”

“Not since I came aboard here,” answered Archy.

“And I am afraid not for some time before, either,” observed the captain. “For if you had prayed that God’s Holy Spirit would guide and direct you, and keep you out of temptation, you would not have ran away from home as you did. Now, laddie, what I want you to understand is, that you are weak and helpless in yourself, that you can neither walk aright nor do any good thing by yourself; but that if you seek the aid of the Holy Spirit you will walk aright, you will be able to withstand temptation, and to do God’s will. If you do not pray and seek His aid, you cannot expect to find it; yet if you do seek it, you will assuredly find it, for He hath said, ‘Ask and it shall be given you, seek and ye shall find, knock and it shall be opened unto you.’”

Archy listened attentively to what the captain said, and tried to understand it, but the danger which had alarmed his conscience had passed away, and when he went forward and mixed again with his careless shipmates, he forgot much that had been said. Still, when he turned into his bunk, he did try to pray; but he dared not bravely kneel down in the sight of others lest they should laugh at him, and he had been so long unaccustomed to offer up prayer, that he could not even think of what words to say. Captain Irvine, however, did not forget him, and day after day he called him into the cabin, or spoke to him on deck. He gave him a Bible also, and marked many passages in it, which Archy promised to read. The captain had also a library of books on board, which were lent to the men, and two or three of these he put into Archy’s hands as likely to be useful to him. Old Andrew also frequently took an opportunity of speaking to him, but his work occupied most of the day, and when he went below he was generally too sleepy to sit long over a book. Max and others also did their utmost to interrupt him, and he made but little progress either in reading the Bible or any other of the books which had been lent him. Still, in some respects, he was trying to follow the good advice which the captain had given him. Weak, however, are all our efforts when we trust to our own strength. Archy did not seek assistance from the only source which can give it, and, consequently, his good resolutions were soon scattered to the wind.

Chapter Four.

Archy wishing to be present when a whale is struck, against orders goes off in one of the boats.—Attack a whale and her calf, but lose both, and the boat’s bows are stove against a floe.—The crew escape by landing on it, and dragging the boat after them. Preparations made to wait for the arrival of the ship in search of them.

The ship had for some time been off the western shore of the bay, and several whales had been taken—every one was actively engaged, for when the operation of flensing was not going on, the boats were generally away in chase of their prey.

Archy had hitherto always remained on board. He had long wished, however, to be present at one of the exciting scenes he had only witnessed from a distance. How to manage it was the difficulty. He knew that it would be of no use asking leave from the captain, or any of the boat-steerers, for idlers were not allowed in the boats. He had thought that he should at once engage in all the adventures described by Max, and was one day expressing his disappointment in his presence.

“They will come time enough,” observed Max. “But if you have a fancy to see some sport, and may be to get tossed in the air, or drowned, or have to spend a night on a floe, and be well nigh frozen, as I have more than once, I’ll give you a chance. You know that I am your friend, or I would not do it. Now, the next time a fall is called, do you tumble into my boat; I’ll rail away if old Andrew sees you, but pretend you have hurt your leg and lie still, and depend upon it he will be in too great a hurry to shove off to put you on board again, and as the captain did not punish you for hiding away, he will not say much to you on that account.”

Archy knew very well that he ought to have suspected Max’s advice, but he was so eager to see a whale struck, that he forgot all other considerations. Hoping therefore that he might soon have the opportunity he desired, he turned into his bunk with his clothes on, ready to slip into the boat at a moment’s notice. The ship was standing some distance off the land, and though the sea was generally open, here and there masses of ice were to be seen floating about from enormous icebergs down to small pieces of a few feet in diameter. Archy hoped that before long the boats would be lowered to go in chase of a whale. He tried to keep awake, but sleep soon overpowered him. He was aroused by hearing the sound of stamping overhead, and the looked for cry of “a fall, a fall.” He sprang on deck, and without waiting to see whether he was observed, slipped into old Andrew’s boat, in which Max pulled one of the oars, and throwing himself down in the bottom, remained perfectly still. The rest of the crew followed. Old Andrew was the last, having been detained longer than usual. The boat shoved off, and only then Max pretended to have discovered him. Andrew, on seeing the lad, was about to put back, but at that moment the spout of another whale was observed at no great distance. The crew, bending to their oars, pulled towards it; and Andrew, in the excitement of the moment, forgot all about Archy. The boat dashed on. A sucking whale was seen playing near the old one.

“We shall have her boys, we shall have her,” shouted Andrew.

The whale discerned the approach of her foes, and diving down with her calf, disappeared.

“Give way lads, give way,” cried Andrew, “she will not desert the young one.”

He was right, though had the old whale been alone, she would soon have been miles away. The boat continued in the direction the whale had been seen to take, and in a short time the small animal again came to the surface to breathe. The boat was soon up to the animal, when its faithful mother rose also to afford it protection. The boat dashed up to it, and Andrew, going forward, plunged his unerring harpoon deep into its side. No sooner did the monster feel the wound than away she darted, towing the boat, the young whale keeping up with her. The crew pulled with might and main, hoping to get up alongside again in order to fix another harpoon, and to pierce her with their lances. They had nearly succeeded, when up went her tail in the air, and down she dived into the depths of ocean, her calf following her example. Immediately the whale line was allowed to run out; and, as the end was approached, another was fastened on. That too had nearly been drawn out, when the crew, lifting up their oars, made a signal for assistance from their companions, but they were already too far off to be seen, indeed the other boats were engaged with the whale first attacked.

“Hold on,” shouted Andrew. “Though she might not come up by herself, the young one will, and she will follow.”

He was right; for at the moment that the bow of the boat seemed about to be drawn under water, and the knife was lifted to cut the line, it slackened, and the young whale came to the surface some way ahead, followed immediately afterwards by its mother. Remaining stationary a short time to breathe, during which a portion of the line was hauled in, the monster again began to make her way along the surface.

“Rare fun!” exclaimed Archy, who was sitting near Max. “I would not have missed this on any account.”

“We shall not be merry long if that bank of clouds to the north brings a gale with it,” growled out Max.

Archy looked around; the sea, hitherto calm, was already ruffled with waves, and an icy breeze swept over the surface. Still no whaler, with a fish fast, would have thought of giving up the pursuit. Already the monster, wearied by its exertions, was slackening its speed; the crew began to haul in the line, the first was got in. They were already in the hopes of again wounding the animal mortally before she could once more sound, when inspired with a mother’s instinct to do her utmost for the preservation of her young one, she again darted forward. A large floe appeared ahead, out of which arose several hummocks. The whale made rapid way towards it. The crew pulled with might and main, still hoping to reach her before she could dive below the ice. In vain were all their efforts. Still she went on. She reached the edge of the floe. It was possible she might turn or make her way along it, rather than venture with her young one below its surface, where they might be unable to find an opening for breathing. Again she stopped; as Andrew had expected. The crew continued to haul in the line, when once more she moved on, and it was necessary to secure it round the bollard.

“She is ours,” cried Andrew; “she will not venture under the ice.” The crew bent to their oars, hoping in another instant to be up with her, when, with a sudden start, she dashed forward. With great presence of mind Andrew cut the line, just in time to prevent the boat from being dragged under the floe, but not sufficiently soon to save her bows from being stove. The water came rushing in through the fearful rent that had been made. The crew leaped out on the ice, old Andrew seizing Archy, who, bewildered at the occurrence, had sat still. Already the boat was half full of water, and not without great difficulty she was hauled up on the ice, against which the sea was beating violently, and several articles were washed out of her. Archy had instinctively clutched a bucket by his side, to which he held when he was dragged out. It contained a tinder-box and powder flask.

There the whole party stood on the exposed floe by the side of their shattered boat. They looked around. Neither the ship nor the boats were to be seen, while the thick mist, which came driving over the ocean, concealed even some of the nearest icebergs from view. Two or three of the men loudly expressed their anxiety. Max’s countenance exhibited the alarm he felt. Old Andrew alone preserved his usual equanimity.

“My lads,” he said, “I’ll allow we are in bad case, but don’t let us give way to despair. We must do our best to repair the boat; and if the ship does not come to look for us, we must set out to look for her.”

The injuries, however, that the boat had received were very severe, and it was evident that no means they had at their disposal were sufficient to repair her. Even a piece of canvas would have been of value, but they had no canvas and no nails. The sea, too, which had rapidly got up, now dashed furiously against the sides of the floe, threatening to sweep over it, and break it to pieces beneath their feet. Andrew looked around, and observing a large hummock at some distance, urged his companions to drag the boat towards it.

“Yonder ice hill will afford us some shelter,” he said. “And if we make a signal from the top, it will be more readily seen than one down on the level.”

The men exerting all their strength dragged the boat along, Archy helping, till they reached the hummock, she was then turned bottom uppermost under its lee. An axe having been saved, one of the oars was cut into lengths, which served to prop her up and afford them some shelter from the freezing wind. Two oars were also lashed together to serve as a flagstaff, and all the handkerchiefs that could be mustered were joined to form a flag. A hole, after much labour, was dug with the axe in the top of the hummock, and the flagstaff was planted, but the furious wind threatened every moment to blow it down again. The gale was increasing, and already they felt almost perished, but their great want was food. They had come away without breakfast, and no provisions had been put in the boat. Even should they be able to resist the gale, and should the floe continue together, they ran a fearful risk of perishing of hunger. The snow falling heavily formed a bank round the boat, and assisted to keep out the wind,—here they all collected, crouching down as close together as possible, for the sake of obtaining warmth from each other.

“If we had but a fire we might do pretty well till the ship comes to take us off,” observed Max. “We have got some wood, at all events, and when that’s gone we must burn the boat and form a roof of snow over our heads instead, after Esquimaux fashion.”

No sooner was the proposal made than the remaining oars, boat-stretchers, and every piece of wood that could be found was cut up. Archy produced the tinder-box from the bucket, and in a short time a fire was blazing up, which served to warm their chilled limbs, and slightly to raise their spirits. Few of them, however, were disposed to talk much.

Chapter Five.

Andrew Scollay, a religious old man, encourages his shipmates in their fearful position, without food, fire, or shelter.—Archy distinguishes between his false and real friend.—He takes a run over the ice with Andrew, when a sail is seen, and at last a boat approaches.

Hour after hour passed by, and still there was no abatement of the storm. Loud noises meantime were heard around, denoting the breaking up of the floe on which they floated, and they could not tell how soon the portion on which they had taken refuge might be rent from the main body and floated away. Often did Archy wish that he had remained on board, and not exposed himself to the fearful danger in which he was placed. At length old Andrew spoke to him.

“Are you happy, boy?” he asked. “But you need not tell me—I know you are not. I am sorry to find you placed in this fearful position, but it was through your own fault—you chose to come against orders. It is bad for us, but then we came because it was our duty.”

“I am sure I am very sorry I did come,” answered Archy. “But I didn’t think this would happen.”

“People never know what will happen when they do what is wrong,” said Andrew. “Satan tempts them to sin, and then leaves them to take the consequences. Lads, I speak to you all as I speak to this boy. Are you prepared to meet your God?”

“Why do you say that?” said Max, in a husky voice.

“Because I think, before many hours are over our heads, the summons will come,” said Andrew, solemnly. “Any moment the ice may break up, and the sea may wash over us, or we may sit here till we die of cold and hunger.”

“You are croaking,” said Max. “Our captain is not the man to desert us.”

“I am speaking the solemn truth,” said Andrew. “The captain will do his best to search for us, but the gale will have driven the ship miles away by this time, and before she can get up to us we may be dead. I don’t speak thus to frighten you, lads, but because I wish to see your souls saved. You may say that you are such sinners that there is no hope of that. I wish you did know that you are sinners. You heard the captain read to you the other day the account of the thief on the cross. He knew that he was a sinner, but he found the Saviour even at the last moment of his life. He trusted to Jesus, who saved him; and he had the assurance from the lips of that loving One, that he was saved. Jesus will say to you what He said to the thief on the cross, if you will even now turn to Him: ‘Now is the day of grace, now is the day of salvation.’ Oh, lads, I pray you to throw yourselves on His mercy, to trust to Him. His blood cleanseth from all sin.”

The seamen listened attentively to what Andrew said: they had often heard similar words from the lips of the captain, but they were in safety then on board their stout ship, and they had allowed them to pass away unheeded. Now, although they still hoped to escape, they could not help acknowledging that they were in a fearfully perilous position. Still no one replied. What was passing in their minds Andrew could not tell. He continued, addressing them in the same strain for some time. Again and again he told them of the Saviour’s love, and how earnestly He desired them to come to Him and be saved.

Archy, however, had drunk in every word Andrew had said.

“But would Jesus pardon me, who has so grievously offended Him?” he asked at last—“me, who have so often been told of His loving kindness and mercy?”

“Yes, lad, that He will,” said Andrew, taking Archy’s hand, “He has promised it, and His word is sure. He has sent us this blessed message:—‘The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin.’ He does not say from some sins, or from only slight sins, but from all sins.”

“Oh, then, I’ll try and give Him my heart,” exclaimed Archy. “I’ll trust to Him.”

“Yes, do that, Archy; but give him your heart now—trust to Him now,” said Andrew, earnestly. “We will pray, lad, that the Holy Spirit will help you, for He alone can carry out the work in your heart;” and the pious old man, kneeling down on the ice, lifted up his voice in prayer; and surely that prayer was not uttered in vain. Still, although the rest of the party made no response to his exhortations, he persevered; and from the loud crashing roar of the ice, as the broken fragments were dashed together, it seemed too likely that the day of grace for all would ere long be past. Hour after hour went by, and yet the portion of the floe on which they had taken refuge kept together. The storm continued to rage, and the snow still fell heavily. Piece after piece of the boat had been cut away its place being supplied with a wall and roof of snow, which the seamen gradually built up. They were beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, and they could scarcely get sufficient warmth from the small fire they were able to maintain to keep themselves from being frozen. It was near mid-summer. Had it been the winter they could not thus have existed many hours. Every now and then one of the party ran to the summit of the hillock in the hopes of seeing the ship. Still the falling snow shut out all but the nearest objects from view, and here and there alone a tall iceberg could be seen rising dimly amid the foaming seas. “No hope, no hope,” was the mournful cry of one after the other, as they returned to the hut.

“Don’t say there’s no hope,” observed old Andrew. “God can send us help, though we can’t help ourselves. Oh, lads, I again say, and it may be for the last time, put your trust in Him. I don’t tell you that He will send us relief. It may be His will that our bodies should perish on the spot where we are sitting; but I do tell you, that He offers to rescue your souls, and will certainly, if you put your trust in Him, not allow them to perish.”

Archy sat close to old Andrew, listening attentively to what he said, he had now learned to distinguish between his real and false friend. How earnestly he wished that he had not been led astray by the evil counsel of the latter. The rest of the party sat silent, their countenances exhibiting the despair which had taken possession of their hearts. Their fuel was well nigh exhausted, and suffering from hunger they knew that they could not hold out long against the cold. Andrew proposed that they should let the fire out for a time, and warm themselves by exercise.

“We will then light it again, and it will enable us to lie down and rest without fear of being frozen,” he observed.

To this wise advice the men would not agree.

“If die we must, we will keep warm while we can,” growled out Max.

“Then, Archy, you and I will try and keep our blood flowing by using our limbs,” said Andrew. “See, the snow has ceased falling, and there’s less wind than there was.”

This was said after they had spent many hours on the ice. How many they could scarcely tell, for no sun appeared to mark the progress of the day.

Andrew, taking his young companion’s hand, rose, and together they went to the top of the hummock, and gazed around for a minute, though they could now see much further than before. No sail appeared to cheer their sight. They quickly descended, and Andrew, with the activity of a young man, ran backwards and forwards under the lee of the hummock. Archy felt the benefit of the exercise; but though his hunger had increased, his blood circulating freely, made him feel better able to endure the cold than before.

When at length they returned to the hut, they found the remaining pieces of wood burning, and that in a short time they would be left without any fire.

“If you had followed my advice it would have been better for us all,” observed Andrew.

The men made no reply; they all appeared to have fallen into a state of stupor, and to have become indifferent to their fate. Andrew and Archy sat down to rest, and to enjoy the warmth of the fire, anxiously watching the last few pieces of wood as they were gradually consumed. The embers which they scraped together afforded them heat for some time longer—then, by degrees, those died out.

“It is our duty to hold out while we can, boy,” said Andrew, when the last spark of the fire was extinguished. “Come and take another run.”

Archy felt very weak and faint from want of food, still he endeavoured to exert himself. Again they visited the top of the hummock, but still no sail was to be seen. The sea tumbled and foamed, and the surrounding masses of ice ground and crashed against each other, and the floe on which they were appeared to have decreased in size, while huge blocks, thrown up by the waves, rested on its weather side. Even Andrew was unable to run backwards and forwards as fast as before, and again they sought shelter within the hut. No questions were asked them; indeed most of their companions appeared to be asleep. Andrew in vain tried to arouse them. Archy felt that he, too, should like to lie down and go to sleep; but from doing this Andrew used every effort to prevent him, and in a short time proposed that they should take another ran to the top of the hummock. With difficulty Archy followed him.

For some time the old man stood looking round in every direction, then his eyes rested on a particular spot to the northward, and Archy saw him raise his hands as if in prayer.

“Lad,” he said suddenly, “look between those two icebergs. What do you see?”

Archy gazed with beating heart. “A sail! a sail!” he exclaimed.

“Yes—of that there’s no doubt,” said Andrew, calmly, “and may God direct her course towards us. She is at present standing this way; but should a whale be seen, she may steer in a different direction.” They anxiously watched the approaching ship for some minutes.

“We will tell our companions,” said Andrew—“the news will rouse them if they are not too far gone.”

Archy forgetting his hunger, and no longer feeling his weakness, rushed back to the hut, shouting, “a sail! a sail!” Max, and two of the other men, started as the sound reached their ears, but before they had gained their feet they again sank down on the ice. After making several efforts, they were at length able to walk, having in the meantime aroused their companions, who, sitting up, looked around with bewildered glances, as if not comprehending the news they heard. Archy again ran back, Max and the rest, with tottering steps, trying to follow him. They succeeded at length, and as they saw the ship, almost frantic with joy, they shook each other’s hands, and shouted and danced like mad people, their sufferings, their fears of death, were in a moment forgotten, and so probably also were any good resolutions they might have formed. How different was their behaviour to that of Andrew. Archy remarked it.

The ship came on with a strong breeze, threading her way amid the masses of ice in her course. She had got within a couple of miles. Still, unless the eyes of those on board were directed in their direction, the flag flying from the hummock might not be seen. She came nearer and nearer.

“She will not pass us now,” cried Max.

“We will pray to God that she may not,” said Andrew; but at that moment the vessel was seen to haul her wind, and to stand to the westward. A loud groan of bitter disappointment was uttered by Max and the other men.

“God’s will be done,” said Andrew. “See, mates, she has hove-to, she is lowering her boat. They are after a fish.”

With what eagerness did the eyes of the starving seamen watch the ship. It was impossible to say in what direction she might next steer. They no longer felt cold or hunger.

“See, see, what is that?” cried one of the men, as a dark object was discovered darting out from behind the nearest iceberg.

Directly afterwards a boat was seen fast to a whale, and following in its wake. The whale approached the floe, but while still at some distance its flukes were seen to rise in the air, and down it shot into the ocean. Although those on the ice knew that they were too far off to be heard, they shouted again and again, their voices sounding strangely hollow in each other’s ears. The first line had apparently been run out from the boat; a second had been bent on; that, too, came to an end. They could see the four oars lifted up as a signal for assistance from the ship. Once more the boat approached them at a rapid rate, dragged on by the whale. It was evident she was in great distress, and that her crew dreaded the fate they themselves had suffered. Suddenly she stopped—the line had been cut. Would they turn away? No, the crew bend to their oars—the boat-steerer stands up and waves. They are seen—help will come to them. Again the cheer.

“Let us thank God, for He has sent yonder boat to our assistance,” said Andrew.

Chapter Six.

Rescued!—On board the “Laplander” whaler, which is nearly full, and expects soon to return home.—Max Inkster tries to undermine Archy’s good resolutions, but the latter remembers that “a friend in need is a friend indeed.”—Sail for home.—A tempting channel appearing, it is entered, but the ship is nipped, and the “Laplander” is abandoned.—Escape to the floe with only a few clothes and provisions, when a plan is formed for reaching the coast of Greenland.

The boat had some distance to pull before a spot could be found where she could safely approach the ice on the lee side of the floe.

Max and the two other men, regardless of their almost dead companions in the hut, were hurrying down towards her, when Andrew called them back. “Shame on you,” he exclaimed. “Would you leave the poor fellows to perish for the sake of sooner putting food into your own mouths? Come, help them along, they want it more than we do.”

The men thus summoned, returned and assisted Andrew and Archy, who were dragging their nearly insensible shipmates over the ice. At length they reached the edge, and were cordially welcomed by the crew of the boat, who made all speed to return to their ship the “Laplander.” She was almost full, they said, and they hoped soon to return home.

The rescued men, on being lifted on board, were at once put under the doctor’s care,—for even Andrew and Archy, who had hitherto held out so bravely, felt all their strength leave them directly they reached the boat. They, however, in a couple of days were sufficiently recovered to go on deck and mix with the crew.

Archy found the “Laplander” a very different vessel to the “Kate.” The captain was a bold brave seaman, but he was nothing else. There were no Sunday services, no prayer-meetings, no lending library of religious books, but there was much swearing and ungodliness among the crew.

Max, who quickly forgot the fearful danger in which he had been placed, and his providential preservation, did his utmost to laugh Archy out of his good resolutions.

“I wonder a lad of spirit like you can listen to the long sermons of old Andrew,” he said to him one day while Andrew was out of hearing. “I never could stand those preaching fellows.”

“But Andrew kept his courage up, and did his best to preserve my life, while you and the rest gave way to despair,” answered Archy. “You cannot say that he is not a brave man, though he does preach long sermons.”

“Yes, he is brave, I’ll allow,” said Max.

“Then tell me, what do you think makes him brave?” asked Archy.

“He is naturally brave, I suppose,” replied Max.

“Now, I think that it is because he trusts in God, and believes that God will take care of him,” said Archy firmly. “And he knows that if he should lose his life that he will go to heaven. That’s my opinion of the matter.”

“Your opinion, indeed,” exclaimed Max scornfully. “I should like to know what business a fellow like you has to form an opinion,” and Max turned away, unable further to answer the boy, whom he had hitherto so easily led. He took every opportunity after this of annoying Archy, and incited his godless companions to do the same.

Archy often wished that he was on board the “Kate” again, and anxiously looked out in the hopes of falling in with her. The captain had been much put out by the loss of the whale and two lines when they had been rescued, and seemed to associate them in some way with the circumstance. A few days afterwards the watch below were aroused with the welcome cry of “a fall! a fall!” a whale was fast. The remaining boats pulled away, and in a few hours the captain’s good humour was restored by having the whale alongside. All hands were now in high spirits. “One fish more, and hurrah for old England,” was the cry.

Several days passed away without any further success. In vain Andrew and Archy looked out for the “Kate.” The season was advancing, still the captain of the “Laplander,” anxious to get a full ship, cruised backwards and forwards in the hopes of killing one fish more. At length that object was attained, but one of the boats was knocked to pieces, and two of her crew drowned. The huge monster was secured alongside with all haste, the blubber was got on board, and the instant the carcase was cut adrift, the crew giving three shouts of joy at being full, sail was made, and the ship stood to the southward.

The ice, as she proceeded, gathered thickly around her. Boldly, however, she pushed on through the passages which appeared between the floes. Now she was threading a narrow lane of water, now sailing across an open lake, but still on every side appeared those threatening fields of ice, which might at any moment enclose her in their deadly embrace. The captain, or one of the mates, was constantly in the crow’s-nest, looking out for the most open passages ahead, through which the ship might be steered.

They had sailed on for some distance, when the ice on either side was seen to be moving. A tempting channel, however, appeared before them. The “Laplander” sailed into it. She had scarcely entered when the opposite floes began to approach each other. Still the breeze was strong and fair, and the captain hoped that he might be able to push through into an open space beyond before they could close. Nearer and nearer they came to each other, till the broad passage assumed the appearance of a narrow canal. It was at length seen that escape was impossible. The sails were furled, the ship was secured to the floe on one side, and an attempt was made to cut a dock in which she might remain while the inevitable concussion took place. Almost before the ice-saws could be got out and set to work, a loud crashing roaring sound was heard. The floes meeting with terrific force, vast masses rose up in the air, huge fragments being thrown upon each other, till in one instant a ridge, reaching almost to the height of the ship’s tops, was formed. The seamen, not waiting for the captain’s orders, seized their bags and bedding, and whatever they could lay hands on, and leaped out on the ice.

“Follow me, Archy,” cried Andrew, seizing a bag of biscuits, and throwing a couple of blankets over his shoulder. “In another minute the ship may be crushed to fragments.”

Archy lowered himself down with Andrew on to the ice, and with the rest of the crew they hurried away from the ship. Scarcely had they left her when the floes closed in, and vast masses of ice were seen rising up around her, the rending and crashing sound of her stout timbers telling them too plainly of her fate. Not till they had got some distance did the fugitives venture to stop and watch what was going forward. The masts were seen to totter, and large fragments of wreck were thrown on either side over the surface. The captain, as he saw the destruction of his vessel, wrung his hands with despair, while dismay was depicted on the countenances of his crew. So sudden had been the nip, that except the clothes on their backs and the bedding they carried under their arms, nothing had been saved. As yet too, the danger of approaching the wreck was too great to allow of the attempt being made, for the ice, pressing closer and closer, continued to throw up vast slabs, beneath which any one going near the spot might in an instant have been crushed. Suddenly the tall masts fell with a crash, and the whole upper part of the ship was cast in fragments on to the ice. For several minutes the seamen stood aghast, till the floes having accomplished their work, remained at rest. Andrew was the first to speak.

“Lads,” he said, “I have seen this sort of thing occur before, and I and all with me reached home in safety, so may we now if we exert ourselves; may be the boats have escaped, and the provisions and stores may have been thrown up on the ice. I for one am ready to go back to the wreck and see what has been saved.”

Several of the men agreed to accompany Andrew, and they made their way among the masses of ice which strewed the surface. Their search was in part satisfactory. Two of the boats had escaped injury, while their chests and a large portion of the provisions and stores which had been on the upper deck, were found scattered about. The officers, arousing themselves, now followed the example which Andrew had set. While one party were employed in collecting provisions, another cut the sails from the yards, which had been thrown on the ice, and erected tents in which they might shelter themselves from the piercing wind. Others chopped up wood, and fires were lighted. Some time was thus occupied, and at length an encampment was formed, with all the stores and provisions which had been collected piled up around, and the weary seamen were able to rest from their labours. A consultation was now held as to the means to be taken for preserving their lives. The boats could only carry a portion of their number, even should the ice again open and allow them to escape. As far as could be seen, it had closed in on every side, and probably they would have to drag them many long leagues before the open water could be gained. The land, by the captain’s calculation, was upwards of fifty miles away, but the Danish settlements, where they could obtain assistance, were much further off. At the same time, it was possible that they might find another vessel fast in the ice nearer at hand, which might afford them shelter. One thing only was certain, that they must lose no time in making preparations for their journey. Unhappily, the captain, disheartened by the destruction of his ship, was incapable of exerting himself. Although a good seaman, he was destitute of that higher courage which a confidence in God’s superintending care can alone give. He sat in his tent, with his head resting on his hands, for many hours, gazing toward the wreck, without issuing any orders. The officers differed from each other as to what was best to be done, while many of the crew exhibited a mutinous disposition, and assembled altogether in a tent which they had erected for themselves. Collecting a quantity of the smaller fragments of the wreck, they made up a large fire within, around which they sat, cooking some of the provisions which they had appropriated from the common store.

Archy, from the time of leaving the ship, had kept close to Andrew, and assisted him in whatever work he was engaged on. While, however, he was collecting wood at a short distance from the camp, Max came up to him.

“Well, Archy,” he said, “I see old Andrew intends to make you work for him; that’s his reason for keeping you by his side. Now, boy, if I were you I would not be led by the nose. Come and join us. I’ll own I had a hand in getting you into this scrape, and I wish to help you out of it. I and some of the other men have formed a plan to make our escape, and it’s my opinion that those who remain here will lose their lives. That can’t be helped, you see, for it’s impossible that all should be saved, and as I am your friend I don’t wish to leave you behind. Come along now, we have got a roaring fire inside there, and the fellows will let you join them if I ask them.” Max pointed to the tent of the mutineers.

“I promised to stay by Andrew,” said Archy. “Unless he goes I can’t join you.”

“I’ll see about asking him by-and-bye,” said Max.

“What do you propose doing, then?” asked Archy.

“Making off with the boats,” answered Max. “It’s the only chance we have of saving our lives, and we shall be sure to reach one of the Danish places on the coast.”

“What, you would not desert old Andrew?” exclaimed Archy.

“Oh, of course not,” answered Max, in a tone which made Archy suspect him, especially when he added, “Mark me, my lad, if you let old Andrew or any of the rest know of what I have been saying to you, there are some among us who would not scruple a moment to knock you on the head. Remember my words. I ask you again, will you come with us?”

“No,” answered Archy firmly. “I promised to stick by Andrew, and I am not going to desert him.”

“Then take the consequences,” exclaimed Max angrily, “and remember, hold your tongue, or it will be the worse for you.”

Archy saw him return to the tent; but the men who crowded round the fire seemed very unwilling to allow him a place among them, and Archy suspected that had he listened to Max he should have had very little chance of getting near it either.

On rejoining Andrew, Archy refrained from mentioning what Max had said, as there were several other persons within hearing, and, indeed, not till some time afterwards did he find his friend alone. Andrew, with some of the better disposed men, and a few of the officers, had taken up their quarters in a tent, and were now collected round a fire in the centre of it, though a much smaller one than that formed by the men. Andrew made room for Archy by his side. While they were discussing their supper, they agreed that they would form a number of sledges with runners for the boats, and placing the provisions and tents, with guns and ammunition on them, and such other stores as they might require, set off without further delay for the land. No one seemed to suspect the treachery meditated by Max and his party. The carpenter’s chest had fortunately been saved, and while one party assisted him in collecting wood and forming the sledges and runners, others were engaged in doing up the provisions and stores in packages of a size suitable for being carried on the sledges. The mutineers even assisted, and were especially busy in fitting runners to the boats.

Some progress had been made in the work, when night coming on compelled them to desist from their labours, and take shelter in their respective tents. Archy, as he lay down to sleep, began to think that in spite of the threats of Max he ought to have told Andrew what he had said.

“To-morrow morning will be time enough,” he thought, and he was soon asleep.

Chapter Seven.

Mutiny! Most of the crew carrying the greater part of the provisions, set off without the others.—Proposals for pursuit, but not carried out, and at last the remainder commence their journey across the ice, meeting with great difficulties.—The captain becomes ill, but is cheered by Andrew.—He at length dies, after Andrew has placed before him the truth, which he accepts.—He is buried in a snow tomb.

Archy was awakened by hearing one of the officers, who had gone out of the tent, exclaim, “Why, what have become of the boats?” The rest of the inmates of the tents were quickly on foot. They looked around. Far away in the distance two dark spots could be seen on the ice. Andrew and several others ran to the tent of the mutineers—it was empty. The fire had burnt a hole in the ice and disappeared. Had it not been for those objects far off they might have supposed that the sleepers had gone in with it and been drowned. The provisions were next examined—the packages prepared for travelling had greatly diminished. Several, indignant at being thus deserted, proposed setting off in pursuit of the fugitives.

“They have fire-arms with them, and you will not get them to come back, lads,” said the captain, who had come out of his tent.

In spite of his warnings, and the advice of Andrew, who urged that it was better to let them go, a number of men, and two of the officers, started away, vowing that they would bring back the mutineers, and punish them for their treachery.

At first, the party thus deserted seemed inclined to give way to despair, and Archy more than ever regretted that he had not warned his friends of the intended treachery.

“Come along, lads, to the wreck,” exclaimed Andrew. “Perhaps we may find another boat, which we may be able to repair, and some more provisions to replace those carried off.”

Thus appealed to, the carpenter, with several men, set off with Andrew to the wreck, Archy accompanying his friend. After climbing over a number of huge masses of ice, they made their way to the opposite floe, which was now firmly united to the one it had struck. Here they found a quantity of the wreck scattered about, as well as several casks of meat and biscuits, and wedged between two slabs, the smallest boat, which had hung at the stern. The carpenter, on examining her, expressed his hopes that by fastening canvas round her, he could make her float sufficiently to enable them to pass from one floe to another, should they meet any open channels in their course. This discovery raised their spirits. The party immediately hastened back to their companions with the news. It was agreed that they should at once move across to the floe, with the tents and provisions, and forming a new encampment, go on with the work of preparing the sledges. Frequently as they went backwards and forwards, they looked out for the return of the party who had gone in pursuit of the mutineers. The latter had got far out of sight before they could have been overtaken. What had become of the pursuers no one could say. Some supposed that the two parties had united and gone on together, while others fancied that they had fought, and that those who had been defeated had been left alone on the ice, while the victors had pushed on with the boats.

The whole day was occupied in moving to the new encampment, and it was nearly dark before their tents were erected and other preparations made for passing the night. The wind had latterly increased greatly, and clouds had been collecting to the north. Scarcely had they got under shelter when the snow began to fall heavily, and the sharp wind swept across the icy plain with terrific force.

“Archy, we may be thankful that we are not with those poor fellows who deserted us,” observed Andrew as they sat together round the fire in their tent. “It will be a mercy if any of them escape even if they reached the open water before nightfall, and it’s my opinion that they will not have done that.”

“They deserve their fate, whatever it may be,” growled out one of the men.

“Ah, friend, we all deserve far more than we receive,” said Andrew. “If God was to treat us according to our merits, the best of us could only look for punishment. Let us pray that He will have mercy on them as well as on us. Oh, mates, I wish you could all understand the great love which God has for us poor sinners. We exposed ourselves of our own free choice to the danger and hardship we have to endure, but He in His mercy offers us free salvation and eternal happiness for our souls. He gave Jesus Christ to suffer instead of us, and it’s our own fault if we do not accept His precious gift. All He asks us to do is to trust to His love, and believe that Jesus died for us and that His blood washes away all our sins.”

Several of Andrew’s companions listened with deep earnestness to his words, and on that bleak floe, and amid those arctic snows, believed to the salvation of their souls.

All night long the wind swept by them, the snow fell faster and faster, but they heeded not the tempest. A bright light had burst upon them, and they could look forward with hope to the future, trusting to that God of love and mercy whom they had hitherto only known as a stern and severe judge.

When morning broke all hands set to work to clear away the snow, which had covered up the boat and everything left outside the tents. The wind, however, had ceased, and they were able to go on with their labours, and by the evening the sledges were completed and the boat prepared and placed on runners. They were then loaded, that the party might be ready to start the following morning on their journey. Twice during the day, Andrew with several of the other men had gone over to the old encampment to ascertain if any of those who had deserted them had come back. They cast their eyes in vain over the wide snow-covered plain,—not a trace of a human being could be seen. It was too probable that all had perished. More than half the ship’s company had thus been lost.

The night was passed in comparative comfort. They had well-formed tents, abundance of bedding, and ample fires. All knew that in future the case would be very different. The sledges were chiefly loaded with provisions. They were obliged to reduce their tents to the smallest possible size, and they could carry but a limited supply of fuel. There were five sledges in all, each drawn by four men, while six men were harnessed to the boat, in which the old captain, who was unable to walk, was placed. Andrew joined the latter party, and Archy, on account of his youth, was excused from dragging a sledge,—he, however, carried his blankets and some provisions on his back, each man being also loaded in the same way. The snow having partially melted under the still hot rays of the sun, had again frozen, and had filled up all inequalities in the ice. This enabled the party to drag the sledges along during the first day without difficulty. They had, however, to make frequent circuits to avoid the hummocks, which in some places were very numerous. They calculated by nightfall that they had advanced nearly twelve miles on their journey towards the coast. The uneven appearance of the ice beyond them, interspersed in many places with huge icebergs, warned them that in future they could not hope to advance so rapidly.

Hitherto they had not suffered much from cold, but that night, as they lay in their tents with the small fires which their limited supply of fuel allowed them to keep up, they were nearly frozen. Andrew several times remembering the advantage he had before gained from taking exercise, got up and ran about to warm himself. Those who followed his example awoke refreshed and fit for work, whereas those who had remained quiet all the night, found their limbs stiff and their feet and hands frozen, and it was not till after, with the help of their companions, they had moved about and undergone great pain, that they were able to proceed. Some, indeed, had suffered so much, that they entreated to be left to die rather than undergo the hardships they would have to endure. Andrew urged them to arouse themselves.

“It is our duty, lads, to straggle on as long as we can. God may think fit to try us, but let us trust in Him and He may find a way for us at last to escape, though we are too blind to see it,” he observed.

His exhortations produced a good effect, and once more they proceeded on their journey. The old captain had suffered the most, and it seemed very probable that he would be unable to hold out many days longer. Andrew seeing his condition, frequently spoke to him, and though hitherto he had turned scornfully away, he now willingly listened to the words the faithful Christian uttered.

“Oh!” he exclaimed at length, “I wish that I had heard you before. It is too late now, I have been a terrible sinner, God can never pardon so bad a man as I am.”

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Andrew, “Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners. He saved the thief on the cross, He saved the jailor at Philippi. The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin. He says, ‘Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be as white as snow, though they be red like crimson they shall be as wool.’”

This was said while they were stopping to take their mid-day meal.

The old captain raised himself up and grasped Andrew’s hand.

“Do you really speak the truth to me?” he exclaimed.

“I repeat what God says, sir, and He cannot lie,” answered Andrew. “Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.”

“I do, I do,” cried the old man. “But oh! what would I now give had I known this in my youth. What years of wickedness and misery it would have saved me.”

“Ah, sir! there are thousands upon thousands who may say that,” replied Andrew. “Archy, you hear the captain’s words. Don’t forget them, boy. If God in His mercy allows you to return home in safety, repeat them to your young companions, and urge them to ‘seek the Lord while He may be found.’ You may thus render them a service for which they will have cause to thank you through eternity.”

“I will try,” said Archy humbly, “but it is difficult to speak to others.”

“Pray for the aid of God’s Holy Spirit, and He will enable you to do it,” said Andrew.

“I will try,” repeated Archy, for he had discovered his own weakness. Through that discovery alone can strength be obtained.

The shipwrecked party again pushed on, the party keeping ahead. Some of the men had begun to complain that the boat detained them. They supposed that the ice was attached throughout to the mainland, and believed that they could do without her. The captain tried to persuade them that they were mistaken, but they had lost their respect for him, and declared that they knew better. Andrew thought the captain was right, and entreated them to listen to his advice. Their replies showed that they were bent on pushing on. The worthy carpenter, James Foubister by name, also a Shetlander, sided with Andrew, and promised not to desert the old captain. Their example influenced most of the other men attached to the boat, who agreed, should the rest of the party do as they proposed, to remain with them. By exerting themselves to the utmost they overtook the sledge parties soon after they had encamped. Andrew again spoke earnestly to his companions, pointing out to them the danger they would ran by separating, and he hoped at length that they had abandoned their design.

The next day they went on as before. The cold was increasing, and except when they were in active exercise, they felt it severely. The old captain especially, from being unable to move, suffered greatly, and was rapidly sinking. Andrew, whenever the party stopped, acted the part of a true Christian, and was by his side, endeavouring to console and cheer him with the blessed promises of the gospel. What other comfort could he have afforded? The old man felt its unspeakable value, and after his voice had lost the power of utterance, holding Andrew’s hand, he signed to him to stoop down and speak them in his ear, and so he died,—with a peaceful expression in his countenance, which told of the sure and certain hope he had gone to realise. Andrew and the carpenter proposed carrying on the captain’s body to bury it on shore, but the rest objected, as causing them unnecessary labour. A snow tomb was therefore built, in which the old man’s body was placed, and there they left him, out on that wild frozen ocean, where many of England’s bravest sons rest from their toils. Happy are those who have died as he died, trusting in the Lord. The men were too much engrossed with their own sufferings to mourn his loss, but few failed, when the next morning they started on their journey, to cast a glance at the tomb. “Poor old man, he is better off than we are,” was the expression uttered by most of them.

The fatigue of dragging the sledges over the rough ice was now so great, that some of the men purposed leaving their tents and the remainder of their fuel behind, and the officers had much difficulty in making them see the folly of such a proceeding. As they advanced, not only large hummocks, but vast icebergs became numerous, among which they were frequently enveloped, and many a circuit had to be made to avoid them.

The day after the captain’s death it began to snow heavily. The sledges were as usual ahead, still Andrew and his party managed to proceed with the boat. The snow-storm increasing in density, they at length lost sight of their companions. For some time they followed up their tracks, but these were gradually obliterated by the falling snow. Still they went on, till they found themselves at the base of an iceberg, but not a trace was visible to show whether the party ahead had made their way round by the north or south end. As any delay would have increased the difficulty of overtaking them, they pushed on, taking a southerly direction.

Having doubled the berg, they saw a clear space before them, but though the snow had ceased, the sledge parties were nowhere visible.

The captain’s rifle had been saved. Andrew fired it in the hopes that the signal might be heard, but no reply came to their listening ears. Once more they went on, but their progress was slow and tedious.

Chapter Eight.

Proceeding on against many difficulties.—Archy and his companions at last discover land ahead, and camp in a snow-hut.—At daybreak, seeing no traces of the mutineers, they push on, and arrive at the edge of the floe. Cross a channel and getting on an opposite floe, build a snow-hut; but the water rising, leave it, and build another, which also is washed away. Build a third, and are awoke by a bear.—Two men frost bitten are left behind.

As the sun was about to set, a shout escaped Archy’s lips. “Land, land!” he cried out. All gazed eagerly in the direction to which he pointed. There appeared a range of snowy mountains far higher than any icebergs. They were clear and well defined, and Andrew and Foubister declared that they could not be, as some of the rest supposed, a bank of clouds. They remained visible till the sun sunk beneath the horizon. The discovery somewhat cheered their spirits, but still many days must elapse before they could reach the shore, and even when there, no inhabitants might be found to assist them, or food to enable them to exist during the coming winter. Their present condition indeed was very trying. The tents were on the sledges, and they had only sufficient fuel in the boat to keep a fire alight for one night; while their provisions, with the utmost economy, would last them but a fortnight or three weeks at the furthest.

“If the cold goes on increasing, we shall be frozen to death before the morning,” exclaimed several of the men.

“Not so, mates,” said Andrew. “I have seen the natives build a snow-hut in the course of an hour, and have been as warm as I could wish within it during the hardest frost. They call it an igloo, and they fashion it much after the way the seals make their houses, so that it is well suited to the climate. We may depend on that, as God himself taught the seals. Now turn to and clear a space down to the ice, while the carpenter and I saw out some blocks of snow.” His companions followed Andrew’s directions; and while Foubister sawed out the blocks, which were about three feet long, and half as wide, he placed them in a circle on the space which had been cleared. He then put on another tier, gradually sloping inwards till a dome was formed, and lastly the keystone of the arch was dropped into its place. Archy, who was helping Andrew, remained with him inside, and were thus completely walled in. The carpenter, with his saw, then cut a hole to serve as a doorway, on the lee side of the hut.

“We have yet got to form a bed and fire-places. Hand in more blocks, mates,” said Andrew.

With these he and Archy quickly built up a raised place on either side of the hut, with a circular one in the centre. Some of the provisions, with a portion of the fuel, and all the bedding and blankets, were then brought inside, when Andrew stopped up the doorway with some blocks of snow, which he had retained for the purpose.

“Now, mates,” he said, “you will soon see that we can be warm enough, but we must keep up as small a fire as can be made to burn. Look here now; this log will last us all night if we chop it into chips, and just put on three or four at a time.”

Andrew’s plan was found to answer perfectly. The fire was sufficient to melt the snow in a saucepan, and to enable them to enjoy some hot tea, and the hut soon became so warm that they were glad to throw off their great coats. Their only regret was that Andrew had not thought before of building a snow-hut.

“Better late than never. It will not be the last by many that we shall have to build,” he answered.

They were all so comfortable that Andrew had great difficulty in rousing them in the morning to encounter the biting wind blowing across the floe. Having enjoyed a warm breakfast, and put on their outer clothing, they cut their way out of their burrow, and once more proceeded eastward. They did not fail to look out for their companions, but not a moving object was to be discerned in any direction across the wide ice-field.

After travelling all day, they were convinced that they saw the land ahead, though it appeared no nearer than before.

“May be it will not appear nearer to-morrow or next day,” said Andrew. “But that must not disappoint us. It will be nearer notwithstanding. That we know for a certainty, and if we persevere we shall reach it at last.”

As they advanced, several cracks and broad fissures were found in the ice, and in one place there was a wide pool or lake only thinly covered over, to avoid which they had to make a circuit.

“We are not far off the open water, mates,” said Andrew, “and we may be thankful that we have the boat, though I fear our poor shipmates will be in a sad plight.”

Making their way onwards, the ice being tolerably smooth, they arrived sooner than Andrew had expected at the edge of the floe. The channel which divided it from the opposite floe was upwards of a couple of miles wide, a long distance to traverse in their battered boat. The wind had gone down, and the sea was tolerably calm, it was therefore important to cross while it remained so. Andrew, however, was very unwilling to cross without waiting for their missing shipmates.

“Just think, mates, how we should feel if we had been with the sledges had they crossed and left us to our fate on the floe?”

“But they deserted us, and we may lose our lives if we wait for them,” argued the other men.

At last Andrew persuaded them to remain, while he and Archy set off to climb to the top of a small iceberg, a little way to the north, from whence they hoped to obtain a view over a considerable portion of the floe. They lost no time in starting, but the distance was much greater than they had expected.

“It seems to me as if the iceberg were moving away from us,” exclaimed Archy. “We have been walking on for the last half hour, and appear no nearer.”

“The berg is a good deal larger than I had fancied,” answered Andrew. “But never fear, we shall get up to it at last, and if we can manage to climb to the top, we shall have a wider view over the plain, and a better chance of seeing the poor fellows. It goes to my heart to leave them to perish, and yet perish they must if they do not soon reach the mainland. We must forget that they intended to desert us, and even if they did, it is our duty to return good for evil, so come along Archy.”

The iceberg was at length gained. Then came the difficulty of climbing to the top. After walking nearly round it, they found a portion melted and broken by the summer sun which afforded them footing. With the aid of a boat-hook, and a coil of rope which Andrew had brought, they at last reached one of the highest points. Hence they could see the edge of the floe extending for a considerable way to the north, while their eyes ranged over a wide extent of level ice, but all was one white waste. Not the smallest dark spot could be seen upon it.

“I am afraid, Archy, we must give them up,” sighed Andrew. “We should risk the loss of our own lives if we were longer to wait for them.”

Descending the iceberg, Andrew and Archy made their way back to the boat. The boat was at once launched, and though she leaked slightly, one hand bailing could keep her free. They all therefore, embarked, and towing the runners, they made their way across to the floe. As they found themselves once more gliding smoothly over the water, their spirits rose, and some were anxious to try and make their way south in the boat. Andrew and the carpenter, however, strongly objected to doing this.

“The ice may close upon us, and we may run short of provisions long before we can reach the Danish settlements,” he observed. “Let us get hold of the land first.”

It was nearly dark by the time they reached the edge of the opposite ice, and having unloaded their boat, they hauled her up, and proceeded on to a hummock at a little distance. Here, without loss of time, they build an igloo in which to shelter themselves for the night.

The first part passed quietly away, but about midnight Archy was awoke by the sound of the crashing of ice, and a loud dashing of waves. He aroused his companions, they listened for a few seconds.

“The sea is breaking up the ice close to us,” exclaimed Andrew. “Put on your clothes, lads, or we may be drowned in our den.”

In another minute the whole party made their way out of the hut, carrying their bedding under their arms. The sea was already close up to the stern of the boat. Fortunately she had been placed on the runners. They had just time to seize her, and drag her along, before the ice, on which she had been resting, gave way. On they went as fast as they could drag the boat, but even then it seemed doubtful whether they could escape from the fast following sea. Their hut and the hummock, near which it had been built, quickly disappeared. The wind blew with fearful violence; the ice beneath their feet rose and fell as they passed over it. Whenever they halted, the crashing ice behind them warned them to push on again. At last a berg in the floe appeared ahead, they made their way towards it, hoping that they might obtain shelter under its lee till the gale had ceased. The men were so fatigued that they would have thrown themselves down under shelter of the boat to rest had not Andrew persuaded them to build another igloo. Here they once more sought shelter, hoping to remain undisturbed for the remainder of the night. Andrew and Foubister, however, agreed to keep watch and watch, and Archy begged to take his turn.

“No, no,” said Andrew, “you were the means of saving our lives. You want sleep more than we do.”

Two hours passed away, when, as Andrew listened, he heard again the same terrific sound which had before awakened them. Once more all were aroused, and hastening out as before, they found the sea still encroaching on them. Complaining bitterly of their hard fate, the men dragged on their boat, still the sea pursued them. Scarcely had they got a hundred yards from the berg beneath which they had taken shelter, when it crashed away through the broken ice. No one now felt inclined to stop. The raging sea tore up the ice behind them, the vast slabs crashing together with a terrific sound, urging them to greater speed.

On they went till day dawned, when they found themselves near a low iceberg. They now declared that they could go no further, and Andrew and Foubister agreed, that even should the ice overtake them, they might find refuge on the slope of the berg, up which they could without difficulty haul the boat. Having placed her, as they hoped, in safety, they built another snow-hut, where they proposed remaining till the storm had ceased. As they had now become expert architects, they were not long in constructing the igloo, and all thankfully crept in to recruit their strength. Even Andrew felt that he could not have held out much longer.

The crashing sounds of the breaking ice had ceased, and no longer fearing having again to take to flight, the whole party fell asleep. They had not closed the doorway, as was their custom at night, on account of the heat which was soon generated in so confined a space. Archy was the first to awake, as he did so he heard a scraping sound, and directly afterwards he caught sight of the white snout of a huge animal poked in at the opening. A few smouldering chips alone remained of the fire in the centre of the hut. His first impulse was to seize one and throw it at the intruder, shouting out to his companions at the same time. They quickly sprung to their feet. The carpenter seized an axe.

“A bear, a bear,” he cried out, as he made a blow at the nose of the animal, who, uttering fierce growls, quickly beat a retreat.

They all rushed out, when the bear was seen at a short distance sitting on his haunches examining its wounded nose. Andrew hurried to the boat. Happily the bear had not attacked their provisions. The rifle was loaded, his only fear was that the bear would make off before he could get near enough to wound it mortally. The creature was, however, evidently meditating an attack. It advanced, he fired, and it rolled over on the snow. His companions uttered a shout of joy, as they had no longer any fear of suffering for want of food for some time to come. The bear was cut up, and returning to their hut, they were soon employed in cooking steaks over their rekindled fire.

“I suspect those fellows never venture far from land,” observed Andrew; “so we may now feel pretty sure, mates, that we shall be able to reach it without having another channel to cross.”

The whole party were, however, too much knocked up to make another move during that day, and even Andrew and Foubister, who were most anxious to proceed on their journey, consented to remain till the following morning. The day and night were passed between sleeping and eating, for as soon as the men woke up, they relighted their fire and cooked more bear’s steaks, in spite of Andrew’s warnings that they would soon exhaust all their fuel.

“Never fear, old man,” was the answer, “we shall get enough when we reach the shore, and let us enjoy ourselves while we can. The natives manage to live, why should not we?”

“The natives know how to catch the seal and the walrus, and unless we can prove ourselves as good hunters as they are, we may chance to starve,” answered Andrew.

His warnings, however, had no effect, and when the next morning they came to examine the contents of the boat, they found they had only sufficient fuel to last them another night.

Once more they were on their journey. The carcase of the bear added considerably to their load, the ice too was rough and broken, and they made but slow progress. The land was seen clearly ahead, but after toiling all day it seemed almost as far off as when they started. The days too were becoming shorter and shorter, while the cold rapidly increased, and once more they were compelled to encamp on the open floe. That night the remainder of their fuel was consumed. Two of the men had been complaining during the day of pains in their feet, and when they pulled off their boots, to their dismay they discovered that they were perfectly black. In vain their companions rubbed them to restore the circulation. Their groans were piteous to hear, and when the morning came they were utterly unable to rise. Andrew proposed to place them in the boat, and to drag them along to the shore. When, however, morning came, the ice ahead appeared even rougher than that which they had passed over on the previous day, and in spite of his desire to preserve their lives, it was found that with their diminished strength this would be impossible. It was therefore agreed that the poor fellows should be left in the hut, and that should any Esquimaux be met with, they should be sent with their sledges and dogs to their relief. With sad hearts the rest of the party closed the hut, which they felt would too probably prove the tomb of their companions.

Chapter Nine.

Archy has a mask to protect his eyes from snow-blindness, from which all the rest suffer.—He leads them by a string, when an Esquimaux is discovered searching for seals, who builds an igloo, and melting some snow, bathes the blind men’s eyes, and provides for them.

Four human beings with heavy packs on their backs were making their toilsome way over the snow-covered surface of the frozen sea. One by one their companions had dropped. They had reached the wished for shore, but lofty ice-cliffs rose before them on which they had found it hopeless to seek for shelter of subsistence, and again they were attempting to make their way to the southward. First the boat which they had dragged over so many leagues had been consumed for fuel, and then the sledge was piece by piece burned to give them warmth in their snow-hut during the night. Archy had held out bravely; Andrew had wonderfully been supported, ever with confidence seeking for aid from above, he felt that his own life and that of his companions depended on his exertions. Foubister and David Saunders, one of the crew of the “Kate,” encouraged by him had hitherto kept up their spirits, yet as they looked ahead and saw the icy plain stretched out before them they might well have given way to despair. They had just set out from the snow-hut which had sheltered them during the night, and in which the last chip of the sledge had been consumed. As the embers of their fire died out, Foubister, brave and determined man as he was, had exclaimed, “Why need we go further? It will only be to perish in a few hours of cold, as the rest have done.”

“Because it is our duty to trust to God and struggle to the last,” answered Andrew. “He may send us help when we least expect it. Let us go on while life and strength remain.”

Kneeling down, Andrew offered up an earnest prayer for protection, and the whole party then strapping on their packs, with renewed strength set forward on their journey. Archy would probably have sunk under the hardships he was enduring had not his old friend supported and cheered him throughout. His other companions were also constant in their kindness. They gave him a larger supply of food than they took themselves, and chafed his feet and dried his socks at the end of each day’s journey. They had also made him a mask to protect his face, of a piece of canvas lined with woollen stuff, having breathing places in it for the nostrils and mouth, and two holes as small as possible for the eyes. He was surprised to find when he put it on how well he could see through those small holes. Neither he nor his friends were aware at the time of their importance.

They had started before daylight, for the sky was clear and the moon and stars afforded them ample light to see their way. The sun at length rose above the horizon, and cast his brilliant rays over the sheet of snow. All the three men had, on the previous day, complained of a peculiar smarting of the eyes, but little did they think at the time of what it portended. As they proceeded the smarting sensation increased, till at length David Saunders began to stumble, and exclaimed that all was dark. His words struck dismay into the hearts of his companions, for both Andrew and Foubister had for some time found a difficulty in seeing objects before them, and in a short time the latter cried out that he too was blind. It would have been certain death to stop, so, although Andrew himself was suffering intense pain, he urged his companions to proceed, hoping still that they might discover some Esquimaux’ huts on the shore, or find other means of preserving their lives.

“And how do your eyes feel, Archy?” asked Andrew, in a voice which showed his anxiety.

“I have no pain, and can see as well as ever,” answered Archy.

“Thank God,” replied Andrew. “You must then be our guide, for I too have lost my sight.” Archy on hearing this felt ready to burst into tears.

“Oh! what can I do? How can I lead you?” he exclaimed.

“Trust in God and go straight on, lad. Here, take this line and we will hold on to it,” he added uncoiling a short length of rope which he carried at his side, and he put the end into Archy’s hands. He and Foubister and Saunders then took hold of it, following each other in line.

“Now move on, Archy,” said Andrew, “and keep a bright look out ahead, as well as on the right hand and on the left. If you see anything like smoke or little round hillocks near the shore, we may be certain that natives are there, or may be you will catch sight of the masts of a ship in the horizon, no fear of her getting away from us, for she will be fast frozen in.”

Thus cheered by the confiding faith of old Andrew and his dauntless courage, the party proceeded onwards over the ice-field, Archy’s eyes alone, protected by his mask, escaping the snow-blindness. Every now and then, with anxious voices, one or the other would cry out, “Do you see anything ahead, Archy, any sign of Esquimauxs on the shore,—any vessel in the distance?”

“No, I only see tall ice-cliffs on the left, and icebergs rising up here and there out of the frozen sea,” he answered. Several times on hearing this Saunders declared it was useless to go on, and even Foubister once proposed building a snow-hut as well as their blindness would allow them, and then lying down within it to die.

“What! and let the poor lad who has still got his eyesight perish with us?” exclaimed Andrew. “Shame on you, mate. I did not think to hear such words come from your lips. No, no, while we have life its our duty to go on, and if its God’s will that we should die, let us die doing our duty. If He pleases He can send us help and restore our eyesight, and He has shown us pretty clearly that we must lean on Him and Him alone.”

Thus rebuked, the honest carpenter did not allow another repining word to escape him.

There was but little wind, and the air felt warm and pleasant. Reaching a small iceberg they all sat down, placed by Archy on a ledge under its shelter to rest. He unpacked their wallets, and helped them to their food. By Andrew’s direction, also with the carpenter’s axe, he chopped off a thin layer of ice from the berg. From this, when held up in the direct rays of the sun, water dropped into their saucepan sufficiently fast to quench the thirst from which they had before been suffering. They were not aware that they might greatly have relieved the pain in their eyes by bathing them with the cold water. Revived by their meal they again proceeded as before, yet what could they expect at the end of their day’s journey? Could they hope to live through the night in an ill-built snow-hut without fire, might it not too probably become their tomb? Mile after mile was passed over, and still came the same answer from Archy to their constant inquiries. Night was approaching,—Andrew urged them to push on rather than stop, as long as they had strength to move.

“If you wish, I will go on,” said Archy, “or, I think, with your help I could build a snow-hut and we could keep warm enough inside it without a fire, I hope.”

“No, no, on, on,” said Andrew. “We will stop in time to build a hut before dark.” So on again they went.

Suddenly Andrew felt the rope by which he was led slacken, when Archy cried out, “Stop, I see something dark moving ahead.”

“What is it, what is it, boy?” exclaimed the three men together.

“It seems to me like a seal,” answered Archy. “But no—I don’t think a seal would move in that way,—Hurrah! it is a man,—he has risen to his feet,—he sees us,—he is coming this way.”

Archy hurried on, leading his companions. The stranger advanced towards them. When he was still at some distance he stopped and seemed to be examining them, doubtful of their character. Archy raised his hands and beckoning, the stranger once more drew near. From his dress and skins and harpoon in his hand and a coil of line and spears hung to his shoulders, Archy guessed that he was an Esquimaux engaged in searching for seals. He was accompanied by two dogs, who rushed forward barking, but retreated when called by their master. The native having apparently satisfied himself that the approaching party could do him no harm, came up to them, and looked with an inquiring glance at their eyes. He at once seemed to understand that they had been struck with snow-blindness, and he made signs to Archy that he could cure them. Archy inquired where he lived, when he pointed to the south-east, and beckoning to him, led the way onwards. In a short time they reached a large seal which the hunter had apparently just killed; he pointed to it, and signified that they were welcome to eat some of its flesh. Archy intimated that they were weary rather than hungry. The Esquimaux appeared quickly to make up his mind what was best to be done. Clearing a space in the snow he called Archy to assist him, and at once began to build an igloo. He was greatly delighted when Archy produced the carpenter’s saw, and apparently well accustomed to its use, he set to work to shape out the required blocks. In a short time a hut was completed, into which he dragged a considerable portion of the seal. From his capacious pocket he took a shallow bowl, in which he placed some moss wicks, and filled it with seal oil, produced by his chewing the blubber. A light was quickly struck, and the much valued lamp soon shed a genial warmth through the snow-formed habitation. A large lump of blubber hung over the lamp, continued to feed it as the oil supplied by the first process was exhausted. He now melted some snow in the seamen’s saucepan, and explained to Archy that if his blind friends would bathe their eyes in the water their sight would be restored. They followed his advice, and at length the pain from which they were suffering gradually subsided.

The Esquimaux seemed greatly surprised at their preferring their own dried food to the raw blubber on which he and his dogs regaled themselves. Yielding, however, to their prejudices, he heated some steaks over the lamp, of which he hospitably pressed Archy to partake. Hunger induced him to follow his new friend’s advice, and finding the steaks far more palatable than he expected, he persuaded the rest of the party to join in the repast.

“I don’t know what it may look like,” observed David Saunders, gulping down a huge lump. “But its not such bad eating after all, and I am much obliged to you, friend Esquimaux, for your kindness.”

“Friends,” said Andrew, before they lay down to rest on their snow couches, “let us thank God for His mercy in sending this kind native to our help. Oh! ’tis a blessed thing to know that He will never desert those who trust in Him.”

The Esquimaux seemed fully to understand what they were about, and knelt down with them. Though they did not understand each other’s language, yet their hearts were lifted up together to the same merciful Being, the God alike of the dark-skinned Esquimaux and the civilised Englishman.

Chapter Ten.

The Esquimaux leaves, and does not return.—All are able to see, and proceed.—Find bears before them, and at the same time the masts of a ship are discovered.—Push on, and at last assistance arriving, the bears are killed, and Captain Irvine takes Archy on board the “Kate,” the rest following.—Adventures of the “Kate”—shut up in the ice—short provisions.—Captain dies.—Ice opens, when sail is set, and the crew, enduring much suffering, the “Kate” arrives off Unst, an island of Shetland.—Archy, now truly repentant, writes to his mother, and when all on board have recovered, starts for home.—His arrival and reception.

When Archy awoke he was somewhat alarmed on finding that the hunter and his dogs had left the hut. The lamp was still burning, and a large piece of seal’s flesh lay on the floor. Archy hoped, therefore, that the Esquimaux’s intentions were friendly, and that he did not purpose to desert them altogether. Andrew, when he awoke, expressed his opinion that the hunter would certainly return. His and his companions’ eyes were still so painful, that having the means of procuring water they resolved to wait in the hut till their sight was restored, and then to try and make their way to the village of their new friend. That their confidence in his honesty was not misplaced, was proved by his return in the afternoon, when he and his dogs arrived, dragging another seal after them on a small sleigh, which he had probably before left at a distance.

He now intimated that his people at the village were in want of food, and that after eating and resting, he must go away to them; but he signified that he would soon again return; and as a proof of his good intentions, left them a large portion of the first seal that he had killed.

Long before dawn the next morning the hunter set off. That day, though one of suffering, was passed in thankfulness by the shipwrecked seamen. Their lives had been preserved, food had been supplied to them, and they might now hope, even if they could not reach the Danish settlements, to pass the winter in safety in the camp of the friendly natives.

Two days passed by, and the hunter did not return. The eyes of the three men were free from pain, and when they awoke after the third night of their sojourn in the hut, they could see clearly. Archy, with unwearied diligence, had tended to all their wants, and he had frequently gone out to look for the expected return of the hunter, whenever they had expressed anxiety on the subject. At length they agreed that if he did not appear that evening, to set out without waiting for him longer, as their supply of blubber was nearly exhausted, and without it they could not keep their lamp burning. The morning came; still the hunter did not appear. Packing up, therefore, the lamp with its wicks, and every particle of blubber they could scrape together, they again set out. They soon found it necessary, however, to tie some spare comforters round their heads, to shade their eyes from the glare of the sun, the pricking sensation, the prelude to snow-blindness, again quickly returning.

After travelling for some hours, they looked out anxiously for the huts of the Esquimaux they expected to see. The traces of their friend’s sledge and footsteps had been entirely obliterated by a fall of snow, so that they had not the benefit of them as a guide; still they went on. Frequently icebergs rose up in their course, and at length these became so numerous that they were completely bewildered among them. After a time they emerged again into a more open space, when Archy, whose quick eyes were ever on the alert, cried out that he saw three objects moving some way ahead.

“They are bears, I do believe,” he exclaimed, “and they seem as if they were digging into the snow with their snouts.” After going on a little further the rest agreed that he was right. Andrew got his rifle ready.

“If we attempt to run the creatures will follow—it’s their nature to do so. We must try and kill one of them, and frighten the others away. Show a bold front, friends, and we may yet escape their claws.”

While Andrew had been speaking Archy had cast his eyes westward.

“Look, look,” he exclaimed. “I see the masts of a ship rising up against the yellow sky, near where the sun has just gone down.”

Forgetting for the moment about the bears, the whole party turned their eyes in the direction Archy pointed.

“You are right, boy—praise heaven for it,” said Andrew. “Though my eyes are weak I see the masts clearly. She must have been caught in the floe before she could make her way into harbour for shelter. We may reach her this night, and we will try to give the bears the go-by without interfering with them.”

The thought of a friendly greeting from countrymen, and a warm cabin and wholesome food, after all their toils, raised the spirits of the weary seamen. They once more pushed forward, making a circuit to avoid the savage animals, and then directed their course towards the ship. The long twilight enabled them to keep the masts in sight for a considerable time, and they were then able to steer by a star, which shone forth just above the ship. They did not fail, however, very frequently, to turn their heads over their shoulders to ascertain whether they were pursued.

“If the bears track us, we must turn round and face them boldly,” said Andrew. “Ever meet Satan, and all spiritual foes in the same way, lad, and they will flee from you,” added the old man, putting his hand on Archy’s shoulder.

On and on they went, often stumbling over inequalities in the ice, which the increased darkness prevented them from perceiving. Still they struggled forward, hope urging them on. Although the ship could no longer be seen, they felt confident that she was before them, and that they must, if they persevered, reach her at last. The cold was intense, but, weary as they were, they dared not sit down lest their limbs might become benumbed, and might refuse to carry them forward. They knew, too, that the savage bears might be following in their track with stealthy steps, and might at any moment be close upon them. Hours seemed to pass away. It was impossible to calculate time. Their guiding star shone brightly from the sky; still as yet their straining eyes could not make out the looked for ship.

“We cannot now be far off from her,” observed Andrew, “for we have steered too straight a course to pass by her. Archy, you have the sharpest eyes among us, can’t you make her out, lad?”

“Yes, yes, I see her,” he suddenly exclaimed; “but her deck seems to be housed in, and snow covers the roof, and I took it to be a low iceberg. Now I can make out the masts and rigging rising above it—she cannot be more than a mile away.”

“Cheer up, friends, we will soon reach her then,” cried Andrew. “If we were to give a hearty shout, those on board would hear us.”

“I hope they may, and send us help,” exclaimed Saunders, “for here come the bears, and they will be upon us in another minute.”

On hearing this Andrew unslung his rifle, and turning round, observed a large white animal, scarcely to be distinguished from the snow, not forty paces off, stealing towards them. To fly towards the ship, close as they were to her, would have invited the bears to pursue at a faster speed. Facing their foes, they halted, as they proposed—the bears stopped also, sitting down on their haunches to watch their proceedings.

“Archy, run on, and shout as you go—the watch on deck may hear you, and assistance may be sent to us in case we fail to beat off the bears.”

Archy ran on as he was directed. At length he got the ship clearly in sight, but still she seemed a long, long way off. He stopped, however, and shouted with all his might. No reply came, but he heard behind him a cry, and then a shot fired. He knew that it must be from Andrew’s gun. Once more he pushed forward, though his legs were ready to sink beneath him. Just then the moon arose bright and full. He had stopped to give another shout, when, looking back to see if his friends were coming, he discovered, to his dismay, a bear stealing towards him. He remembered Andrew’s caution, not to fly, and bravely facing the animal, he clapped his hands together, shouting even louder than before, in the hopes of frightening it away. At that instant a hail came from the ship—he hailed in return. The bear stopped, apparently astonished at the strange sounds which met its ears. Directly afterwards another hail was heard, and turning his head for an instant, he caught sight of a party of men coming towards him from the ship. The bear seemed unwilling to encounter so many foes, and began slowly to retreat. In another minute Archy was surrounded by a number of men, shouting to him in well-known tones.

“My friends out there want your help,” said Archy, not stopping to explain who he was.

They all had arms in their hands—while some stopped to fire at the retreating bear, others run on in the direction indicated. Some of the bullets took effect, and the bear was seen to drop on the snow. While most of them dashed forward towards the wounded bear, one of them remained by Archy.

“Where do you come from, lad—who are you?” he asked. Archy, with a bounding heart, recognised the voice. It was that of Captain Irvine.

“I am Archy Hughson, sir, and Andrew Scollay, and David Saunders, and Foubister, the carpenter of a ship which took us on board, are out there—I hope the bears have not hurt them.”

“I trust not,” said the captain; “but come along, laddie, to the ship—tell me more as you go. You seem scarcely able to stand.”

Archy was, indeed, gasping for breath, and well nigh dropping from fatigue and excitement. The kind captain supporting him, they made their way toward the ship; but Archy, though he tried to speak, had lost all power of utterance. One of the other men came quickly to their assistance, and Archy was lifted on board, and placed in the captain’s cabin, under the care of Dr Sinclair. In a short time the rest of the party arrived, bringing Andrew and Foubister unhurt, though well nigh exhausted; but poor Saunders had been severely wounded by one of the bears, two of which had, however, been killed.

Andrew, on being carried below, soon somewhat recovered. His first act was to kneel down, when, lifting up his hands, he returned thanks to that all powerful and merciful God who had preserved him and his companions.

“Shipmates,” he said, as he observed the look of astonishment with which some of those who stood around regarded him. “Had you gone through the dangers we have encountered, and been preserved from them to reach the ship again, you would feel that it was not your own arm, or your own strength had saved you, but He, who not only takes care of the bodies of us sinful and ungrateful creatures, but is willing and ready to save our immortal souls alive.”

Archy remained for some days in a state of unconsciousness, but under the care of Dr Sinclair he gradually recovered. The captain treated him with the greatest kindness.

“I have heard all about you, Archy,” he said, “and I don’t speak to you now to blame you for your conduct in leaving home. I’ll leave it to your own conscience to do so. God, in His mercy, has led you through severe trials and hardships, and has mercifully preserved your life, that you may, I trust, henceforth devote it to His service, and not, as heretofore, to that of Satan. Ever remember, Archy, that we ‘cannot serve two masters’—we must be either Christ’s loving subjects, and obey His laws, or we must be Satan’s slaves, and do his will—he is a hard, and oftentimes a very cunning task-master. Most of his slaves, while following their own devices and inclinations, and, as they may fancy, doing no great harm, are in reality carrying out his objects. He blinds their eyes, and they are thus easily led captive by his emissaries, just as you were led away, as I have since discovered, by that unhappy man, Max Inkster. God’s ways are inscrutable. He has been allowed to perish, I fear, in his sins, while your life has been preserved. Then, again I say, my boy, ‘Pray without ceasing,’ that God’s Holy Spirit may strengthen and support you to walk in His ways, and to obey His holy laws.”

Archy assured the captain that such was his wish, and that, feeling his own weakness, he would ever seek for strength from above.

“You will need it now, and throughout life,” said Captain Irvine, solemnly. “To God alone can we look for sure help, in time of need, in all our temporal difficulties, much more then in our spiritual trials. I would that all on board the ship knew this—it would sustain them in the many dangers and the hardships they must be called on to endure. We have now been well nigh a month shut up in the ice, and must expect to remain nearly eight months longer. We had provisions only at the usual rate of consumption for three months, and therefore from the day the ship was frozen up, I was compelled to place the crew on short allowance. Our fuel, too, will be exhausted long before the ice breaks up. When that time comes, should the weather prove tempestuous, the ship will be exposed to fearful danger from the huge masses of ice tossed about by the waves, or from being driven against the icebergs which may appear in her course. With the crew weakened as ours will of necessity be by that time, how little able shall we be of ourselves to contend against the perils which will surround us. I tell you this, Archy, that you may be induced more completely to trust to the protection of that God who can alone enable us to escape them.”

Archy at length recovered his strength. Some time had passed before he discovered that the captain, and Andrew, and one or two other persons, had given up to him a portion of their own scanty allowance of food. When he found this out, he begged that he might not have a larger share than the rest.

“You, a growing lad, want it more than we do,” said Andrew. “And I, for one, feel that if it had not been for you we should have been left to die on the ice far away from this. The crew also said that you enabled them to kill one of the two bears they got the night of our return.”

The want of sufficient food at length began to tell on the frames of the hardy seamen. Parties constantly went out hunting in the hopes of killing seals or bears, but notwithstanding all their skill in capturing the mighty whale, they were unable to catch the wary seals at their blow-holes in the ice, although they succeeded, after a long chase, in obtaining two more bears, who had been tempted by hunger to approach the ship. They were disappointed in receiving no visits from the Esquimaux. Andrew feared truly that the friendly native who had come to their rescue, had himself, on his return, fallen a victim to the savage animals who had followed them when making their way to the ship.

The occurrences on board the “Kate” during that long winter cannot be detailed at length. That dreaded disease, the scurvy, produced by salt provisions and want of vegetable diet, broke out among the crew; more than half were laid up by it, and unable to quit their beds; the good captain himself was also taken ill—he had been long suffering from a disease caught when the ship was first entrapped by the ice, and when it was expected that she would be crushed to pieces, as the “Laplander” had been. Archy had now the satisfaction of repaying his kindness, by watching over him, as a dutiful son would tend a father. He scarcely ever left his side. Much of the time was spent in reading the Bible, the dying captain’s consolation and joy. Again and again he urged on Archy the advice he had before given. Archy did not vow, as some might have done, that he would follow it, but as he knelt by the captain’s bedside, he earnestly prayed that he might have grace to do so. The captain, feeling that his hours were numbered, desired to bid farewell to his crew. It was a sad sight to see the once hardy strong men pass in and out of the cabin—to observe the tottering steps and the pale thin cheeks of most of them. The captain had a word of exhortation and advice for each, and many felt the solemn importance of his words.

The good captain was the first to die, and the doctor feared that ere long several others would sink under the disease from which they suffered. A deep gloom settled on most of the crew, but there was light and brightness in old Andrew’s cabin, which he endeavoured to shed abroad. That light came from within. It arose from his firm faith in God’s loving mercy and protecting providence. “Do not despair, mates,” he said, over and over again. “God has thought fit to take our good captain, who has changed this cold bleak scene for one of brightness and glory in that better land aloft there, where there is room for each one of us too, if we will consent to become the subjects of the being who rules there; but He may not think fit as yet to call us there, though we are His subjects here below. If He does not want us, he will find the means of carrying our ship in safety home.”

Month after month passed by; though suffering from hunger, and intense cold from want of fuel, the crew held out. The ice began to move much earlier in the year than had been expected. A strong gale sprung up from the northward—huge masses of ice rose and fell around the ship—now as they crashed away, an open channel appeared ahead. Sail was set, though not without difficulty, as few were able to go aloft. The water, too, as the ship began to move, rushed in through many a leak, and the pumps were set to work. Now it seemed as if she was again about to be imprisoned—then once more the ice broke away, and she continued her course. But of her whole crew, scarcely six were fitted for work. Many were sick in bed, unable to move; others could just crawl to the pumps, and work them with their feeble arms. The brave doctor, who had retained his strength, exerted himself to the utmost—now standing at the helm, now assisting in making sail, now taking a turn at the pumps, in addition to his duties among the sick. Archy, who had also retained his strength, felt no little satisfaction on finding that he was of as much use as his older shipmates.

At length the ship was free; but alas, many of the poor fellows who had hitherto held out, sank quickly under the fatal disease from which they had long been suffering. One by one they sank, till ten had died besides the captain.

The voyage home was almost as trying as their detention in the ice. Scarcely a drop of water remained, their stock of provisions was well nigh exhausted, every particle of fuel had been consumed, while their numbers were daily diminishing, their strength decreasing, and the water gaining on the pumps. Still they struggled, like brave men, to the last.

“Surely we cannot be far off the land?” said Andrew, one morning to Archy.

“I’ll go aloft and have a look out,” answered Archy; and he made his way to the mast-head.

His heart bounded as he caught sight, in the far distance, of blue hills rising out of the tossing waters. The welcome cry he uttered brought on deck all who had strength sufficient to crawl out of their berths. The ship was steered in the direction towards which Archy pointed, the breeze was favourable, and in a short time the well-known headlands and points of Unst, the most northern isle of Shetland, appeared in sight. Before evening the anchor was dropped in one of the deep voes which run up far inland all round the coast. The inhabitants of the village, on its shores, gazed with astonishment at the battered vessel, and the way in which the sails, which the crew had not strength to furl, fluttered from the yards. In a short time a number of boats, with friendly visitors, were on board, and the news was sent to Lerwick that the long missing “Kate” had returned. Archy sent a few lines to his mother; he signed his note, “from your repentant son,” but he trembled lest she to whom it was addressed might no longer be alive to receive it. A portion of the crew, able to bear the journey were the next day sent on overland; the brave surgeon, however, refused to quit the sick and dying.

“I will stay and help you, sir,” said old Andrew. “God has preserved my strength, and it is my duty to employ it in tending to my suffering fellow creatures; and though there are many at home ready to welcome me, the welcome will come more warmly to my heart when I feel that I have not left undone what I ought to have done.”

“And may I likewise stay?” said Archy. “What Andrew thinks is right is my duty also.”

Not till the sick had recovered sufficiently to be taken on shore did Andrew and Archy set out on their journey to the south. As they were starting a letter was put into Archy’s hands. He eagerly read it. It was from his mother. Although his transgression had caused her unspeakable sorrow, she had never ceased to pray that God would protect him amid the dangers he would encounter, and that his heart might be changed and a new spirit put within him.

“You are welcome back, my boy. God alone can forgive sin, and if you have sought forgiveness in His appointed way, sure I am that it has not been refused.” This letter cheered Archy on his homeward journey, and when at length he found himself in his mother’s arms, and Maggie hanging round his neck, he wondered how he could have been so hard-hearted as to quit them; and he promised that he would henceforth remain at home to assist and support them. He felt, indeed, that he could never make amends for the suffering and anxiety he had caused his mother, to which he acknowledged that the hardships he had endured were in comparison nothing.

Archy had learned many important lessons, and above all, the great truth, that He who rules the world is a God of justice, and also of unbounded love and mercy; and although, in His justice, He allows the obstinate and perverse to perish in their sins, He will hear the prayers and abundantly bless all who humbly come to Him seeking for forgiveness and protection.

W H G Kingston

"Ben Burton"

Chapter One.

“Dick Burton, you’re a daddy! Polly’s been and got a baby for you, old boy!” exclaimed several voices, as the said Dick mounted the side of the old “Boreas,” on the books of which ship he was rated as a quarter-master, he having just then returned from a pleasant little cutting-out expedition, where he had obtained, besides honour and glory, a gash on the cheek, a bullet through the shoulder, and a prong from a pike in the side.

“Me a what?” he inquired, bending his head forward with a look of incredulity, and mechanically hitching up his trousers. “Me a daddy? On course it’s a boy? Polly wouldn’t go for to get a girl, a poor little helpless girl, out in these outlandish parts.”

“On course, Dick, it’s a boy, a fine big, walloping younker, too. Why bless ye, Quacko ain’t no way to be compared to him, especially when he sings out, which he can do already, loud enough to drown the bo’sun’s whistle, let me tell you,” was the reply to Dick Burton’s last question.

That baby was me. Quacko was the monkey of the ship. I might not have been flattered at being compared to him, though it must be owned that I stood very much in the light of his rival. I soon, however, cut him out completely. My mother was one of two women on board. The other was Susan King, wife of another quarter-master. The two men enjoyed a privilege denied to their captain, for they could take their wives to sea, which he could not. To be sure, Polly and Susan made themselves more generally useful than the captain’s wife would probably have done had she lived on board, for they washed and mended the men’s shirts, nursed them when sick or wounded, prepared lint and bandages for the surgeons, and performed many other offices such as generally fall to the lot of female hands. They had both endeared themselves to the men, by a thousand kind and gentle acts, but my mother was decidedly the favourite. This might have been because she was young and remarkably handsome, and at the same time as good and modest as a woman could be; and so discreet that she was never known to cause a quarrel among her shipmates, or a pang of jealousy to her husband; and that, under the circumstances of the case, is saying a great deal in her favour. Fancy two women among nearly four hundred men, and not one of the latter even thinking of infringing the last commandment of the Decalogue. What an amount of good sense, good-temper, and self-command must have been exercised on the part of the former.

Susan’s qualifications for the position she held were very different to those of my mother. In appearance she was a very Gorgon, a veritable strong-minded, double-fisted female, tall, gaunt, and coarse-featured. A hoarse laugh, and a voice which vied with the boatswain’s in stentorian powers, and yet withal she was a true woman, with a gentle, loving, tender heart. Bill King, her husband, knew her good qualities, and vowed that he would not swap her for Queen Charlotte, or any other lady in the land, not if the offer was made to him with a thousand gold guineas into the bargain.

I ought to be grateful to her, and do cherish her memory with affection, for she assisted to bring me into the world; attended my mother in her time of trial and trouble, and nursed me with the gentlest care. Yet Sue had a tongue, and could use it too when occasion, in her judgment, required its employment. But she always took the side of right and virtue against wrong and vice, and woe betided the luckless wight who fell under the ban of her just displeasure. She would belabour him, not with her hands, but by word, look, and gesture, till he shrieked out for mercy and promised never again to offend, or took to ignominious flight like a thief with a possé of constables at his heels. Bill King was a quiet-mannered little man with a huge pair of whiskers, like studden-sails rigged out on either side of his cheeks, and a mild expression of countenance which did not belie his calm good-temper and amiability of disposition. But though gentle in peace, he was as brave and daring a seaman as ever sprang, cutlass in hand, on an enemy’s deck, or flew aloft to loose topsails when a prize had been cut out, amid showers of bullets and round-shot.

Of my father, I will only say that he was in no way behind his friend Bill King in bravery, and though he spoke the sailor’s lingo like his shipmates, he was vastly his superior in manners and appearance. Indeed, he and my mother were a very handsome couple. They were also, I may say, deservedly looked upon with great respect by the officers, from the captain downwards, and regarded with affection by all the crew.

To go back to that insignificant little individual, myself, as I certainly was on the day I have mentioned, when I made my first appearance on board the HMS “Boreas”. I came in for a large share of the regard entertained by the ship’s company for my parents. My father was the first person introduced by Susan King into my presence.

“Well, he is a rum little youngster!” he exclaimed, taking me up in his open palms. “He is like Polly—that he is!” he added, as he gazed at me affectionately, the feelings of a father for the first time welling up in his bosom. “Yes, he is a sweet little cherub! Shouldn’t wonder but he is like them as lives up aloft there to watch over us poor chaps at sea. Ay, that he must be. They can’t beat him. Lord love ye, Sue, I am grateful to you for this here day’s work.”

I here interrupted my father’s remarks by a loud cry, and other infantine operations, on which Sue insisted on having me back again to her safe keeping, while outside the screen several voices were heard entreating my father to bring me out for inspection, a request with which Mrs King had before steadily refused to comply.

“I say, Dick, just let’s have a look at him. One squint, Burton, just to see what sort of a younker he may be. Come now, he ain’t a chap to be ashamed of, I’m sure. There ain’t none like him here aboard, I’ll swear. He don’t come up to Quacko anyhow. Come, Dick, show us him now, do, there’s a good chap.”

These and similar exclamations were sung out by various voices in different tones, to which my mother, as she lay in her cot, listened not unpleased, till at length my father having given her a kiss, and uttered a few words of congratulation and thanks to Heaven—sailors are not addicted to long prayers—again took me in his outstretched palms, and thus brought me forth to the admiring gaze of his shipmates. So eager were they to see me, that I ran no little risk of being knocked out of my father’s hands, as they were shoving each other aside in their endeavours to get to the front rank. Then one and all wanted to have me to handle for a moment; but to this Susan King, who had followed my father from behind the screen, would on no account consent.

“Why, bless you, my lads, you would be wringing the little chap’s neck off, if you were to attempt to take hold of him,” said Susan.

“Oh! No, don’t fear, we will handle him just as if he was made of sugar,” was the reply.

“Oh! You don’t know what delicate, weak little creatures these babies are when they are first born,” observed Susan. “Just like jellyfish, they will not stand any rough handling.”

Still in spite of my kind nurse’s remarks, the bystanders continued to urge my father to let them have me.

“It is as much as my place is worth, mates,” he answered at length; “I would not let him out of my hands on no account.”

My new shipmates were, therefore, compelled to admire me at a respectful distance. I believe the remarks they made were generally complimentary, only they seemed to have arrived at the opinion that I was not at that time so fat or so fair as the cherubs they had heard of who live up aloft.

“And now, mates, I will just hand him back to Susan, and go and get the doctor to look at me, for I begin to feel pretty stiffish with the holes I got made in me just now,” said my father.

And I was forthwith reconsigned to the charge of my mother and her attendant, while he went to the surgeon to get his wounds dressed. There were none of them, fortunately very serious, for the bullet had gone through the fleshy part of the arm, and the pike had missed the bone; the cut in the cheek, which at first appeared the most trifling, giving in the end more trouble and annoyance than either of the other hurts. The expedition in which he had been engaged was something out of the common way, though when I come to note down the numerous ones he has described to me, it is somewhat difficult not to mix them all up together.

The frigate, on board which I thus suddenly found myself, formed one of the East India Squadron, of which Admiral Peter Rainier was Commander-in-Chief.

The “Boreas” had a short time before this been despatched to Macao for the protection of the China trade. I speak of course from hearsay, as what I am about to relate occurred just before I came into existence; indeed, of many other subsequent events which I shall venture to describe I cannot be said to have any very vivid recollection, although present at the time. The frigate was standing to the eastward, some three or four leagues from the coast, when one of the topmen, Pat Brady, on the look-out at the mast-head, discovered a sail in shore to the northward. Pat was a relation of my mother—she was an Irishwoman, and, as Pat never failed to assert, a credit to her country. He would at all times have been ready to fight any man who ventured to hold a different opinion.

Our Captain, Christopher Cobb, was a brave man, but somewhat peppery, and very easily put out.

The wind had previously been light. It fell a dead calm soon after the stranger had been sighted. Our First-Lieutenant, Mr Schank, who, in spite of having a wooden leg, was as active as any man on board, having gone aloft himself to take a look at her, came to the opinion that she was a brig of war. From the way in which she increased her distance from the frigate after she was seen, it was very evident that she had her sweeps out, and there was every probability of her escaping.

“That must not be! That must not be!” muttered the Captain, as he paced the quarter-deck, fretting and fuming under the hot sun of the tropics. “Mr Schank, we must not let her go.”

“No, sir,” said the First-Lieutenant, “that would never do.”

“We must take her with the boats if we cannot overtake her with the ship,” said the Captain, with one of his quiet laughs.

“The very thing I was thinking of, sir,” answered Mr Schank, who, I may observe, presented a great contrast to his excellent superior, the one being short and rotund, while in figure the Lieutenant was tall and gaunt.

“Then we will have the boats out and see what we can do,” said the Captain.

“With all my heart, sir,” answered the First-Lieutenant. “I will, if you please, take the command.”

“Out boats!” was the order. The object was quickly known. In an instant the men who had till then been listlessly hanging about the decks in the few shady places they could find, for the sun was pretty nigh overhead, were instantly aroused into activity.

In a short time six boats were in the water manned and armed. In them went three lieutenants and the master, two master’s mates, fifty seamen, and twenty marines. One of the gigs, the fastest boat, led the way, each boat taking the one next to her in tow. As they shoved off their shipmates cheered, and heartily wished them success. That they were determined to obtain, though they well knew that they had a pull before them of a good many hours under a burning sun, and probably some pretty sharp fighting at the end of it. After following her for an hour or more, Mr Schank perceived that they gained nothing on the brig. He therefore ordered the boats to cast off from each other, and to make the best of their way, provided no boat rowed ahead of the barge under his command. It was just two o’clock when the expedition left the frigate. My father was in the launch commanded by a master’s mate, Mr Harry Oliver, a slight delicate youth who appeared utterly unfit for such work, but he had the heart of a lion, and daring unsurpassed by any officer in the service. For four long hours the chase continued, when, at about six in the evening, she was still four leagues ahead. Mr Schank now ordered the master to proceed in the gig as fast as he could pull, and by all means to keep sight of the brig, while in the event of darkness coming on he was to hoist a light to show her position. It had been arranged that the attack was to be made in two lines. The barge, pinnace, and gig were to board on the starboard quarter; and the other line, consisting of the three other boats, on the larboard quarter. For upwards of two hours longer the boats pulled on, the gloom of evening gradually closing over them. Still they could distinguish the dim outline of the brig ahead. The First-Lieutenant having got within musket-shot of the chase with Mr Oliver’s boat, he directed his men to lie on to their oars that they might arm, and allow the sternmost boats to come up. Just then the master in the gig rejoined them.

“What is she?” asked Mr Schank.

“A French man-of-war brig of sixteen guns,” was the answer. “She is under all sail with her sweeps out, and we shall find it pretty brisk work getting on board.” The crews had of course been ordered to keep silence, or I rather think that they would have uttered a hearty shout at this announcement. In a few minutes more the sternmost boats got up, and their crews also armed and prepared for the attack. They were directed to steer one on each side of the brig, and to get in under the sweeps and close to her sides. In ten minutes they were within pistol-shot of the enemy, who was slipping along through the water, her sweeps being aided by the light wind off the land, at about two knots an hour.

And now the silence which had hitherto been kept was broken by the voice of their gallant leader shouting, “What vessel is that?”

There was no answer. Again he asked the same question in French. It was very bad French, and perhaps was not better understood than the previous question. At all events no reply was made.

“Then at her, lads!” cried Mr Schank; and the crews of the boats, uttering three hearty cheers, dashed up towards the brig’s stern. As they got close up, however, a tremendous fire of heavy guns and musketry was opened on them, the bullets whizzing round them and wounding many, though fortunately none of the boats were struck by the round-shot, while, as they got up, pikes were thrust down at them and pistols fired in their faces. The bowmen in the leading boats which had got hold of the ship’s sides were killed or wounded, and the boats dropped astern. Among those hit was their brave leader, but undaunted he shouted to his men to pull up again. Again as they did so they met with the same reception.

Chapter Two.

The First-Lieutenant was not a man to be defeated. Wounded as he was, he still resolved to persevere.

“Never say die, lads!” he shouted, as they were driven back. “Give them a taste of our powder in return!”

On this, the boats poured a hot fire of musketoons and small-arms through the brig’s stern and quarter-ports. It told with tremendous effect, for not a shot was now fired upon the boats.

“On, on, lads!” shouted the First-Lieutenant; and before the Frenchmen could recover, the boats were hanging on to her quarters, and the crews were climbing up on deck. The First-Lieutenant, in spite of his wooden leg and wound, was among the foremost. My father, though also hit, followed close behind the brave young mate—Harry Oliver. Scarcely had they gained the brig’s deck, however, ere the Frenchmen rallied and opposed them with the most determined bravery. The English crew climbing up one after the other, quickly gained possession of the whole of the after part of the brig, not, however, without several being killed and wounded, the Second-Lieutenant being among the former. He was cut down, after being twice shot through the body. For a few minutes a most bloody and tremendous conflict ensued. A Frenchman thrust his pike through Mr Oliver’s side, and another was following it up with his sword, and would certainly have put an end to the young officer, had not my father, just as he got an ugly prong in his side of the same description, with one sweep of his cutlass brought the man to the deck, never to move again. French crews can very seldom, if ever, stand against English boarders. The bravest of the enemy were cut down, or began to give way. My father, with Mr Oliver on one side and the First-Lieutenant and Master on the other, with the men at their backs, now made a clear path, strewing the decks with the bodies of those who attempted to oppose them. The remainder of the enemy fled; some leaped down the hatchways, others took shelter on the bowsprit and jib-boom, and the more nimble sprang up the shrouds, where, as my father declared, like so many monkeys, they hung chattering and asking for quarter.

“Of course, if they would but have been quiet and peaceable, we had no wish to kill them,” he used to say, “and glad enough we were when we found ourselves in possession of the brig, just about five minutes from the time we had first stepped on her decks. It was about the hardest bit of work I ever was engaged in,” he always averred. “We lost our Second-Lieutenant, five seamen and three marines killed, three officers and twenty-two men wounded. The Frenchman had a crew of one hundred and sixty men and boys, out of whom there were no less than fourteen killed and twenty wounded—pretty badly, too, for we were not apt to use our cutlasses over gently, you may suppose.

“We had still plenty of work to do, for, though cowed for the moment, the Frenchmen would not have made much ceremony in trying to turn the tables again upon us. We had barely fifty men fit for work, and they had still one hundred and twenty—considerable odds against us.

“Mr Schank, as soon as he saw that the deck was ours, directed one of the officers to hurry down into the cabin and secure the private signals, and ordered me, at the same time, to go with a couple of marines to take charge of the magazine, for one never knows what desperate fellows may do when they have lost their ship, and some mad chap or other might have set fire to it, and blown us and themselves up into the air. Such things have been done before now.

“The next thing we did was to carry the wounded below. Our own people and the enemy’s were treated alike. Poor fellows! How some of them did groan when they were lifted up. Next, an order was given to heave the dead overboard, ‘And look out, lads, that you don’t send any with the breath in their bodies to feed the sharks,’ said the First-Lieutenant. The caution did not come too soon. Two men, one of whom was Paddy Brady, were about shoving a big Frenchman through a port, when the poor fellow uttered a groan. ‘What is that you say, monsieur? Just speak again. Are you alive or dead?’ exclaimed Brady. No answer was returned, and Paddy began to drag the dead body nearer the port. Again a groan, considerably louder than the first was heard. ‘Arrah, now,’ said Paddy, ‘I wish you would just make up your mind whether it is overboard you would wish to go, or be carried below. Speak, man; I ax ye again for the last time: are ye alive or dead?’

“The Frenchman, maybe, might not have understood exactly what Brady was saying, but he must have had a pretty horrible idea that he was about to be sent overboard. This time he not only groaned, but uttered some words, and endeavoured to drag himself along the deck. ‘Arrah, now, that’s like a dacent, sinsible man,’ observed Pat. ‘Anyhow, you deserve to have your hurts looked to, and so we will carry him below, Jim.’”

The truth was that the man had been only slightly wounded, and afterwards stunned by a blow. Had he not come to himself at that moment, his career would undoubtedly have been finished. Hands were now sent aloft, the studden-sails hauled down, and the brig brought on a wind. The sweeps, which had all this time remained run out, were taken in-board, and the boats were veered astern.

“We now stood in the direction we hoped to find the frigate, hoisting two lights at the mast-head, firing guns, and burning blue lights to show our position. It was an anxious time, however, and we had to keep a very watchful eye on the Frenchmen. They evidently were hatching mischief, for they must have known as well as we did that the frigate was still a long way off, and that if they could overcome us they might yet get away with their brig. She was called the ‘Loup’ (the Wolf), and a wolf she had proved herself among our merchantmen. I had been relieved at my station at the magazine, when Pat Brady came up to me. ‘Burton,’ he said, ‘I wish you would just take a look at the wounded prisoners. There is one of them whom I thought dead, and there he is, sitting up and talking away as if there was nothing the matter with him. I cannot understand his lingo, but, by the way he moves his arms about, I think he means mischief!’

“I went below with Brady, and there, sure enough, was the man he had so nearly thrown overboard, apparently very little the worse for his hurt, and evidently, as it appeared to me, trying to persuade his countrymen to do something or other which he had proposed. Sentries had been placed over the other prisoners, of course, but desperate men might soon have overpowered them, especially if the prisoners knew that there would be a little diversion in their favour.

“Hurrying on deck, I reported what we had seen to Mr Schank, who immediately ordered the man to be brought on deck, and as his wound was dressed, there was no cruelty in that. He grumbled considerably; the more so, probably, because his plan had been defeated.

“We continued every now and then sending up blue lights, keeping a very watchful eye all the time on our prisoners. At length, far away on our weather-beam, a bright light suddenly burst forth as if out of the dark ocean. We tacked and stood towards it. However, as the wind was very light, the Third-Lieutenant was sent off in the gig with an account of our success. Two hours had still to pass away before we at length got up to the frigate, and pretty well-pleased we were when the cheer which our shipmates sent forth to congratulate us on our success reached our ears.” Such was the substance of my father’s account, often subsequently told.

I do not know whether the anxiety which Burton felt when she saw her husband setting out on what she knew must be a dangerous expedition had any peculiar effect on her, but certain it is, that while my father was slashing away at the Frenchmen, and the bullets were flying about his head, I was born into the world.

With regard to the prize, she was carried safely into Macao, in the expectation that she would be fitted out as a cruiser, and that Mr Schank would get the command of her. Her fate I shall have hereafter to relate.

I meantime grew apace, and speedily cut out Quacko in the estimation of our shipmates. He, however, had his friends and supporters; for some months, at all events, he afforded them more amusement than I could do. They could tease him and play him tricks, which my mother and Mrs King took very good care they should not do to me. I had no lack of nurses from the first, and highly honoured were those into whose hands my mother ventured to commit me.

Mrs King had enough to do for some time after the action, in attending both to my mother and the poor fellows who had been wounded, both English and French, the latter receiving as much care from her gentle hands as did our own people. The two chief rivals for the honour of looking after me were my cousin, Pat Brady, and Toby Kiddle, boatswain’s mate. Although many of my old shipmates have passed away from my memory, Toby Kiddle made an impression which was never erased. Nature had not intended him for a topman, for though wonderfully muscular, his figure was like a tun. His legs were short, and his arms were unusually long. With them tucked akimbo, he could take up two of the heaviest men in the ship, and run along the deck with them as lightly as he would have done with a couple of young children. He had a generous, kind heart, could tell a good story, and troll forth a ditty with any man; and as to his bravery, where all were brave, I need scarcely mention it, except to say that I do no not think anyone beat him at that. Boatswain’s mate though he was, Toby Kiddle had a heart as gentle as a lamb’s. He scarcely seemed cut out for the post, and yet there was a rough crust over it which enabled him to do his duty, and when he had to lay on with the cat, to shut his eyes, and to hit as hard as he was ordered. And yet I always have pitied a kind-hearted boatswain’s mate, though he is not after all worse off than the captain and officers, who have to stand by and see men punished. However, I will not say anything about that matter just now. Time went on, and I grew bigger, and began to chew beef and bacon with the rest of the ship’s company becoming more and more independent of my mother in every way. Yet I loved her, as such a mother deserved to be loved. As I grew bigger I made more and more friends. The Captain himself very frequently took notice of me, and patted my head, which was beginning to get curls upon it, and often gave me cakes and other Chinese manufactured delicacies which he had got from the shore. Captain Cobb was a short man, and since he came out to China had grown very round and stout. His face, as a boy, had been probably pink and white, but it had now been burnt into a deep red copper colour. His eyes, which were small, were bloodshot, with a ferrety expression, and altogether his outward man was not attractive. His uniforms, which had hung loosely on him when he left home, had been, by the skill of the tailor, let out and out to meet the demands of his increasing corpulency; but no art or skill could do more for them; and as he was unwilling to procure others till those were worn out, he looked, when walking the quarter-deck, very much as if he had on a straight waistcoat.

Captain Cobb was not disregardful of his creature comforts, and in order to supply himself with milk for breakfast and tea, he had shipped on board, some time back, a she-goat, which fully answered his wishes. Seamen will make pets of everything—monkeys, babies, lions, pigs, bears, dogs, and cats. The goat had become a favourite, for she was a handsome creature, and very tame, but it was chiefly in connection with Quacko, who was soon taught to ride upon her. Quacko was certainly very well aware that he must never venture upon the quarter-deck, and before, therefore, he reached the sacred precincts on his daily rides, he always managed to wheel the goat about and retrace his steps forward. Quacko was a wonderfully sagacious monkey, and held his position in the good opinion of the crew in spite of my rival claims. Had I been thrown entirely upon their mercy as Quacko was, I might have completely cut him out; but having my mother and Mrs King, with two or three select friends to look after me, the remainder very naturally felt that they had not so much interest in the matter. On one occasion, when I was about three years old, the frigate was caught in a typhoon. I was safe below in my poor mother’s arms, but Quacko remained on deck to see what was going forward. Nobody was thinking of him. The seamen, indeed, had to hold on with might and main to secure their own lives. Some preparation had been made, and fortunately it was so, for all the sails still set were blown out of the bolt ropes. The frigate was hove on her beam-ends. Where Quacko had come from nobody knew, when on a sudden he was seen hanging to the slack end of a rope. In vain one of the topmen made an attempt to grasp him. The rope swung away far over the foaming sea. He swung back, but it was to strike the side apparently, for the next instant the rope returned on board and no Quacko hanging to it. The ship righted without having suffered much damage; indeed, the loss of Quacko was our greatest misfortune.

After the sad event just mentioned, Quacko’s friends made various attempts to appropriate me; indeed, Mrs King and Toby Kiddle had, in order to console them for their loss, to give me up to them occasionally.

“Here, Toby, let’s have the little chap and learn him to ride,” said Tom Trimmers, one of the topmen. “Why, Nanny will be forgetting how to carry a human being as she has been accustomed to do, and you will soon see what a capital horseman he will make, won’t you, Ben?”

“Ay, ay,” I answered, for though I could not say much I could say that, and so Nanny was brought forth, and I was placed on her back, Toby, however, remarking, that though some day I should have more sense than the defunct Quacko ever had, yet at present, as I had no experience in riding, he must decline allowing me to mount unless he held me up. “It will be time when the little chap has had some practice to let him go along by himself,” he observed, looking round at our shipmates. “Now, you don’t know what would become of him, for Nanny is more than likely to trot off on the quarter-deck and make herself disagreeable there, and maybe pitch Master Benjy down the main hatchway. No, no, I will stand by and hold him on till he is a bit older.”

This resolution was certainly very prudent; but I very soon began to complain of it, and to assert, by signs rather than by words, that I was well able to take care of myself, and steer the goat as Quacko had done.

“And where is Quacko, Master Ben?” asked Toby, who understood me better than anyone else. “He thought he could take care of himself, but he could not do so, you see, nor can any of us, and that’s my opinion. If there was not one better able to take care of us than we are of ourselves, we poor sea-going chaps would be in a bad way.”

In spite, however, of Toby Kiddle, my other friends managed occasionally to let me have my own way; and with great pride they looked on while I, with the end of a mop stick in my hand, went galloping about the deck, belabouring the goat’s hinder quarters, very much after the fashion of an Irishman riding a donkey at a race. The Sergeant of Marines, Julian Killock was his name, on seeing the use I made of my weapon, took it into his head to teach me the broadsword exercise, which I very soon learnt. The Jollies now began to contemplate appropriating me to themselves, and thus, as it may be supposed, made the Blue-jackets somewhat jealous.

“No, no, Tom Sawyer,” I remember hearing one of the latter observe, “you shall not have little Ben to turn into a horse-marine on no account. He is our’n and cut out for a blue-jacket, and a blue-jacket he will be till the end of his days.”

Still the Jollies were in no way disposed to give up their share of me, to which they considered they had a right. I was very nearly the cause of a serious dispute between the two Services. A compromise was at length entered into by the suggestion of my father, who agreed that the Jollies might teach me the sword and platoon exercise, while the Blue-jackets might impart as much nautical knowledge as I was capable of taking in.

But I was speaking of the goat. I was especially fond of mounting Nanny’s back, though she must have found me considerably heavier than Quacko. However, as I never played her any tricks, which he constantly had done, she had no objection to carry me. I consequently took my daily ride round and round the deck, sweeping close round the mainmast and forward again.

It is not surprising that people should lose their temper under such a climate as our ship’s company was doomed for so many years to endure. One afternoon, just as the men had finished dinner, it being a dead calm, the ocean like a sheet of molten lead, smooth as a mirror, the sun’s rays striking down with tremendous force on our decks, making the pitch hiss and bubble, while one of the midshipmen was frizzling a piece of beef on a metal plate, that he might declare when he got home, without injuring his conscience, that it was usual to cook dinners by the heat of the sun out in China, and the men lay about gasping for breath, I was brought up by Pat Brady, that, as he said, I might enjoy a breath of air, only there happened to be none at the moment, and while I, the least important personage on board thus made my appearance on the upper regions of our ocean world, so did the most important, the Captain, come up to look about him, and whistle for a breeze. It did not come however, although the Captain kept whistling and whistling away till his cheeks must have ached. Nanny had been let out of her pen to discuss the remains of an old straw hat, the other part of which had been given her for her supper the previous evening, when it came into Pat Brady’s head to place me on her back; I, nothing loth, sung out for my broadsword, with which I began forthwith to whack the hinder quarters of my long-horned steed. Off she set, but instead of wheeling round the mainmast, on she galloped along the forbidden district of the quarter-deck. The Captain just at that moment, with a stamp of his foot, vexed at his not getting the wished-for wind, turned round, when Nanny and I, at a furious speed, dashed bolt against him; and the goat, catching him between the legs by the impetus she had obtained, sent him sprawling on the deck, and her horns catching in his coat-tails, he and she and I all went rolling over together. There we lay, the Captain spluttering and swearing incontinently, though scarcely able in his rage to utter a word clearly, the goat tugging away to get again on her legs, I all the time shrieking out lustily for help. The officers, who had been pacing the other side of the deck, could scarcely for laughter come to their chiefs assistance, nor could he, from the struggles of the goat, get again on his legs, for each time he made the attempt the terrified animal in her efforts to escape his fury once more pulled him down. I however, had managed to roll out of the way, while my cries, which did not cease, although I was clear of danger, caught the ears of Toby Kiddle, who was coming along the main-deck. He sprang up the main hatchway ladder, and rushing up seized me in his arms. Just then the purser and surgeon managed to raise up the Captain; not, however, till Nanny had almost torn off his coat-tails, and finding herself released was scampering back to the fore-part of the ship. The Captain’s whole frame seemed bursting with indignation and rage. Just then his eye fell on Toby Kiddle and me in his arms.

“Who did it? Who did it?” he exclaimed. “Who set them on? You did, sirrah—you did. You shall have three dozen for your fun!”

“Please, sir, it was not me,” answered Toby, “and it could not have been the poor innocent child. It was the goat, sir. What put it into her head to do it, is more than I can tell.”

“Hang the goat!” exclaimed the Captain, who by this time had begun to feel that his anger was not very dignified; and turning round he went below to hide his annoyance, as well as to put on another coat, instead of the nankeen garment which Nanny had destroyed.

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Kiddle, as he turned forward. “I will take care the goat never plays such a trick again.”

As Toby had always objected to my riding the goat, he now came triumphantly forward among those who had placed me on her back, telling them the orders he had received from the Captain.

“But the skipper will lose his milk if you hang his goat,” observed one of them.

“Arrah, now, I suppose he is thinking it is time to wean himself,” observed Paddy Brady, who had been the chief cause of the accident.

“At all events, his orders must be obeyed,” observed Kiddle, “and so, mates, as it was an evident case of mutiny, we will run her up to the yard-arm at sunset. To my mind, if the goat was got rid of, we should have a quieter ship than we have now.”

Fortunately, the preparations which the men were making for hanging the goat were observed, and reported to the Captain.

“Really, I do believe I did say so,” he answered to the First-Lieutenant. “Just go and tell Kiddle and the rest, that, in consideration of her general good conduct, I purpose reprieving her. That will settle the matter, and show my leniency and consideration in favourable colours.”

Thus our worthy Captain was in the habit of arranging even more weighty matters, by which mode of proceeding, in spite of his eccentricities, he warmly attached the ship’s company to him.

Chapter Three.

Time passed by, as it does in youth as well as in old age. The ship’s company were looking forward to being relieved, for the frigate had already been the best part of five years on the station. I was learning to knot and splice, and could already perform a hornpipe, if not with much grace, at all events with an exhibition of considerable elastic power, and greatly to the admiration of Toby Kiddle, Pat Brady, and my other friends, as well as my father and mother and Mrs King. They would get round applauding me greatly, as I sprang up and down, shuffled round and round and snapped my fingers, kicking out my legs in every direction. Sometimes the officers would come forward to have a look at me, and on several occasions I was invited aft to exhibit before the Captain.

Several changes had taken place on board, one of the lieutenants having invalided home, while another had died, their places being filled by others whom I shall shortly have to describe. The brig we had captured was ultimately brought into the service, and she was about to be commissioned. She was fitting out at Macao, and it was understood that Mr Schank would take the command of her. He had long been expecting promotion, though frequently disappointed, and he now made sure that he should obtain it. He might also hope, in so fine a vessel, to make a fair amount of prize-money. He required it much, for he had an old mother and several maiden sisters at home to support, besides two or three younger brothers to educate and send out in the world. This was generally known among his brother officers, and, although the cut of his uniforms was somewhat antiquated, and his best coat was tolerably threadbare, even the most thoughtless never ventured to quiz him. Every sixpence he could save went to the cottage in Lincolnshire. There his father had been the incumbent of a living of under a hundred and fifty pounds a year, on which he had to bring up his family and pay certain college debts, which had hung like a millstone round his neck all his life. I mention these things now, although, of course, I did not hear them till many years afterwards. Mr Schank was still doing duty on board the frigate expecting to be superseded, that he might commence refitting the brig. It had just become dark. She was lying some distance inside of us. Happily for themselves several of the crew in charge had come on board the frigate. Suddenly a tremendous explosion was heard. Bright flames burst forth from the spot where the brig lay, and a huge pyramid of fire was seen to rush upward towards the sky, where it burst into a thousand fragments, which, scattering far and wide, came hissing back into the mirror-like ocean, reflecting, ere they reached it, a thousand bright lights on its tranquil bosom.

“What is that about?” exclaimed Captain Cobb, coming on deck.

“The brig has blown up, sir,” was the answer.

“And so then are all my hopes!” exclaimed Mr Schank, who had followed him on deck. “Lower the boats though, and we will try and pick up any poor fellows who may have escaped.”

Mr Schank leaped into the first boat which reached the water, and in his eagerness to save his fellow-creatures instantly forgot his own bitter disappointment. Three men only were picked up alive, floating on fragments of the wreck. It sank almost directly the boats got up to the spot. What had caused the catastrophe no one could tell, but the brig certainly must have had a larger amount of gunpowder on board her than was supposed. Mr Schank therefore, as before, continued to act as our First-Lieutenant. Once or twice we returned to the Hoogley to refit, and on one occasion we were sent round to Madras and Bombay on special service. We were running down the Coromandel coast; the wind fell, and we lay, rolling our lower yardarms under in a long heavy swell, which came moving onwards in giant undulations towards the coast. We had to get rolling tackles set up, for sometimes it seemed as if the frigate would shake the very masts out of her. The Captain was on deck whistling away as was his wont. I do not know whether he expected his whistling to produce a breeze, but certainly I observed that he never failed to whistle when there was a calm.

He was thus employed when Mr Schank, who had previously been on deck for some hours, and had gone below to rest, once more made his appearance. He cast a look round, and pointed out a dark spot in the horizon. The order was immediately given to furl sails and strike topgallant masts. The royal-masts had previously been sent down. It was a time when a careless hold was likely to cause the stoutest seaman a leap into eternity. Scarcely was the ship made snug when down came the blast upon her. The sky grew of a leaden hue, and the long swell was broken up into a thousand tossing seas, foaming and leaping, and crossing each other in a way trying even to a frigate, and fearfully dangerous to any smaller craft. We, having been prepared in good time, ran on before the wind, having, however, as it shifted, which it did suddenly several points at a time, to change our course. The gale was a violent one, and did, I believe, send more than one ill-found ship to the bottom, but it was fortunately short in its duration, and by daylight had greatly decreased. Pat Brady, who had as sharp a pair of eyes as anyone on board, being on the look-out, discovered an object floating far away on the lee-bow. Whether it was a rock or a vessel on her beam-ends it was difficult to say. The ship was, however, kept away towards it, and the master being consulted, declared that no rock was to be found thereabouts. As we approached nearer, there was no doubt that the object seen was a vessel, and probably capsized in the late hurricane. The sea was still running very high, and washing over the greater portion of it, almost hiding it from view. Still the after part was higher out of the water than the rest, and it was possible that some human beings might still be clinging to it. As we approached, the frigate was brought on a wind, and hove to, but lowering a boat was still an operation of danger. All glasses were turned towards the wreck.

“I cannot help thinking there may be somebody on board,” exclaimed Mr Harry Oliver, the mate I have spoken of. “If you will let me go, sir, I will board her,” he added, turning to the Captain.

“As you like, Oliver,” said Captain Cobb. “You know the risk; you can take a boat, but only volunteers must accompany you.”

Mr Oliver smiled. He knew well there would be no lack of them. Pat Brady was the first to spring forward, and Bill King and my father both volunteered to go likewise. The crew was soon formed, and the boat safely reached the water. Away she went. No small skill was required to keep her afloat. My mother and Mrs King were looking on, and I have no doubt offering up prayers for the safety of their husbands. At length the boat got round to the lee side of the wreck. A cloth of shawl of some sort was seen to be fluttering from under the weather bulwarks.

The boat drew nearer. “There is somebody there, to a certainty,” exclaimed Mr Oliver. “We may get up under her quarter, and an active man may then leap on board.”

My father volunteered. The boat approached. Taking a line in his hand, he sprang on to the deck, half of which was under water. Supporting himself by the stump of the after-mast, and then catching hold of a portion of the weather-rigging, he hauled himself to the upper part of the wreck, where, secured to a stanchion, was what looked like a bundle of rags, out of the midst of which appeared a brown face, while his ear, at the same time, amidst the roaring of the sea, caught the sound of an infant’s cry, to which, since I came into the world, his ears had been pretty well accustomed. Although Mr Oliver and the men in the boat gave him notice at that instant that the wreck was sinking, that cry had aroused all the father’s feelings in his bosom. He sprang forward, and, as a seaman only could have done, cut away the lashings which secured a dark female, in whose grasp he then discovered a fair young infant. Seizing the woman and child in his arms, as the bow of the vessel was already sinking, he gave one spring aft, and struggled out of the vortex of the sinking vessel.

“Haul away!” he cried out, while he held the rope with one hand and kept his charges afloat with the other. A strong man alone could have saved them, and even a strong one, unless a truly brave fellow, would not have made the attempt. In a few seconds they were lifted safely into the boat. The infant breathed freely, and seemed not to have got any harm, but the poor black woman suffered greatly, and this further immersion had contributed still more to exhaust her. Yet she was perfectly conscious of what had occurred. Her lips moved, and a smile lighted up her countenance when she saw the infant lifted carefully in my father’s arms. Unfortunately, there was no food in the boat, but just as Mr Oliver was stepping in, the surgeon had put a small brandy-flask in his pocket. This he produced, and attempted to pour a few drops down the throat of the poor woman, but the instant she tasted it she spat it forth as if it was poison, and showed signs of the evident disgust she felt at its being put into her mouth. All that those in the boat could do, therefore, was to make the best of their way back again to the frigate. There was not a sign of another human being on the wreck. As there were no boats, it was possible that the crew might have attempted to make their escape in them, but then surely they would not have left the woman and child behind. When the wreck went down, scarcely anything floated up by which any information could be gained as to what she was. From her appearance, Mr Oliver supposed that she was a snow, possibly belonging to one of the neighbouring ports. The black woman, from her dress and appearance, was at once known to be a native nurse—a class noted for their fidelity to those to whom they become attached. Not without great difficulty and danger, the boat at length reached the frigate’s side, when a cradle was sent down into which the nurse was placed, and hoisted on board, my father following with the infant. I rather think it created far more sensation than I did when I came on board. In the first place, it made its appearance in a more public manner, and the Captain and officers crowded round to look at it and the poor nurse.

“Wonder whether it’s a boy or a girl,” said Toby Kiddle, who was amongst the foremost crowding round. “If it’s a boy the younker will make a fine playmate for our Benjy. Let’s have a squint at it, Dick. He won’t cut our little chap out, anyhow; but we’ll let the Jollies have him in keeping, and let them see what they can make on him. He’ll help, at all events, to keep peace and quiet between us and them.”

From the delicate features of the child, the officers seemed to think, however, that Toby’s hopes would be disappointed; and the small stranger being forthwith committed to the charge of my mother, she soon settled the question by pronouncing her to be a remarkably fine healthy little girl, the child of Europeans, and from her dress, and the handsome coral ring and gold chain round her neck, of people of some wealth and quality.

The nurse was carried down into the surgeon’s cabin, where Mrs King came instantly to assist him in taking care of her. The poor creature had fainted almost immediately on being brought on deck; when, at length, restoratives being applied, she opened her eyes, she gave a look round expressive of grief and alarm, uttering several words in an unknown tongue.

“It is the child she is asking for, sir,” observed Mrs King. “Of course, that would be the first thing in her mind.”

That Mrs King was right was proved when the child was brought to her. Several times she pressed it to her bosom, but she had no nourishment to afford it. Then, giving one convulsive gasp, before the surgeon could pour the restorative he had ready into her mouth, she sank back and expired. There was nothing about the woman to show who she was, or whence she had come. Her dress, as I have said, was that of an ayah or native nurse, such as all Europeans employ to take care of their children. Conjecture was rife as to who the little stranger was. What the Captain and officers thought about the matter I do not know. Forward, however, the general opinion ran in favour of her being of exalted birth.

“She is a little lady, no doubt about that,” remarked Toby Kiddle, as he scrutinised her delicate features and the fineness of her clothing, and the “Little Lady” she was ever afterwards called.

But to whose charge she should fall was the next question. The Captain had a wife ashore, but he seemed to think that she would not be particularly well-pleased should he present her with an infant to look after. It would be something like reversing the order of things, and it might be difficult to persuade her that he was entirely ignorant of the child’s parentage.

“You had better have her, Gunning,” he said to the First-Lieutenant of Marines, “you have eight or nine already, have you not? And surely another can make no odds, and your wife will be delighted, I’m sure. Mrs Cobb would not mind standing godmother, I dare say, supposing the little damsel is not christened, and, to make sure, it will be just as well to have that done when we get home. I suppose they can go to heaven without it, but it is a matter I am not very clear about, and it is as well to be on the right side, do you see.”

These remarks of the Captain enabled Mr Gunning to think over the matter. He had only joined us a few months, and he had some idea that on his return he should find a further increase to his large family. Though he was a kind-hearted man, and really would have been glad to look after the little stranger, yet he did not consider himself justified in undertaking further responsibilities, in addition to those already upon his shoulders. Still, who could take care of the little girl? The junior lieutenants were all young men, not at all fitted for the office. The surgeon was not exactly the person to whom a female infant could be committed. The master was a good seaman, but a somewhat rough hand, and he and his wife were known to live a cat-and-dog life when he was ashore: whereby the service benefited, as he always took care, for the sake of peace, to keep afloat. Then there was the purser. Her life was not likely to prove a happy one should he assume her guardianship, for as his great and sole pleasure in life seemed to be the laborious occupation of skinning flints, it was not likely that he would afford her a liberal education or a liberal maintenance. He was therefore put out of the question. The only persons, therefore, who appeared at all eligible among the officers were the Captain, the First-Lieutenant, and the Lieutenant of Marines. Mr Schank, when the matter was suggested to him, thought a good deal about it. “Perhaps his old mother would like to look after the little girl, he was sure she would, and so would his sisters, and very fit people they were in many respects, barring the expense she would be to them.”

“What say you, Schank? Suppose I help you in that matter. I am in duty bound to do so, and so you will excuse my making the offer,” said the Captain, his more generous feelings excited, as he thought of the forlorn condition of the little creature.

Lieutenant Schank thanked him, and promised if his mother would accept the charge not to decline his proposal. In the meantime the Little Lady was consigned to my mother’s charge. Next to me and my father, the kind woman soon learned to love her more than anything on earth; in fact, she felt for her as for a daughter. The little creature from the first clung to her, and from the way she looked into her eyes, I really believe thought she was her own mother. At first she would not let Susan King even touch her, and shrieked out with fear. Poor Susan’s tender heart was somewhat grieved at this. Her outward appearance and hoarse voice was indeed calculated to frighten a discerning child. However, in time, the Little Lady became reconciled to her, though she still always showed a strong preference to my mother.

Chapter Four.

I need scarcely say that I now, at all events, had a more powerful rival on board than had existed since Quacko was consigned to a watery grave. As may be supposed, the goat during a long sea voyage, where the food was scarce, gave but a small quantity of milk, only sufficient indeed for the Captain and any guest he might have at breakfast or tea. I do not believe that he would have sacrificed it for the sake of anyone else, but directly the child was brought on board he issued an order that the whole of the milk should be reserved for her use. There was something strange about this, for immediately the goat gave twice the quantity that had for some time appeared on the Captain’s table. It was, to be sure, whispered that some of the young gentlemen were fond of milk for their tea, and from that time forward not a drop was ever seen in their berth. Before that time, one or two of them used to boast that they had the art of manufacturing milk out of pipeclay, whereby they accounted for the rare fluid which occasionally appeared on the mess-table.

I remember clearly the funeral of the poor nurse. As the Captain and the First-Lieutenant had considered it important that her clothes should be preserved, in the hopes of assisting in discovering to whom the Little Lady belonged, Mrs King had dressed the body in one of her old petticoats. It was then sewn up in a piece of canvas, with a shot at the feet, and placed on a grating near an open port. The Captain, who had somewhat obfuscated theological views, could not decide whether he was bound to read the funeral service over the poor woman.

“Supposing she is a heathen—and I never heard of these black people being Christians—I shouldn’t think it was much in their way, eh, Schank? Would it not be something like sacrilege to bury her in a Christian fashion?” he asked of the First-Lieutenant.

“As to that,” observed Mr Schank, “I suspect we are apt to perform the ceremony over a good many who have no more claim to be considered true Christians than she possibly had.”

“Well, I suppose it can’t do much harm, eh, Schank?” observed the Captain, after a moment’s reflection, and the Little Lady’s nurse was buried, according to the notion of the crew, in a decent Christian manner; they piously believing that, however she might have lived, she would now at all events have a fair chance of getting a safe passage to heaven. We were during this time standing to the southward, and having rounded the south of Ceylon, we touched at Point de Galle, and afterwards at Colombo, proceeding on to Bombay. Greatly to the disappointment of the ship’s company, the “Boreas” was here found to be in such good condition, that, instead of going home, she was ordered back to the China Seas. Passing through the Straits of Malacca, we returned to Macao.

We were here joined by another frigate, the “Zephyr,” of thirty-six guns. Captain Peter Masterman, her commander, presented a great contrast to Captain Cobb. The former was a remarkably fine, handsome man, with dignified manners and calm temper. We received orders soon afterwards to proceed to the Philippine Islands, there to reconnoitre the Spanish force supposed to be collected near their chief town of Manilla, and if possible to cut out from under the batteries which guard the harbour certain richly-laden ships which it was understood had there taken shelter. We were also to attack all their armed dependencies, and to give them as much annoyance as possible as we cruised up the Archipelago.

As soon as we were clear of the land, the crews of the two frigates were employed in making them look as much like French frigates as possible, both as to rigging and hulls. The Philippines, belonging to Spain, consist of a number of islands, the largest of which is Luzon, and is divided into two parts joined by an isthmus about ten miles wide. The capital, Manilla, where the cheroots are made, is situated on a bay of that name. It is a large place, consisting of several suburbs or towns surrounding the city proper, which is built on the banks of the river Pasig. South of Manilla is the fortress of Cavite, situated at the extremity of a tongue of land about two miles long. It protects the entrance to the only harbour in the bay of Manilla. The arsenal is within the fortress, and a number of vessels are built there. It was under the guns of this fortress that we expected to find our prizes, and, in spite of its formidable appearance, to cut them out. As we were running down the coast of Luzon, the large island I have spoken of, we captured a trader of considerable size belonging to the island, but, as she was bound northward, Captain Masterman generously declined detaining her after we had taken out of her all the cash to be found on board, amounting to about six thousand dollars. It was somewhat amusing to see the grateful way in which the Spanish skipper thanked the Englishmen for having so mercifully robbed him, so I have heard my father say. It might have been supposed that they had done him the greatest possible favour, instead of having mulcted him of a pretty considerable sum. He also, to show his gratitude, told us that the squadron in the harbour of Cavite consisted of four sail of the line and four frigates, but that only one ship of each class was at all in a state to put to sea. Our Captain considered that two English frigates were fully able to cope with a Spanish line-of-battle ship and one frigate, hoping to draw them off the land if they could be persuaded to come out of harbour, and to capture them in detail. At all events, the news increased the good spirits of the ship’s company, and all on board anticipated some rich prizes.

The next day we came up with several other vessels which were treated in the same liberal manner, although those which were sailing south were allowed to pass unmolested, lest it might have been suspected that we did not belong to the friendly nation which we pretended.

Thus we proceeded on, till soon after sunset we approached the Bay of Manilla, with the French flag flying at our peaks, and to Spanish eyes, looking, I doubt not, like two Frenchmen. We had to pass close to a small island on which a signal-house stands, and it now became doubtful whether we should be detected. However, the Spaniards appeared not to suspect us, and we stood on till we came to an anchor in about fourteen fathoms at the entrance of the bay; both the frigates, however, keeping their topsails at the mast-head, to be ready for a sudden start.

The night was very calm; and sounds from a great distance could reach us across the water. There was no chance therefore of our being surprised, should the enemy have discovered our real character. It became, however, hopeless for us to attempt cutting-out any of the vessels, as we should not have had sufficient wind to carry them off, even when we had taken possession. We, however, kept a very bright look-out, and the men were in good spirits at the thoughts of the work they anticipated the next day.

Before morning dawned, we and our consort got under weigh, and, with French colours flying, slowly worked up the bay, which, being broad and free from dangers, we were enabled to do. Soon after sunrise, three sail were seen to leeward, also apparently bound up the bay. They were soon made out to be gunboats, and the Captains congratulated themselves on the prospect of quickly capturing them without difficulty. I should have before introduced a personage who, for a time, belonged to the ship—Mr Noalles, our pilot. He was supposed to be a Jersey man, as he spoke French perfectly, and also Spanish, and several other languages. He had been in the China seas for a considerable number of years, though he was still a young man. He had dark, strongly-marked features, somewhat perhaps of a Jewish cast, with large black whiskers, and was powerfully built. He was greatly respected on board, as he was known to be a good seaman and a determined character, but my father used to say there was something about him he could not exactly make out. He messed with the officers, for he was perfectly the gentleman, and possessed of a large amount of information, especially respecting that part of the world. I rather think that it was he who suggested the plan of operations we were now carrying out. Captain Cobb himself, having once spent some time in France as a prisoner, spoke French sufficiently well to deceive a Spaniard at all events, though I suspect a Frenchman would soon have detected him. Several of our men also had been in French prisons, or had lived among Frenchmen, and if they could not speak the language grammatically, they could at all events imitate the sounds of a party of Frenchmen talking together. The uniform of the officers did not differ much from those of the French, while such alterations as were necessary were speedily made. It was a great source of amusement to the men to see the officers who were about to act in the proposed drama going through their parts, Captain Cobb flourishing his hat with the air of a Frenchman, and uttering the expressions with which he proposed to greet his visitors.

“I wonder whether we shall bamboozle the Dons,” observed Toby Kiddle, who, holding me in his arms, formed one of a group of seamen collected on the forecastle.

“No fear of that, Toby,” observed Pat Brady. “If they once think we are Frenchmen, they are such conceited fellows that they will never find out that they are wrong.”

Onward we stood, till soon after breakfast we opened the ships in Cavite Road. The glasses of all the officers were pointed in that direction, when they made out three sail of the line and three frigates—tolerable odds against us, it might be supposed; but they could not do us any harm then, because four of them were without masts and the other two had only their lower masts in, and no yards across. We, therefore, if we could get possession of the gunboats, should be at liberty to commit any mischief we chose along the coast. Three gunboats, at all events, were likely soon to give us an opportunity of having something to say to them. The wind was so light that we made but little way, and thus about two hours afterwards we lay about three miles from Cavite, and the same distance from the city of Manilla. At length, when nearly becalmed, a guard boat was seen coming off to us from Cavite, and as she approached, we made out that she pulled twelve oars, and had several officers and men besides on board.

“Now, Mr Noalles,” said Captain Cobb to the pilot, “do your best to induce these gentlemen to come on board. It will not do to let them examine the ship, and then go back and express their suspicions, if they have any.”

As the boat came alongside, Mr Noalles, in excellent Spanish, politely invited the officers and men on board. The chief officer introduced himself as the second captain of one of the frigates at anchor in Cavite, and inquired who we were and whence we came. Our pilot in return replied that the “Boreas” and her consort were two frigates belonging to the French squadron in those seas, that we had been cruising for some time along the coast of China, where our crews had naturally become sickly, and that we had come to Manilla for refreshment; as also, should the Spanish Admiral be pleased to accept our services, to form a junction with his squadron; Mr Noalles also said he was desired to express a hope that the Spanish ships would accompany us to sea. Meantime, the seamen who had been stationed near began jabbering French, as they had been directed to do, throwing the Spaniards completely off their guard. The Spanish captain, in reply to what had been said, stated that the Governor had directed him to acquaint the French that their wants should be immediately supplied, “but,” he added, “it is with great sorrow that we cannot accompany you to sea, because the truth is, none of our ships can by any possibility be got ready in less than two months, as our crews are sickly; and to confess the truth, we are in want of every species of stores.”

The boat meantime was secured alongside, and while the captain and officers accompanying him were invited into the cabin, the seamen were conducted below. Captain Cobb acted his part very well, and probably he was just as well dressed as many of the Republican naval officers of those days, who were in the habit of assuming a somewhat rough exterior and rougher manners. Refreshments were immediately ordered, and our consort having by this time got a considerable way up the bay, Captain Masterman, who had seen the boat come off, arrived on board. Captain Cobb immediately introduced him as the French Commodore, giving the name of an officer who it afterwards turned out was at that time dead. Of this fact, however, the Spanish captain was fortunately not aware, or the ruse would have been discovered.

Captain Masterman was able to speak a little Spanish. Refreshments being ordered, the officers were soon engaged in pleasant and not altogether uninstructive conversation at the table. Our Captain, in return, gave the Spaniards a large amount of information, not likely, it may be supposed, to benefit them very much. A great friend of mine, Charlie Crickmay, one of the Captain’s boys waiting at table, afterwards gave me a full account of all that occurred. As the Spaniards were plied with wine by their polite hosts, their hearts opened, and they let out all the information which it was necessary to obtain.

“Now, my excellent friends,” said the Spanish Captain, “we will drink success to the united exertions of the Spaniards and French against those rascally British, who come out here and interfere with our trade, and do us so much mischief.”

Just then a midshipman came down to say that a large barge and a felucca were coming off from the shore. In reply to the toast, Captain Cobb assured his guests that as far as they were concerned their great wish was that the Spanish and French ships should never fail to fall in with the English, as they had little doubt who would come off victorious.

“Of course, excellent señors, the Spaniards will always conquer their foes, whenever the latter dare stay to encounter their prowess,” was the answer.

Our Captains continued to humour the gentlemen for some time till the midshipman, again coming down, informed them that the large boats were nearly alongside. At length, Captain Cobb laying his hand on the Spanish officer’s shoulder, looked him in the face.

“My dear sir,” he said, “you will pardon us for the little trick we have played you; but the honest truth is, we are not the people you took us for. There is an old proverb which says: ‘Deceit is lawful in love and warfare.’ In the latter it is at all events. Though we have the flag of France now flying, that of Britain generally floats over our decks, and will, I hope, do so till our ships are paid off at home.”

“Señor!” exclaimed the Spaniard, turning pale and gasping for breath, “you surely are joking.”

The Captain’s answer assured him that he was not. The poor man almost fainted.

“Come, my friend,” said Captain Masterman, “we intend you no harm. Here, take a glass of wine, you will find it excellent Madeira, and be assured that many a worse event might have happened to you. All we require is, that you should say nothing to your friends when they come below. You will meet them here presently, whoever they are, and believe us on our honours that we intend no one any harm.”

While Captain Cobb entertained his dismayed guest, Captain Masterman went on deck to receive the new comers.

Chapter Five.

The first boat which came alongside was announced to be the barge of Admiral Don Martin Alaba. She rowed twenty oars, and had on board a rear-admiral and two other officers, one of whom was the Governor’s nephew, who came to pay his respects to their supposed friends. The other, a felucca, contained the same number of officers and men, and among them was an aide-de-camp of the Admiral’s, who sent his compliments and congratulations to the French, with the information that they would be supplied with all they desired. He also announced, which was less agreeable to us, that several launches with anchors and cables were getting ready to assist the frigates into the harbour.

Unless, therefore, a good excuse could be framed for not going in, our true characters would immediately be discovered. However, as Spaniards are not very quick in their movements, it was hoped that some time would pass before the arrival of the launches, and that an opportunity might occur of taking a few more prizes without bloodshed. The new visitors were ushered down, with every mark of respect, into the cabin, while the crews were handed below as the others had been. The first glance the Admiral caught of the Spanish captain’s countenance gave him, probably, some anxiety. This was still further increased when Captain Masterman, with a polite bow, requested his pardon for the trick which had been played off on him and his countrymen.

“What trick!” exclaimed the Admiral. “Surely you do not mean to say that you are not the people we took you for?”

“We must confess that we are not,” said Captain Masterman; “we beg to assure you that neither you nor any of your countrymen will suffer the least insult or hurt at our hands. We must, however, request you contentedly to remain on board for a few hours, after which time I have little doubt that we shall be able to set you at liberty.”

These remarks reassured the Spaniards, who were further reconciled to their lot when they saw the cloth spread, and a number of covers brought aft by active hands. The table glittered with plate and glass, and numerous well-filled bottles of ruby wine. While, however, the dinner was getting ready, the Spanish officers were invited to take a turn on deck. Their astonishment and vexation had been considerable before; it was now increased when they saw a number of Englishmen come up, dressed in the clothes of the Spaniards, and immediately jump into the Spanish boat. Several of the frigates’ boats were also seen at the same time to shove off with their officers and men well armed, and to pull towards the three Spanish gunboats which lay at their anchors just outside the river leading to Manilla. The Admiral and his officers watched them anxiously. What could they be about? On they went till they were alongside the gunboats. Not a sound of a shot was heard, not a trigger apparently had been pulled. In a short time the gunboats under sail were seen slowly dropping down towards the frigates.

“Dinner is ready,” observed our Captain to his guests. “We will inform you of the particulars of what has taken place after you have enjoyed it.”

The Spaniards were wise men. They shrugged their shoulders, twirled their moustaches, but said nothing, quickly following their hosts into the cabin. Their eyes could not help brightening up when they saw the good dinner spread before them, for such will, with few exceptions, touch the hearts of mortals of all nations. Toasts were proposed, healths drunk, and the Spaniards began to think that the accounts they had read of British ferocity and British barbarism must have been somewhat exaggerated. Meantime the three gunboats were brought alongside with about one hundred and twenty officers and men as prisoners. Several of their people had managed to escape on shore. The officers acknowledged to their captors that there were a considerable number more gunboats in the harbour, all new and coppered, very fast, and well fitted for service. We, having plenty of provisions on board, our Captain had ordered a good entertainment to be prepared for all the prisoners, who showed no unwillingness to make themselves happy and at home. We had already had a pretty good morning’s work, but the Spaniards seemed still willing to present us with another prize, for soon after the gunboats had been brought alongside, a second felucca-rigged boat, pulling eighteen oars, was seen coming off. Several officers were also aboard her. As she came alongside, they were received with the same politeness as the others had been. The principal officer informed us that he was Captain of the port. He requested to know for what reason the boats were detained, saying that if they were not immediately restored the authorities would consider the two frigates as enemies, and not only decline giving them any assistance, but direct the squadron to come out of harbour and drive them off.

“Tell him what we know about the squadron,” said Captain Cobb to our pilot.

“Why, my friend,” observed Mr Noalles, “you must be aware that you have the larger portion of your squadron without their masts, and that even the others will not be able to follow us for a fortnight at least. We know perfectly well what we are about; in fact, it must be confessed that we are Englishmen!”

The start given by the Captain of the port was even more violent than that of his predecessors. What, had he actually run his head into the lion’s den, after so many of his companions had been already caught? However, on being conducted into the cabin, he was received with shouts of laughter from his countrymen, who by this time were feeling the effects of the generous wine they had imbibed. The Spaniards were, however, able to punish us slightly in return by the information they gave, that of the two merchant vessels we had come to cut out, one was aground, and the other had landed her cargo in consequence of the appearance of a suspicious looking ship of war, which we afterwards ascertained was one of our cruisers, whose melancholy fate I shall some day have to relate.

By this time we had fully two hundred prisoners on board, and a happier set of prisoners it would have been difficult to find, for not only had the officers’ hearts been made merry, but the seamen had as much grog on board as they could well carry. There could be little doubt that by this time the people on shore must have been fully certain of our real characters. Their suspicions must have been confirmed when they saw a breeze spring up, and that we did not proceed into the roads as they had supposed we should do. Our Captains, who were as generous and liberal as brave, now told the Spanish officers that they should be at liberty to return on shore, offering to present them with the Admiral’s barge, the guard boat, and the two feluccas; nor would they even ask for their parole nor impose a restriction of any sort upon them. The Spaniards’ astonishment on being captured had been very great, but it was greater still when they received this information. I did not hear what the Admiral said, but I know he made a very long speech, full of grandiloquent words, that he pressed his hands to his heart very often, and in other ways endeavoured to show his sense of British magnanimity. Evening coming on, he and his countrymen took their departure in their respective boats, some of which were rather overcrowded, as, of course, they had to carry the crews of the gunboats which we had detained.

Our ship’s company shook hands with all the men as they helped them into their boats, and parted from them with three hearty cheers, as if they had been their dearest friends. As soon as our guests had departed, we once more stood out of the bay with our three prizes, keeping away to the south in the hopes of visiting other places before the information of our true character could reach them. The gunboats were manned, a lieutenant from the “Zephyr” taking charge of one of them, and our junior lieutenant and Mr Oliver having the command of the other two.

They were respectively named by the ship’s company the “Bam,” the “Boo,” and the “Zel”. The “Zephyr” took the “Bam” in tow, while we had the “Boo” and the “Zel”. It was young Mr Oliver’s first command, and with no small pleasure he descended the ship’s side to go and take charge of the craft, fully expecting to perform great deeds in her. Many another young man has done the same, and found, after all, his expectations sadly disappointed. I remember perfectly watching the little vessels as they followed in our wake. They were handsome, graceful craft, very well fitted for the work for which they were intended, cruising along shore, and being able to run into harbour again on the appearance of bad weather. Somehow or other Englishmen are apt to think if a vessel can float she is fit to go anywhere, and that there is no considerable difference between smooth water and a heavy cross sea,—a summer breeze and a snorting gale.

Mr Oliver had with him a young midshipman, ten seamen, and a boy—a very much smaller crew than the gunboat had under the Spanish flag. Of course, however, fewer Englishmen are required to man a vessel than Spaniards, not but that Spaniards are very good sailors, but then they have not got the muscle and the activity of Englishmen. As a rule, Spanish vessels are far better found than English craft, and are rather over than under manned. We continued to run down the coast without meeting with any adventure till we sighted the large island of Mindanao. We were standing off that island one night, when about midnight the ship was struck by a heavy squall. She lay over till her yardarms almost dipped in the ocean. Topsail and topgallant sheets were let fly, and she soon again righted without much apparent damage to herself, but at that instant there was a cry from aft that one of the gunboats had parted.

The night was dark, and those who looked out could nowhere distinguish her. The frigate was, however, immediately brought to. A gun was fired, but there was no report in return. A blue light was next ordered to be lit. No answering signal was to be perceived. The missing boat was the “Zel” under charge of young Harry Oliver. He was a great favourite on board, and many anxious eyes were looking out for him. Another and another gun was fired, and blue lights ever and anon sent their bright glare over the foam-topped waves. While one of these blue lights was burning, one of the men on the look-out whispered to another: “What do you see there, Bill? As I am a living man there is a long low ship under all sail gliding by right in the wind’s eye.”

“And I see her too! And I, and I!” exclaimed several men in suppressed voices. “Hark? There are sounds. There is music.”

“Why, they are singing on board. What can she be? I for one would rather never have looked on her. Can you make out the words?”

“No, I should think not.”

“Do you see her now?”

“No, she seemed to shoot right up into that thick cloud to windward.”

Such and similar expressions were heard, and the men were still talking about the matter when my father and Pat Brady, who had been below, came on deck. At that moment Mr Schank’s voice was heard shouting out “Shorten sail!” and the ship was brought speedily under still closer canvas, barely in time, however, to enable her to bear the effects of the second violent squall which came roaring up from the quarter where the supposed stranger had disappeared. Guns were again fired, and more blue lights burned, and thus we continued waiting anxiously till morning broke. The other gunboat was safe, but it was too certain that the unfortunate “Zel” had foundered, and that her crew and the brave young Harry Oliver and his still more youthful companion had perished. Many hearts on board grieved for their loss. I will not say tears were shed, because, however poets may write about the matter, it is my belief that British seamen are not addicted to express their feelings in that way, unless perhaps occasionally a few do so when they become sentimental with a larger amount of grog on board than usual, but even that is not very common. They are more inclined to become obstreperous and combative on such occasions.

The latter part of our cruise was not likely to prove so successful as the commencement.

Standing to the extreme south of the group, we came off a Spanish settlement, guarded by a couple of forts, and which, as it was of considerable size, our Captains determined to lay under contribution for wood, water, and refreshments. We fortunately captured a felucca a short distance from the coast, and her master was now directed to stand in and make our request for the articles we required known to the authorities of the place. They not understanding our amiable disposition, or supposing that we were the bloodthirsty monsters we had been described, declined acceding to our petitions. There was no help therefore but to attempt to take by force what was denied to our modest request. The wood and water we might have procured elsewhere, but vegetables and fresh meat and other provisions we had no hopes of finding. We accordingly stood in towards the town, hoping that our appearance would overawe the enemy. The Spaniards, however, as soon as we got within range of their guns, opened a hot fire upon us which showed that they fully intended to keep to their resolution of not rendering us assistance. Hungry Englishmen are not well-pleased to be baulked of their provisions. The order was “Out boats and take the fort.” Four boats shoved off, under command of Captain Masterman, and made for the shore, in spite of the hot fire with which they were received. One, however, grounded on a sandbank, and several men were hit while they were endeavouring to get her off. The intention was to take the fort. They reached the beach, and on the men dashed, expecting in a few minutes to be engaged in storming the fort. As, however, they were rushing up the hill, a large body of armed men appeared on the top of it, five or six times their number. A braver man than Captain Masterman never stepped; but, unless the enemy were great cowards, they could scarcely hope to drive them off, and to get into the fort at the same time. The walls, too, as they approached them, were seen to be far more difficult to climb than they had expected. Meantime the batteries were keeping up a very heavy fire on the frigates, our guns making but little impression in return. With a heavy heart Captain Masterman gave the order to retreat and the British had to hurry down to their boats, while the Spaniards were rapidly advancing. The latter, however, did not venture to come to close quarters, being well content with their success, but continued firing on the boats as long as they were within reach of their muskets. By this time the frigates had lost several men. The “Zephyr”—her master and three or four men killed, and a midshipman and several men wounded. We lost five or six killed or wounded. Among the latter was Pat Brady, who came on board vowing vengeance against the Spaniards wherever he should meet them. The two frigates, besides, had received considerable damage.

Our wheel was hit, the head of our mizzen-mast wounded, several of our shrouds were cut away, and running rigging and sails much injured. At length a shot cut away two strands of our cable. The gunboats which joined in the fight had escaped with very little damage, although they kept up a pretty hot fire on the fort. There seemed to be not the slightest possibility of our success, and as our chief object was to get wood and water, which certainly could be obtained elsewhere, cutting our cables, we made sail out of the harbour. Altogether we had paid pretty dearly for our morning’s amusement.

I give the account, however humbling to our national pride it may be, to show that it is possible for the bravest and most sagacious officers to meet with reverses, and as a warning lesson to others not to think too highly of themselves.

I leave the reader to count up what we did during the cruise, and to judge whether we had much cause for congratulation, I had the account from my father in after years, and, calculating profits and losses, I rather think that the balance was terribly against us.

Chapter Six.

The two gunboats, “Bam” and “Boo,” had been a source of anxiety to our Captain, ever since they came into our possession, and fears were entertained, should another gale come on, that they might share the fate of the unfortunate “Zel”. Their young commanders were ready to go anywhere in them, but it seemed very unlikely, should they make the attempt, that they would ever reach Canton, to which we were soon about to return. They were condemned therefore to be destroyed. They were beautiful looking craft, but were too likely to prove what the ten-gun brigs of those days often did—coffins for their living crews. Accordingly, all their stores being taken out of them, their crews set them on fire and returned to the frigates. I remember well seeing them blaze away and at length blow up, at which I clapped my hands, having some idea that they were fireworks let off expressly for my amusement. The frigates’ damages being now repaired, a course was steered for the north. Being greatly in want of water, we put into another harbour on the coast where it was known that no Spanish settlement existed. The watering parties from our frigates proceeded to the shore, making six boats in all, the men being well armed. They ought properly to have remained for each other, but our boats came off first, leaving the “Zephyr’s” to follow. Casks were being hoisted up, when the officers, through their glasses, perceived several men running down to the beach, making signals that an enemy was coming. Instantly all the remaining boats were manned, and away they pulled to the support of those on shore, led by the two Captains. There was no time to be lost, for as they approached the shore they saw our men defending themselves against a vast number of enemies. The natives, as the boats approached, took to flight, but it was evident that the number of our people was greatly diminished. The officer commanding the watering party was alive, though he had with difficulty escaped from the enemy, but two poor fellows lay dead upon the beach, and a third was desperately wounded, and was evidently dying. No less than nine had been carried off as prisoners. Our pilot, Mr Noalles, having accompanied the party, now proceeded with Captain Masterman and a very strong body in search of the natives. These, however, had fled at their approach. At length our party came upon a hut, in which a man was found who appeared by his dress and air to be of some consequence. He was lame from a wound, and had been unable to make his escape. Mr Noalles explained to him that we were in search of our men, and demanded their instant release. He was told that unless they were delivered up, their village would be destroyed, and their corn cut down. He promised to use his influence with his countrymen, and as our people retired to a distance, one or two persons were seen to enter his hut. After waiting, however, a considerable time, no one approached. Again the chief was appealed to, but he declared that he had no power in the place. At length Captain Masterman directed his followers to set the village on fire, while our men rushed into the corn fields, and in a short time made a clean sweep of several acres. Whether or not it was a wise proceeding, I think, is doubtful, for it was too probable that the natives would either kill their prisoners in revenge, or else make them labour as slaves to repay them for the damage they had received. This work being accomplished, the frigates got under weigh, the Captains intending to call off a place farther to the north where the Malay chief of the island resided, for the purpose of making him exert his influence for the recovery of the missing men. We were not very far from the latitude where the unfortunate “Zel” had foundered. Our people very naturally talked of their lost shipmates, and especially of young Mr Oliver, who, as I said, was a great favourite with all of them. My father especially looked on him with much affection, having saved his life once, seemed to regard him almost in the light of a son. We had had a fair wind all the morning, when suddenly it shifted round to the northward, and a sudden squall very nearly took the masts out of the two frigates. As it was impossible to say from what direction the breeze would next come, we continued standing off the land towards the town of Palawan. The wind had moderated, though it still blew strong, and we continued standing to the west, when a small island was sighted on the weather bow. As we drew in with it, Pat Brady, who was one of the look-outs, declared he saw a signal flying from the highest point in sight. I speak of it as an island—it seemed to be little more than a large rock—and the peak of which Brady spoke was forty or fifty feet or so out of the water. The ships’ companies had been grumbling considerably at being delayed, as they were anxious to get back to Canton, where, it was hoped, we should receive orders to convoy the homeward-bound merchant fleet. The midshipman of the watch having reported what Pat Brady had seen, after we had run on some distance, the ship was hove to, and the glasses being directed in that direction, a man was made out waving apparently a shirt from the rock. A boat accordingly was instantly lowered and pulled towards it. The man kept his post for some time as the boat approached, making signals to those in her to pull round rather farther to the westward, as the surf beating on that side of the rock would prevent their landing. As the boat’s head was once more put off the shore the men caught sight of the person on the rock. Pat Brady, who formed one of the boat’s crew, looked up at him with a glance of astonishment.

“I say, Jem,” he exclaimed to the man next him, “either that’s Mr Oliver or his ghost, as sure as my name is Pat Brady.”

“It’s his ghost,” was the answer, “for there is no doubt the gunboat went down a week ago; and it’s not likely he or any other man could have swum out of her.”

“By my faith, then,” answered Brady, “it must be his ghost; and sure enough he is more like a ghost than anything else.”

As they were speaking, the figure disappeared from the summit of the rock.

“I told you so,” said Brady, “depend on it, when we land, we may hunt about till doomsday, and we shall never find mortal man on this rock.” These remarks were overheard by the other men, who seemed to agree very much with the opinions of the speakers.

“He is fathoms deep down beneath the water, depend on that,” observed another; “we shall never see young Mr Oliver with our mortal eyes again.”

At length Mr Martin, the Second-Lieutenant, who had gone in command of the boat, overheard the remarks of the men. He, however, from being somewhat near-sighted, had not observed any likeness in the figure on the rock to his lost shipmate. “Mr Oliver, do you think he is? I only hope so.”

“No, sir, we don’t think it’s Mr Oliver; but we think it is his ghost,” blurted out Pat Brady; “and as to finding him, there’s little chance we shall have to do that.”

“We will have a look for him at all events,” answered Mr Martin. “Give way, lads, I see the place he pointed out to us; and if he is a ghost, at all events he has an eye for a good landing-place.”

The boat accordingly pulled in, and a small bay was found where the men could land with perfect ease. No one, however, was to be seen, and this confirmed the opinions the seamen had expressed. The island was rather larger than it appeared from the sea, and Mr Martin, leaving a couple of men in charge of the boat, proceeded with the rest inland. They looked about in all directions, and yet no human being could they discover. He at length began almost to fancy that they must have been deceived by some means or other, and yet he was certain that the figure he had observed at the top of the rock was that of a human being. I should have said that when the boat was lowered a bottle of water and a flask of spirits, with a small quantity of food, had also been put into her. This the men carried, it being supposed probable that the person on the rock would be suffering from hunger and thirst.

“It’s of no use,” observed Pat to one of his companions. “I knew it was a ghost from the beginning, or may be just the devil in a man’s shape to try and draw the ship in to get her cast away. We none of us know what tricks he can play.”

At length the men began to be positively uneasy, and to wish their officer to return. Mr Martin, however, had determined to examine the island thoroughly, before he gave up the search, being perfectly convinced that he had seen a man on the rock, though why he had afterwards hidden himself was unaccountable.

The distance by water from the rock was, in consequence of the shape of the shore, considerably less than by land, and this might have accounted for their getting there before the person they had seen, but some other reason had now to be found for his not appearing. The more level part of the land had been passed over. No signs of water had been discovered.

“Ah, poor fellow!” exclaimed Mr Martin, “he must, at all events, have suffered greatly for want of that.”

They now got near to the foot of the rock, on the top of which the man had been seen. All the sides appeared inaccessible, and it was unaccountable how he could have got up there. This further confirmed the men in the idea that they had beheld a ghost or spirit of some sort. Never, perhaps, before had their officer found greater difficulty in getting them to follow him. They would have done so ten times more willingly against an enemy greatly outnumbering them, with the muzzles of half-a-dozen guns pointed in their faces besides. Mr Martin continued to push on. At length he came to a rock in which was a small recess. Beckoning with his hand to his men, he hurried on, and there he saw, seated on the ground, the person of whom he had been in search, with a boy apparently in the last stage of exhaustion in his arms. He himself was unable to speak, but he pointed to the boy’s mouth, and then to his own. Mr Martin understood the signs, and shouted to the men to come on with the provisions. Even then he could scarcely recognise the features of Harry Oliver, or of the young midshipman by his side, so fearfully had famine and exhaustion told on them. The men were soon gathered round the sufferers. Before Mr Oliver would take any of the spirits and water brought to him, he watched to see a few drops poured down the throat of his companion. The effect was almost instantaneous. His eyes, already glazing, it seemed in death, recovered a portion of their brightness, and a slight colour returned to his deadly pale cheeks. A moderate draught of the same mixture greatly restored the young officer, but he was even then unable to speak.

“I told you he was a live man,” observed Mr Martin at last to the seamen; “but if you had given way to your fears, you see in a very few minutes more both our young friends would have become what you supposed them already to be.”

The men now hurried back to bring some of the boat’s oars and a sail on which they might convey the sufferers, for Mr Martin was anxious to get them on board without further delay. After waiting a little time longer, he considered that they were sufficiently recovered to be removed.

Great was the astonishment, and greater still the satisfaction, of all on board when they arrived alongside.

The young midshipman hovered for a considerable time between life and death. Had it not been, I believe, for the watchful care of my mother and the surgeon, he would, after all, have sunk under the hardships he had endured. Not, indeed, till the following day, was Mr Oliver himself able to give an account of his escape. Except the man at the helm, the crew of the gunboat had been forward when the squall came on. He and the midshipman Bramston were standing aft. He recollected, as the vessel sank beneath his feet, catching the lad in his arms, and springing over the taffrail. As to what became of the man at the helm, or the rest of the crew, he could not tell. For a few seconds he was drawn under the water, but returning to the surface again, he found close to him several spars that had been lashed together, but, as it appeared, not secured to the deck of the vessel.

On these he threw himself and his young charge. A current, he supposed, swept them away to the westward. When daylight broke, he could clearly see the frigate; but after he had anxiously watched her, he observed her standing to the southward. He had little hopes of surviving, yet he resolved to persevere to the last. Still the spars afforded but a slight support. He had to dread, too, the attack of sharks. About two hours after daylight, however, he observed floating near him the stock of a large ship’s anchor. Leaving young Bramston secured to the spars, towing them, he swam towards it. This afforded him and his companion a far safer resting-place. He was now able to lash several spars to the timber, while another formed a mast, and a second, which he and Bramston cut through with their knives, supplied them with paddles and a yard. On this they spread their shirts, which they split open.

As the sun rose, his beams fell on an island in the far distance. The wind was fair, and towards it they directed their course. The current, too, favoured them. Without this their progress would have been very slow. They soon began to feel the want of water, but Oliver urged Bramston on no account to drink the salt water. The midshipman, on searching in his pockets, happily found a small quantity of biscuit, which he had thoughtlessly put there, he supposed, after supper that very night. This supplied them with food when their hunger became ravenous. Thus they sailed on the whole day. Happily the night was not very dark, and they were thus able to keep the island in sight. It was almost daylight the next morning when at length they found themselves driving in towards the rocks. With great difficulty they kept off, and coasted round to the very bay where Mr Martin had landed. Finding, however, that they could not get in their frail raft, they had after all, having repossessed themselves of their shirts, to swim on shore, Mr Oliver towing young Bramston, who was supported on a spar. They were almost exhausted when they landed, but, finding a shady place under a rock, they fell asleep, and awoke considerably refreshed. A few handfuls of water, in a crevice of a rock, assisted to keep them alive, while they, not without considerable danger, managed to collect some shell-fish from the rocks. Still, they found their strength daily decreasing, till the young midshipman was utterly unable to move. Every day Mr Oliver had climbed to the top of the rock in the hopes of some vessel passing. His joy at seeing his own frigate may be conceived. It was greatly damped, however, on finding that his young companion was, as he supposed, at his last gasp; and had not the Lieutenant and his party arrived at the moment they did, there can be no doubt that the lad would have died. He himself, indeed, was so exhausted, that he could with difficulty find his way down the rock, and after that was unable to move farther.

On our return to the Phillipines, the Sultan, as the chief was called of whom I have spoken, had, we found, recovered our men, who little expected to be rescued from the hands of the savages. We then proceeded to Canton, where we found the homeward-bound merchant fleet ready to sail. We had work enough, I have an idea, in keeping our convoy of old tea-chests, as the merchantmen were called, together. I may say, however, that at length, after no small amount of anxiety to the Captains of the frigates, we arrived safely in the Downs. Our task performed, we were ordered to Portsmouth to be paid off.

Chapter Seven.

My poor mother was crying bitterly. It was at the thoughts of parting with the Little Lady. In vain my father attempted to console her. Give her up, she said she could not. She loved her almost as her own child. Lieutenant Schank had written home to his mother and sisters, who, in return, had expressed their perfect readiness to receive the Little Lady. But how was she to be conveyed into Lincolnshire? Captain Cobb amply fulfilled his promise by putting a handsome sum into the Lieutenant’s hands.

“There, Schank,” he said; “it is not you who receive it, remember, it is the little girl, so do not talk of thanking me. I only wish I had been rather more certain of what Mrs Cobb would say, or that I felt considerably more sure than I do that she would be pleased, and I should have liked to have had the Little Lady myself. It would have been a matter of interest to hear about her when one was away from home, and a pleasure to look forward to see her again. She promises to be a sweet little creature. Your womenkind will be well-pleased to see her, depend on that; and I say, Schank, if I can help her on in the world in any way I will do so. Remember, we are old shipmates, so do not stand on ceremony.” As Captain Cobb went on talking, and thought of parting from the Little Lady, his heart warmed up; and at that time, I believe, if he had had the will, he would have given her half his property. However, there was one thing to be said of him: in spite of his peculiarities, he was a man who would never depart from his word, and that Mr Schank knew very well. But that in no way detracted from the Lieutenant’s generosity, for he had made up his mind to take charge of the Little Lady, whether the Captain assisted him or not. Highly as he esteemed my father and mother, he considered perhaps justly, that they were not in a position to bring up a little girl whose parents were evidently gentlefolks. Be that as it may, it was settled that she was to be sent off as soon as an opportunity should occur, to old Mrs Schank’s residence, in the village of Whithyford, Lincolnshire. The difficulty of sending her there was solved by the offer of my mother to convey her herself, with the sanction of my father; indeed, he proposed to go down also, provided the journey could be delayed till the ship was paid off.

“Two children, you see, sir,” he said to Mr Schank, “would be rather too much for my good woman to take charge of alone, and I suppose, sir, it would not just do for you to go and help her. People might think what was not the case.”

Mr Schank laughed. He had never thought of that, and certainly had not bargained either to take care of one child himself, or to assist my mother in taking care of two.

“By all means, Burton,” he said. “I have some business in London which will keep me for a few days, and the Little Lady will give interest and amusement enough to my family till I make my appearance.”

The heavy coach took us to London under the escort of Lieutenant Schank, who saw us off for Whithyford in another, far heavier and more lumbering. My father and I went outside; my mother and the Little Lady had an inside place. Behind sat a guard with a couple of blunderbusses slung on either side of him, dressed in an ample red coat, and a brace of pistols sticking out of his pockets. There were a good many highwaymen about at the time, who robbed occasionally on one side of London, and sometimes on the other, and an armed guard, from his formidable appearance, gave the passengers confidence, though he might possibly have proved no very efficient protector if attacked. My father was in high spirits, and pointed out everything he thought worth noticing to me on the road. Each time the coach stopped he was off his seat with me clinging to his back, and looking in at the window to inquire if my mother or the Little Lady wanted anything. Now he would bring out a glass of ale for one, now a cup of milk for the other or for me, or sandwiches, or cakes, or fruit. He had the wisdom never to let me take either ale or grog. “Very good for big people,” he used to say, “but very bad for little chaps, Ben.”

At length we were put down at the inn at Whithyford. Mrs Schank lived down a lane a little way off the road, and thither, my mother carrying the Little Lady on one arm and holding me by the other, and my father laden with bundles and bandboxes, we proceeded. The cottage was whitewashed, and covered with fresh, thick thatch. In front was the neatest of neat little gardens, surrounded by a well-clipped privet hedge, and the greenest of green gates. Indeed, neatness and order reigned everywhere outside as it did, as I was soon to find, in the interior. The Misses Schank had been expecting us. Three of them appeared at the door. They all seemed much older than Lieutenant Schank. Two of them were very like him, tall and thin, and the other bore a strong resemblance, I thought, to our worthy Captain. Their names I soon learned. There was Miss Martha, and Miss Jemima, and the youngest—a fat one—was Anna Maria. They all shrieked out in different tones as they saw us. Miss Anna Maria seized me in her arms and gave me a kiss, and then, looking at me, exclaimed, “Why, I thought it was to be a little girl! This surely is a boy!” at which her sisters laughed, and bending forward, examined the Little Lady, who was still in my mother’s arms, and whom Miss Anna Maria had not observed. Miss Martha at length ventured to take her in the gentlest possible manner and kissed her brow, and said, “Well, she is a sweet little thing; why, Mrs Burton, I wonder you like to part with her,” at which observation my mother burst into tears.

“I don’t, ma’am, indeed I don’t,” she answered; when gentle Miss Martha observed, “I did not wish to hurt your feelings, Mrs Burton”; and Miss Anna Maria, who was fond of laughing, said something which made her laugh, and then she laughed herself, so that with between crying and laughing we all entered the cottage and were conducted into the parlour, on one side of which sat old Mrs Schank in a high-back chair, and in a very high cap, and looking very tall and thin and solemn, I thought at first.

My father followed with the bundles and bandboxes, but stood in the passage, not thinking it correct for him to advance into the parlour.

“Who is that?” asked the old lady, looking up and seeing him through the open door.

“Please, ma’am, that is my husband,” answered my mother, courtesying.

“What is he?” inquired the old lady.

“A sailor, ma’am.”

“Eh, my son is a sailor, my Jack is a sailor, and I love sailors for his sake. Let him come in. Come in, sailor, and put those bundles down; they may tire you. There, sit down and rest yourself. And this is the little girl my son wrote about. Let me see her, Mrs—what is your name?”

“Burton, ma’am,” answered my mother.

“Let me see her, Mrs Burton. A very pretty sweet little damsel she is; and whose child is she, do you say?”

“That is what we do not know, ma’am,” answered my mother.

“And I am sure I do not,” said the old lady, who, I should observe, never was at a loss for a remark.

“Well, that does not much signify; we shall like her for herself. And who is that little boy?”

“That is my son, ma’am,” answered my mother.

“Oh! Then he is not the little girl’s brother, I suppose?”

“No, ma’am,” answered my mother, “though I love the little girl as if she were my own child, and indeed I sorely feel the thoughts of parting with her.”

“Very natural, and right, and proper,” remarked the old lady. “I am sure I should love such a pretty little damsel, especially if I had nursed her as I suppose you have. However, we will not talk about that just now. You and your husband must stay here for some days, and your little boy too, until this little lady gets accustomed to us. I suppose, sailor, you do not want to go to sea in a hurry? What is his name, my good woman?”

“Richard Burton,” answered my mother, “late quarter-master of HM frigate ‘Boreas’.”

“Well, Richard Burton, you may make yourself at home here, and as happy as you can. My son Jack has written to us about you, only I could not recollect your name.”

Although the old lady did not appear at first very wise, she had, however, a fair amount of shrewd good sense, and she was excessively kind, and liberal, and generous as far as she had the means. The ladies had prepared a very nice room for my mother and father, and I had a bed in a corner of it, and they really treated them as if they were guests of consequence.

While the old lady was speaking, Miss Anna Maria stood laughing and smiling at me, trying to gain my attention and confidence. As I looked at her I thought she must be very good-natured. She was short, and very round and fat, with black twinkling eyes and a somewhat dark complexion, a smile constantly playing on her mouth. Her sisters, as I have remarked, reminded me very strongly of their brother. They all made a great deal of me, and still more of the Little Lady. Having no servants, they did everything themselves, and were busily occupied from morning till night, each having her own department. Miss Anna Maria was cook, and I used to think that perhaps that made her so fat and dark. I took great delight in helping her, and soon learned to peel the potatoes, and wash the cabbages, and stone the raisins for plum puddings. Indeed, knowing well that occupation is useful, not only for small boys but for big ones, she set me to work immediately. Not only did they work indoors but out of doors also, and kept the garden in perfect order, trimming the hedges and mowing and digging. Besides this, they found time to read to their old mother, as well as to themselves; and from the way they talked of books and things, I have no doubt were very well informed, though I was no judge in those days. In the parish in which they had all been born they were looked up to with the greatest affection. They had done much to civilise the people and to keep them from falling back into a state of barbarism, or, I may say, heathenism, for the vicar of the parish was a hunting parson who was seen once a week in the church, where he hurried over the service, and read a sermon which lasted some twelve or fifteen minutes; the shorter the better, however, considering its quality. His horse used to be led up and down by a groom during the time, and as soon as his work was over he remounted and rode off again, not to be seen till the following week unless one of his parishioners died, and he could get no one else to perform the funeral service. He seemed to think that the Misses Schank had a prescriptive right to labour in the parish; but he was excessively indignant when on one or two occasions a dissenting minister came to preach in a barn; and he declared that, should so irregular a proceeding be repeated, he would proceed against him as far as the law would allow. My kind friends’ father had had three or four successors. The one I speak of, I think, was the fourth, and, I hope, an exception to the general rule.

“It will not do for us to complain,” observed the mild Miss Martha, “but I do wish that our vicar more resembled a shepherd who cares for his sheep, than the wolf he must appear to the poor people of the parish. He takes to the last penny all he can get out of them, and gives them only hard words and stones in return.” Miss Martha, however, bless her kind heart, gave the poor people not only gentle words, but many “a cup of cold water,” in the name of Christ, and to the utmost of her means assisted her poorer neighbours, as, indeed, did also her sisters. Many a day their meals were dry crusts and tea, when they were giving nourishing food, good beef and mutton, to some of the poor around them, requiring strengthening. I mention these things because it will show that the Little Lady had fallen into good hands. My father and mother did all they could to help them, and certainly their labours were lightened after our arrival. The very first morning my father was up by daylight, with spade in hand, digging in the garden, while my mother helped Miss Anna Maria in the kitchen. Indeed, my father was not a man to eat the bread of idleness either ashore or afloat.

The happiest day we had yet spent was that on which Mr Schank arrived. It was delightful to see the way in which his old mother welcomed him; how she rose from her seat and stretched out her arms, and placed her hands on his shoulders, and gazed into his weather-beaten face; and how his sisters hung about him, and how Miss Anna Maria, who, I ought to say, was generally called the baby, came and put her short fat arms round his neck and kissed him again and again, just as she used to do when she was a little girl. Indeed, just then she evidently had forgotten her own age and his, and probably thought of him just as she did when he came home a young midshipman the first time from sea, proud of his dirk and uniform, and full of the scenes he had witnessed and the wonders of the foreign lands he had visited. He patted me on the head very kindly, and told me he hoped I would some day be as good a seaman as my father. Then he told his sisters that he had been making interest to obtain a warrant for Burton as a boatswain, and that he had little doubt he would get it, for a better seaman never stepped, while it was hard to find a more trustworthy or braver man. “Not that I have any interest myself,” he observed, “but I have put young Harry Oliver up to it, and he has plenty of interest, and so he made the application in my name through his friends.”

“If it is a good thing, brother Jack, to be a boatswain, I shall be so glad to tell Mrs Burton,” said Miss Anna Maria. “She is a very nice good creature, and I should like to make her happy.”

“Yes, baby, it is a great rise for a seaman,” answered Mr Schank, “and I have no doubt Dick Burton is the man to appreciate it; so if you like, you can go and tell them, for I feel very sure he will obtain it.”

I understood very clearly all that was said. Miss Anna Maria, taking me by the hand, hurried off to the kitchen, where my father and mother were sitting. I scarcely know which was the better pleased to hear this good news. I rather think my father was. My mother remarked that it was what her Richard fully deserved; indeed, I rather suspect that if she had been told he had been made a lieutenant or even a commander, she would only have thought that he had received his deserts; but that was all very right and proper. It is a great thing that a woman should have a high opinion of her husband, and it is a very unhappy matter for her when she has not, or at all events when he does not deserve it.

I believe my father had several times proposed leaving Whithyford, and looking out for a ship; but my mother urged him to stay a day or two longer, for she could not bear to part from the Little Lady. At length he said he must go; and though Mr Schank told him that he was welcome to remain, he said that he had been idle long enough, and must now look out for another ship.

“But, Burton, do you intend to take your wife to sea again with you?” asked the Lieutenant.

“I should like to, sir; and yet I am rather doubting about it,” he answered, “even if I can obtain permission; but if I do not, she would like to go and pay a visit to her friends in Ireland. It is a long time since she has seen them, and they made her promise to go when she could, and now that I am likely to be a warrant officer, they will look upon her and her boy with more respect than they might have done. Do you see, sir, they are a somewhat upper class of people. Polly loved me, and so we married; but they seemed to think that she was letting herself down greatly in splicing with a seaman, and would not, indeed, for some time have anything to say to her.”

Mr Schank reported this to his sisters. They, however, had taken such a liking to my mother, that they had made up their minds to ask her to stay with them instead. They knew that they had a powerful inducement to make her accept their invitation; and Miss Martha, with a good deal of tact, took care to make the offer, holding the Little Lady in her arms, and when she smiled and held out her hands to my mother, very speedily gained the victory. My father was too glad to leave his wife in such safe keeping, and so the matter was soon arranged.

My father was appointed to a sloop of war, which he at once joined, and in which he saw a good deal of hard service.

Several captains applied for Mr Schank, who was looked upon as such an excellent First-Lieutenant, that even his best friends declared that it would be a pity to have him promoted. The Admiralty, however, sent him to look after a young lord in delicate health and indolent disposition, who required a cruise to improve the first, and a man who would do all his work for him, in order that he might indulge in the second.

Chapter Eight.

The Little Lady grew apace, and flourished under the careful nursing of my mother and the Misses Schank. They gave her the name of Emily, in compliment to an elder sister whom I have not before mentioned—a great invalid, who never left her room. I had, indeed, not seen her, for she was so nervous that it was feared I might agitate her. The Little Lady was, however, once taken in to her, and she was so pleased that she insisted on seeing her every day. She was, I afterwards learned, not only an invalid, but occasionally affected in her mind, from some great grief which had occurred to her in her youth.

Time rolled on. I was somewhat spoiled, I think, by the kind ladies, who treated me completely as if I had been in their own position in life, and took great pains to teach me all I was then capable of learning.

At length my father came back to Whithyford. He could not remain long, for he had been appointed to another ship. He told my mother that he had been so unhappy without her that he had got leave to take her and me with him, as I was now big enough to go to sea. My mother was too sensible a woman not to know that she must some day of necessity part from the Little Lady, and though it was like wrenching her very heartstrings, she, without hesitation, agreed to accompany her husband and take me with her. Our kind friends were, I know, very sorry to part with us. The old lady folded her arms round me, and kissed me on both cheeks, and on my forehead, and blessed me, and told me she hoped I should be as brave and good a man as her son, and also as my father. The frigate was fitting out at Portsmouth for the Mediterranean station. She was the “Grecian,” of thirty-eight guns, commanded by Captain Harry Oliver, who, three years before, had been a Master’s mate in the “Boreas”. He having since then served two years as Lieutenant, and one as Commander, had just been posted to her. Some men in Mr Schank’s position would have declined serving as First-Lieutenant under an officer who had before served under him, but Mr Schank had no pride of the sort, and when Captain Oliver applied for him he readily consented to accept the offer.

There was every probability of our having a happy ship. I have mentioned a young midshipman—Leonard Bramston—he was our junior Lieutenant, having lately got his promotion; but the person above all others I was delighted to see was Mrs King, whose husband had joined the frigate. Bill King proposed also himself applying for a warrant as gunner. However, for the present, he had come to sea with his old rating as quarter-master. While the ship was fitting out, my mother and Mrs King lived on shore. One Sunday we went to the Marine Barracks, where we heard that Sergeant Killock and Tom Sawyer were stationed. They were greatly pleased to see me. The Sergeant tried to persuade my mother to let me remain on shore and turn into a drummer boy, at which I was very indignant, holding a blue-jacket to be a being of far superior grade, and a blue-jacket I hoped shortly to become. I was rather small just then, but not smaller than some of the midshipmen who had joined our frigate for the first time. Mere mites of boys were frequently then sent to sea, who looked more fit to wear pinafores, and be attended by nurses, as far as size was concerned; and yet, though now and then they got into mischief and did not do very wise things, yet occasionally they performed very gallant actions, such as men twice their age might have been proud of, requiring judgment and discretion as well as courage. At length we went out to Spithead and took our powder on board. Blue Peter was flying, the remainder of the stores for the officers came on board, the ship was cleared, the band struck up, the seamen tramped round with the capstan bars to a merry tune, the topsails were sheeted home, and with a blue sky above us and bright water below, we stood down the Solent towards the Needle passage. It was a gay and beautiful sight. I had been so long on shore that I had almost forgotten all about a ship. The men looked so smart and active, for Mr Schank had taken care to get a picked crew, which some officers in those days could get and some could not; the Captain and Lieutenants and midshipmen in their new uniforms looked so spruce, and the marines so trim and well set up, that I could not help rejoicing that I was once more afloat, though I did not forget my kind friends at Whithyford, nor the dear Little Lady. We passed out at the Needle passage, with Hurst Castle on one side and the tall pointed white rocks off the west end of the island on the other, not ill-called Needles, sighting Weymouth, where the good old King George the Third was accustomed to reside. Bless his memory, say I, for, though he might have had his faults, he was a right-honest true-hearted man—brave as the bravest of his subjects, and firm too; though those who opposed him called his firmness obstinacy. However, I am talking of things of which I knew at that period of my career nothing at all.

I had grown by this time into a stout, hardy-looking lad, tall and proportionably broad, so that I looked much older than I was, and thus I was already rated as a boy on board the ship, though I was the youngest on board, and likely to remain so for a considerable time. When people saw my mother, who looked remarkably young, and pretty as ever, they could scarcely believe that I was her son. Few people retain their health and good looks as she did. Running across the Bay of Biscay we sighted Cape Finisterre, rounding which we stood in for the coast, in hopes of picking up some of the Spanish Guarda Costas or any of the enemy’s merchantmen. However, when standing in for Finisterre Bay the wind dropped and we lay perfectly becalmed, rolling gently to the swell which nearly at all times sets in on that coast.

Evening was approaching. Our young Captain walked the deck with impatient strides. Though so gentle and quiet in his manners there was a spirit in him that ever desired activity. Several times his glass was turned towards the distant shore. He then summoned the master and examined the chart. We had fallen in, the day before, with a Portuguese Rasca, from the master of which a good deal of information had been obtained, and as an honest man and a patriot it was supposed that it could be relied on. Captain Oliver and Mr Schank were in consultation for some time. We guessed there was something to be done. Now, I thought to myself, I should like to see some fun. They are planning something, that is certain. I wonder what it can be. In a short time the cutter and barge were ordered away, it being understood that Mr Schank would take the command of the former and would be accompanied by Lieutenant Spry of the Marines, while the Third-Lieutenant, Mr Bramston, took charge of the barge. Including marines and blue-jackets the party mustered rather more than forty in all. They waited till dusk to leave the ship. This just suited my plan of operation. As the arms, provisions, and other articles were being lowered into the boat, I managed to slip down and to stow myself away in the barge forward under a sail. I required but little space for hiding away. Just at dusk the two boats shoved off, and away we went towards the shore; I heard the men say that the object of the expedition was to cut out several luggers lying in a small harbour with a town at the further end of it. We had a long pull, for we were at such, a distance from the coast that the frigate could not have been seen from it. At all events the inhabitants of the town would not have suspected that any boats would come from a vessel whose topgallant sails could only just have been visible. At length, after pulling for some hours, the lights on shore were seen, and in a short time the boats came off the mouth of the harbour; but then it was found that the luggers were some little way up it, and that a strong fort guarded the town and entrance. Mr Schank and the Lieutenant of Marines agreed that the first thing to be done was to take the fort. We could not land close to it on account of the rocks, and therefore had to pull some distance to the south before the party could get on shore.

When they all left the boats I had no fancy to remain behind, and therefore scrambled out after the rest, although one of the boat-keepers attempted to stop me by catching hold of my leg. I escaped him, however, and ran on among the men.

“Hillo, little chap! Where did you come from?” exclaimed several of them as they first discovered me.

I replied that I wanted to go and help them fight the enemy. I was passed to Mr Schank. “Why, Ben,” he said, “what business have you to be here? What can you do?”

“Please, sir, I can carry your flask if you will let me, or if anybody is hit I can stay by them and help them.”

“I have a great mind to send you back, Master Ben.”

I entreated that I might be allowed to go on. Perhaps he thought there might be as much risk for me if I remained in the boat as there would be should I accompany them. He therefore, greatly to my delight, allowed me to go on with the party. On we pushed. Mr Schank, it appeared, had been on shore before at the place and knew the position of the fort. We had a heavy tramp, however, especially for him with his wooden leg, which sank into the soft sand every step he took, and he sometimes had to rest his arm on a man’s shoulder to help him get along, but his courage and determination were at all times equal to any emergency. On we went till we could see the dim outline of the fort across the sand; it was a great thing to approach without being discovered, for, although we had determined to get in at all hazard, if we could take the Spaniards by surprise, the work would be far more easy. There was no cover, but we could only hope that the enemy would not be on the look-out for us, or that if they were, their eyes would be turned towards the harbour, the entrance-gate being on the land side. I own, at last, I felt my legs aching with walking over the soft sand. I began to wish that I had remained on board. The men must have suspected how it was with me, and at last one of them took me up and carried me on his shoulders, and then another and another, for even my additional weight was likely to tire the stoutest had they carried me long. At last the fort rose before us. Mr Schank in a low whisper ordered the men to move forward crouching down to the ground, to step softly, and not to utter a word. On we went, so close together, that had anybody watched us, we might have looked like some huge animal moving on, or the shadow of a cloud passing over the ground. Our leaders hurried on. The drawbridge was down. The marines were ordered to level their bayonets and the blue-jackets their pikes, and charge on. It was the work of an instant. The Spaniards were totally unprepared for our coming at that moment, although, as it turned out, they had been informed of our being in the neighbourhood, and a gun was found pointed for the purpose of sweeping the passage should the fort be attacked. Before, however, it could be fired, the gunners had taken to flight. In a few seconds we were in possession of the fort.

Our men were pretty well knocked up with their long pull and march over the sand, and the country might soon be raised, and overwhelming forces sent against us. The order was, therefore, given to spike the guns, which was very speedily done. The fort was found to contain eight brass guns, twenty-four and twelve-pounders, with a considerable garrison. Part of them, as we entered, laid down their arms to save their lives, while the remainder scrambled over the walls, and made their escape to the town. Our boats had, meantime, made their way into the harbour, which, now that we had possession of the fort, they could do without molestation. As soon as all the damage had been done to the fort which time would allow, we once more embarked in the boats, and made a dash at the luggers, which yielded without striking a blow. Directly we had taken them, however, and had begun to move down the harbour, a battery on the opposite side, which we had not yet seen, opened its fire, and continued sending shot after us, which could not however have been very well aimed, for neither the boat nor the prizes were once struck. It is possible that the powder was bad, and the shot fell short. As we approached the mouth of the harbour we saw that the whole neighbourhood was roused. Beacon fires were blazing, guns firing, and musketry rattling away in all directions. As we were getting through the passage, a pretty sharp fire of musketry was opened on us, but though the shot fell thickly, no one was struck, though the boats and vessels were so frequently. It was my first battle, and a very bloodless one, for I do not believe a Spaniard or Englishman was hurt. Our six prizes were very acceptable, for they were laden with wine, which was pronounced very good of its sort. It was broad daylight by the time we got near the mouth of the harbour, and the land-breeze blowing enabled us to carry out our prizes without difficulty, and with them under convoy we sailed for Lisbon, where a good market could be found for their cargoes.

When I got on board, instead of being received as a hero crowned with victory, my father seized hold of me, and looked me sternly in the face.

“Ben,” said he, “have you thought of the misery and anxiety you have been causing your mother? She has been in a fearful taking about you ever since you went away. How could she tell that you had not slipped overboard? I could not say that you had not, myself; but I have heard of boys doing just as you have done, and so I guessed pretty well the state of the case. But I tell you, boy, I never saw her suffer so much. I almost thought it would be the death of her.”

“Oh! Flog me, father! Flog me!” I cried out; for I could not bear the thoughts of having made my mother unhappy. “Tell Dick Patch to lay it on thick. The harder he hits the better. I did not think, father, what I was doing; indeed, I did not.”

“No, Ben, I will not have you flogged,” he answered, “your mother’s sufferings have been punishment enough for you. I believe you did it without thought, indeed, I know you did; and just do you go and have a talk with her, and see how pale and ill she looks; and I hope that will be enough to make you never go and do a thing again which will cause her anxiety and grief. The time will come when you will have to run all sorts of risks and dangers, but it is a very different thing to run your head into danger from fool-hardiness, and to go into danger because it is your duty.” These remarks of my father made a deep impression on me. I hurried below, and there I saw my poor mother looking more ill and distressed than I had ever seen her:—her eyes red from weeping, and her cheeks pale and sickly; and then when she told me how much she had suffered, I burst into tears, and promised never to play her such a trick again.

We took several other prizes on our way to the South; indeed, Captain Oliver showed, that, young as he was, few officers were likely to prove more active or energetic in their duties. He was well off and did not seem to care for the prize-money. He thought of duty above everything else. It was his duty to injure the trade of the enemy as much as possible, and he did so to the very best of his power.

Chapter Nine.

Some time had passed since the “Grecian” had entered the Mediterranean. We had not been idle during the time—now cruising along the coast of Spain and France, now down that of Italy, now away to Malta, sometimes off to the East among the Greek Islands. We had taken a good many prizes; indeed, I may say that all our expeditions had been planned with judgment, and carried out with vigour. I had a very happy time on board, for the men treated me with kindness, and I was so young that even the officers took notice of me. To Mr Bramston, especially, I became much attached. As he had known me in my childhood, he took more notice of me than anyone else. It has been my lot through life to lose many kind friends, but I must acknowledge that they have been as often replaced by others. When Mr Schank heard from home, he never failed to send for me or my mother, to give us an account of the Little Lady; indeed, Mr Bramston and others, as well as our Captain, took a warm interest in her, and always seemed glad to hear that she was going on well. Altogether, we were looked upon as a very happy and fortunate ship. However, a dark reverse was to come.

We were returning from Malta, and had run some way along the coast of Italy, when the look-out from the mast-head discovered a sail on the lee-bow. It was just daybreak. The sun rising over the distant land, which lay like a blue line on our starboard side, shed his beams on the upper sails of the stranger. The frigate was kept away a little, and all sail made in chase. We continued standing on for a couple of hours, when the wind drew more aft, and with studden-sails rigged on both sides we glided rapidly over the smooth water, gaining considerably on the chase. She must have discovered us, for she was now seen to rig out studden-sails, and to make every attempt to escape. She was pronounced to be a large polacca ship; and from the way she kept ahead of us, it was very evident she was very fast. This made us more eager than ever to come up with her. The general opinion was that she was a merchantman, very likely richly-laden, and would undoubtedly become an easy prize. Our people were in high spirits, making sure that they were about to add a good sum to their already fair amount of prize-money. I cannot say that these thoughts added much to my pleasure, considering the very small share which would fall to my lot, but my father would probably be very much the richer. In those days, it was no uncommon thing for a seaman to return from a cruise with a couple of hundred pounds in his pocket; and of course, under those circumstances, the share even of a warrant officer would be very considerable. Mr Schank, I doubt not, was thinking of the many comforts he would be able to afford his family at home; and Mr Bramston, who had another reason for wishing to add to his worldly store, was hoping that he might be able to splice his dear Mary all the sooner, and leave her better provided for when he had to come away again to sea.

Hour after hour passed by. There was the chase still ahead and though we had gained considerably on her, still there were many probabilities of her escaping. The fear was that we might not get up to her before nightfall, and that then in the darkness she might escape. The men were piped to dinner, and of course the conversation at the mess-tables ran on the probabilities of our capturing the chase.

Some time afterwards, just as the watch on deck had been relieved, the main topsail gave a loud flap against the mast. The other sails, which had before been swelling out, now hung down.

“The wind is all up and down the masts,” I heard my father remark, with a sigh; and going on deck, such we found indeed to be the case. Scarcely a cat’s-paw played over the surface of the water, while our canvas hung down entirely emptied of wind. It was a time when Captain Cobb would have almost cracked his cheeks with blowing for the purpose of regaining it. Captain Oliver, however, did no such thing, but, taking his glass, directed it towards the chase.

“She is in our condition,” he observed to Mr Schank.

“She is not likely to get away from us, at all events,” remarked the First-Lieutenant, taking a look at her also.

“I think, Schank; we may, however, make sure of her with the boats,” observed the Captain. “It will not do to give her a chance of escaping, and she may get the breeze before we do.”

“Certainly, sir,” answered Mr Schank. “It will be as well to secure her, for fear of that.”

“Well, as there is no great glory to be gained, I will let Mr Mason and Bramston go in the boats,” said the Captain.

The frigate’s boats were accordingly called away. The two lieutenants and my father and a couple of midshipmen went in them, with altogether about seventy men. It was a strong force, but the ship was very likely to have sweeps, and even a merchantman might offer some resistance unless attacked by overpowering numbers. The people cheered as they pulled off, and urged them to make haste with the prize. Never did an expedition start with fairer prospects of success, and we fully hoped, before many hours were over, to have the chase under English colours. She was between four and five miles away at the time; but though the pull was a long one, the men laid their backs to the oars for fear of a breeze springing up before they could get alongside. My mother had shown considerable anxiety on former occasions when my father had gone away on dangerous expeditions, yet, in the present instance, she seemed quite at ease, as there appeared to be no danger or difficulty in the enterprise. Though no man ever loved his wife better than my father did my mother, yet this never prevented him volunteering whenever he felt himself called upon to do so, however hazardous and trying the work in hand. As may be supposed, no one thought of turning in that night. All hands were on the watch, expecting to see the ship towed by the boats, or some of the boats returning with an account of their capture. The Captain and First-Lieutenant walked the deck with easy paces, every now and then turning their night glasses in the direction of the ship, hoping to see her, but still she did not appear. At length the men began to wonder why the ship had not come in sight, or why the boats did not return to give notice of what had occurred. Afterwards they grew more and more anxious, and they imparted their anxiety to my mother. Our gunner, Mr Hockey, who was somewhat superstitious, now declared that he had dreamed a dream which foreboded disaster. The substance of it I never could learn, nor did he say a word about the matter till some time had passed and the boats did not appear. He was a man of proverbs, and remarked that “a pitcher which goes often to the well gets broken at last,” by which he insinuated that as we had been hitherto successful in our expeditions, a reverse might be expected. All the boats had been sent away. The Captain’s gig was under repair, but there was a small dinghy remaining. Mr Hockey went aft, and volunteered to pull in the direction the ship had been seen, in the hopes of ascertaining what had become of the boats. The Captain was as anxious apparently as he was.

“Certainly, Mr Hockey,” he answered.

Just then the sound of oars in the distance floated over the calm water.

“Stay, there are the boats,” he said.

They approached very slowly. At first it was hoped that they might be towing the ship; but though they were evidently drawing near, no ship could be distinguished. At length they came in sight. The Captain hailed them. The voice of a young midshipman answered: “Sad news, sir! Sad news!”

“What has happened, Mr Hassel? Where is the ship?”

“Beaten back, sir, beaten back!” was the answer, and the speaker’s voice was almost choked. The boats, as they got alongside, were seen to be full of people, but they were lying about over the thwarts in confused heaps, those only who were at the oars appearing to move. My mother was at this moment fortunately below. The gunner came down and entreated her to remain there. I, however, had gone up on deck, and was eagerly looking about, expecting to see my father arrive. Mr Hassel was the first to come up the side. He staggered aft to the Captain to make his report. Meantime whips were rove, and, one after one, those who that afternoon had left the frigate in high health and spirits were hoisted up dead and mangled in every variety of way. Nearly thirty bodies were thus brought on deck. Many others were hoisted up and carried immediately below, where the surgeon attended them, and of the whole number only seven were able to walk the deck steadily. I eagerly looked out for my father. He was not among those unhurt. Among the dead I dared not look. I hurried below, hoping to see him under the hands of the surgeon, but neither was he there. My heart sank within me. I hastened to the main-deck. There, with a lantern, I met my poor mother frantically scanning the faces of the slain, who were laid out in a ghastly row. Eagerly she passed along, bending over the pallid features of those who a few hours before had been so full of life and courage, jokes escaping their lips. Now as she looked at one, now at another, a glance told her that the corpse was not that of her husband.

“Oh! Mother! Mother! Where is father?” I cried out at length, as I caught sight of her.

“I know not, my boy, I know not,” she answered. “Oh! Burton, Burton! Where are you? Has no one seen my husband? Can anyone tell me of my husband? Where is he? Where is he?” she frantically exclaimed, running from one to the other, when she found that he was not among those brought on board.

“The boatswain!” said some one. “Bless her poor heart, I don’t like to utter it, but I saw him knocked overboard as he was climbing up the polacca’s side. He would not have let go had it not been for a thrust in his shoulder, and he was hit, I know, while he was still in the boat.”

“Who is that you speak of?” asked my mother, hearing the man’s voice.

“Bless your heart, Mrs Burton, but I am sorry to say it,” answered Bill Houston, one of the few who had escaped unhurt. “I was close to him, but he fell by me before I could stretch out a hand to help him, and I doubt, even if we had got him on board, it would have been much the better for him, he seemed so badly hurt. I did not hear him cry out or utter a sound.”

The lantern my mother had been holding dropped from her hand as she heard these words. All hope was gone. “Oh I give me back my husband I give me back my husband!” she shrieked out. “Why did you come away without him?”

“Oh! Mother! Mother! Don’t take on so!” I exclaimed, running up to her. She put her hands on my shoulders and gazed in my face.

“For you, Ben, I would wish to live, otherwise I would rather be down in the cold sea along with him.” Then again she cried out frantically for my poor father. Her grief increased mine. Seeing the state she was in, Bill King, who had remained near her, hurried down to fetch his wife, who was attending on the wounded. She did her best to soothe my poor mother’s grief, and not without difficulty she was led away to my father’s cabin; and there, placed on his bed, she found some relief in tears. I did my best to comfort her, but I could do little else than weep too. Perhaps that was the best thing I could do; there is nothing like sympathy.

“Oh! My boy! My boy!” she exclaimed, “you are still left to me; but the day may come when you will be taken away, as your poor father has been, and I shall be all alone—alone! Alone!”

Then she burst forth in an Irish wail such as I had never heard before. It was curious; because, though an Irish woman, her accent, under ordinary circumstances, was but slightly to be detected. Mrs King, having done all she could, returned to her duties among the wounded, of whom there were upwards of thirty, several of them mortally.

From Bill Houston, who had come to inquire for my mother, shortly afterwards, I learned the particulars of what had occurred. The boats approached the ship, all hands being fully persuaded that they had little more to do than to climb up her sides and take possession. As, however, they drew near her, and were just about to dash alongside, a tremendous fire of grape, musketry, and round-shot was opened on them from her ports, which were suddenly unmasked. In spite of this, although numbers were hit, Mr Mason ordered them to board the ship. Scarcely had he uttered the words than a shot laid him low, poor Mr Bramston being wounded at the same time. Still the attempt to board was made, but as they climbed up the sides they found that boarding nettings were triced up the whole length of the ship, while pikes were thrust down on them, and a hot fire of musketry opened in their faces. Again and again they attempted to get on board, and not till nearly all were killed or wounded did they desist from the attempt. Young Mr Hassel, the midshipman, being the only officer left alive, then gave the order to retreat, though it was not without difficulty that they could push off from the ship’s sides. The darkness of the night saved them from being utterly destroyed. The enemy, probably, had not been aware of the tremendous effect of their own fire, and expected another attack from our men, or they would undoubtedly have continued firing at the boats after they had shoved off. Some distance had been gained, however, before the ship again commenced firing, and the aim being uncertain, very few of her shot took effect.

The next day was the saddest I had ever known. Our kind young Captain felt the loss more than anyone. Really, it seemed as if his heart would break as he walked along the main-deck, where our dead shipmates were laid out. He paid a visit also to my mother, and endeavoured to comfort her as well as he could.

“I owe your brave husband much, Mrs Burton,” he said. “We have been shipmates a good many years altogether, and he more than once saved my life; I cannot repay him, but I can be a friend to your boy, and I will do my utmost to be of assistance to you. I cannot heal your grief, and I cannot tell you not to mourn for your husband, but I will soothe it as far as I can.”

Then came the sad funeral. Had the frigate been engaged in a desperate action with a superior force we could scarcely have lost so many men as we had done in this unfortunate expedition. I thought the Captain would break down altogether as he attempted to read the funeral service. Two or three times he had to stop, and by a great effort recover his composure. There were the two lieutenants and a young midshipman, and upwards of twenty men all to be committed to the ocean together. Curiosity brought me up to see what was going forward, and though I looked on quietly for some time I at length burst into bitter tears. I thought there is my poor father—he had to go overboard without any service being read over him.

Chapter Ten.

Soon after the funeral was over I was sent for into the Captain’s cabin. I found him and Mr Schank seated there.

“Ben,” he said, “my boy, we have been talking over what we can do for your poor mother. The best thing, I think, will be for her to return to her home on the first opportunity, and I daresay we shall find a ship homeward-bound at Malta, on board which she can get a passage, while we will do our best to raise funds to place her as much as possible at her ease as to money matters. Now, Ben, I wish to stand your friend; but you are very young still to knock about at sea without a father to look after you, and I propose, therefore, that you should return with your mother. After you have had schooling for a year or two on shore, you shall rejoin this ship or any other I may command, and then your future progress will much depend on your own conduct. You will behave well, I have no doubt you will; but if not, I cannot help you forward as I desire.”

I did not quite comprehend what the Captain proposed, but I understood enough to know that I had a friend in him, and I accordingly thanked him for his good intentions. I was still standing hat in hand in the cabin, for the Captain seemed disposed to ask me further questions, when the surgeon entered to make his report of the state of the wounded.

“What, more dead I more dead!” exclaimed the poor Captain, as his eye glanced on the paper.

“Yes, sir,” was the answer. “Turner and Green have both slipped their cables. I had very little hopes of either from the first. There are one or two more I am afraid will follow them before many days are over.”

The Captain hid his face in his hands, and a groan burst from his bosom. “I would that I had gone myself. It would be better to be among the sufferers than have this happen,” burst from his lips.

Mr Schank tried to console him. “No blame, sir,” he said, “could be attached to you. It was very unlikely that such a ship should have made so determined a defence, and no forethought could have enabled you to act differently.”

“Yes, yes,” answered the Captain, “but to lose all these brave fellows in such a way,” and again he groaned.

No one spoke for some minutes, till at length the surgeon observed that he hoped Mr Hassel would do well, as his wounds, though severe were not dangerous.

“From what I can learn, sir,” he observed, “he behaved with great judgment and courage, and I believe it was through him that the boats got away without further damage.”

When the surgeon had gone, the Captain once more addressed me, and made inquiries about my mother’s family and the place of their residence. I, of course knew very little, but I gave him all the information I possessed.

“But, perhaps, Mr Schank,” I said, “you will let us go and pay your family a visit. Those were happy times we had there. I think my mother would rather go there than anywhere else.”

Mr Schank who was not at all offended by the liberty I took, replied that he thought the idea a very good one. When, however, my mother was asked, she said that she would rather go and be among her own people, if they would receive her. The truth was, I think I remarked, that her friends were much above my father’s position; and now that she would have a pension, and a good deal of prize-money, she felt that she could return and be on an equality with them, as far as fortune was concerned. These ideas were, however, not on her own account as much as on mine, as her great ambition was that I might rise in the world. It was, I truly believe, her only weakness, if weakness it could be called, for she was proud of me, and I suspect thought a good deal more of me than I deserved. After this misfortune, we shaped a course for Malta, for the purpose of replacing the officers and men we had lost, and from thence the Captain intended to send home my mother and me. Towards evening, three or four days after the occurrences I have described, several sail were perceived inside of us, that is to say, to the east. As we were to windward, we stood down towards them till we made out a line-of-battle ship, two frigates and a brig. As there was no doubt they were enemies’ ships, our Captain determined to watch them during the night, to ascertain in what direction they were proceeding. They, however, objected to this, and were soon seen crowding all sail in chase. We had now to run for it; and though the “Grecian” was a fast frigate, we well knew that many of the Frenchmen were faster, and that, short-handed as we were, it was too certain that we should be captured if they came up with us. Fortunately the breeze continued, and we made all sail the frigate could carry. But not only could we distinguish the enemy still in chase, but the opinion was that they were rapidly gaining on us. I remember coming on deck and looking out, seeing on our lee-quarter, far away through the gloom, their dark outlines as they came on in hot chase. I, saw that everybody was anxious, and I heard several of the men talking of Verdun, and the way prisoners were treated there. For the men this was bad enough, but for the officers to be made prisoners was sad work. Unless they could make their escape or get exchanged, all prospect of advancement was lost, as was the case with many; the best part of their years spent in idleness. I understood enough, at all events, to be very anxious about the matter.

I went below, I remember, and told my poor mother; she, however, seemed indifferent as to what might occur. Indeed her grief had stunned her, and she was incapable of either thinking or speaking. As morning approached the wind fell, and when daylight broke the sails hung up and down against the masts. We were in a perfect calm, while not three miles off appeared the French squadron. All hopes of escape seemed over, and the men began putting on additional clothing and stowing away their money in their pockets, as seamen generally do when capture is certain, and often when they expect to be wrecked. The officers walked the deck looking very anxious, but the Captain and Mr Schank kept their eyes about on all sides. At length a few cat’s-paws were seen playing over the water. The First-Lieutenant pointed them out to the Captain. His eyes brightened somewhat. They came faster and faster. And now the sails once more felt the power of the wind, and away we went pretty quickly through the water. Ahead of us lay a small island, towards which the frigate steered. As we approached it we saw the ship-of-the-line still following us, while the two frigates and corvette stood away round the west side. Their object was very clear. They hoped thereby to cut us off.

“We may still disappoint them,” I heard Mr Schank observe.

“I trust so,” said the Captain; but though he kept up his confidence, his countenance was very grave. For some time we kept well ahead till we reached the southernmost end of the island, when once more the wind falling we lay almost becalmed. We could see to the east the two frigates and the corvette, their canvas filled by a strong breeze, but the line-of-battle ship was out of sight, hid by a point of land. The former might have been five or six miles off, but they were coming up at the rate of six knots an hour. There was no sign of the breeze reaching us. Our escape seemed almost impossible. Mr Schank’s courage, however, never failed—at least, it never looked as if it did, and he seemed to be saying something to the Captain which gave him encouragement. One of the frigates was considerably ahead of the rest. At all events we were not likely, therefore, to yield without striking a blow, and if we could by any means cripple her before her consorts could come up, we might afterwards be better able to deal with them. Still there was the line-of-battle ship, and she would be down upon us before long. A French prison in very vivid colours stared even the bravest of our men in the face. The officers were looking at their watches. Within little more than half-an-hour, unless we could get a breeze, we should be hotly engaged, and then, unless we could beat our enemy in ten minutes, there would be little prospect of getting away. On she came over the blue ocean. Looking at the land, we could see a line, as it were, drawn between us. On our side the water was smooth as a mirror; on the other, still crisped by the fresh breeze, and glittering in the sunlight. It was very tantalising. On the leading Frenchman came, faster and faster. Still the breeze did not touch our sails. At length we could clearly count her ports, and she appeared in the pure atmosphere even nearer than perhaps she was. Suddenly she yawed. A white puff of smoke was seen, and a shot came whizzing across our bows. Another followed. It struck us, and the yellow splinters were seen flying from our sides. The men stood at their quarters ready to begin the fight.

“Not a gun is to be fired till I give the order,” cried the Captain.

“That will not be long, I fancy,” I heard one of the men say, as I with other boys brought up the powder from below.

The frigate still held the breeze and was approaching. Yet our Captain let her get nearer and nearer. In vain, however, our people waited for the order to fire. Several more shots came flying over the water, and the Frenchmen seemed now convinced that they had got us well within range. Suddenly luffing up, the enemy fired her whole broadside. The shot came flying about us, but did no great damage.

“Trim sails!” cried the Captain, and we edged away towards the blue line I have mentioned, the wind just then filling out our canvas. Meantime the Frenchman remained involved in a cloud of smoke. Again and again she fired her broadside, only hiding herself more completely from view; while her sails, which had hitherto been full, were now seen to flap against her masts, and away we went with an increasing breeze. We could just see the line-of-battle ship hull down on one side, and the two frigates and corvette becalmed on the other, utterly unable to move, while we were slipping through the water at the rate of seven or eight knots an hour.

“I thought it would be so!” exclaimed Mr Schank, increasing the rapidity of his strides as he paced the deck, and rubbing his hands with glee. On we went. In a short time not a trace of the Frenchmen could be discovered, nor did we sight another enemy till we entered Malta harbour.

Captain Oliver and Mr Schank were as good as their words. They mentioned among the inhabitants the circumstance of my father’s death, and that his widow and child were on board, and very soon collected a considerable sum of money, which they presented to my poor mother. Her excessive grief had now subsided, and a settled melancholy seemed to have taken possession of her. An armed store-ship which had discharged her cargo at Malta was returning home, bound for Cork; and on board her our kind friends procured a passage for my mother and me. We had a sad parting with our numerous shipmates. The men exhibited the regard they had for my mother by bestowing on me all sorts of presents; indeed, the carpenter said he must make me a chest in which to stow them away. My mother felt leaving our kind friend, Mrs King, more than anything else. It was curious to see the interesting young woman, as she still was, embracing the tall, gaunt, weather-beaten virago, as Mrs King appeared to be.

“Cheer up, Polly, cheer up,” said the latter. “You have lost a kind husband, there is no doubt of that, but you have got your boy to look after, and he will give you plenty to think about—bless his heart! The time will come, Polly, when we will meet again, and you will have grown more contented, I hope; and if not, we shall know each other up aloft there, where I hope there will be room for me, though I cannot say as how I feel I am very fit for such a place.” Mrs King went talking on, but my poor mother could make no answer to her remarks, sobs choking her utterance. Her tears did her good, however, so Mrs King observed, and told her not to stop them. I was glad to find that the Captain had appointed Bill King as acting boatswain of the frigate. The midshipman, Mr Hassel, who had been seriously injured in the unfortunate expedition, took a passage home in the store-ship. Who should we see on going on board but my old friends Toby Kiddle and Pat Brady. Pat was overjoyed at seeing us, though he looked very sad when he heard of my father’s death.

“Arrah, it’s a pity a worse man hadn’t been taken in his stead,” he observed, “but it can’t be helped, Polly. Better luck next time, as Tim Donovan said when he was going to be hung!”

Pat had been to see his friends, he said, in the West of Ireland, and Toby Kiddle had been wrecked on the same coast, and having found his way across to Cork had there, with his old messmate, entered on board the store-ship. She was to return to Cork, which was very convenient to us, as my mother could thus more easily travel to the West of Ireland where her family resided.

The name of the vessel was the “Porpoise,” and she was commanded by Captain Tubb. He put me very much in mind of Captain Cobb, except that he was considerably stouter. We sailed with a convoy of some fifty other vessels of all sizes and rigs; the larger portion having generally to lay to for the “Porpoise,” which, with her Captain, rolled away over the surface of the Atlantic in the wake of the rest. Captain Tubb declared that his ship was very steady when she had her cargo on board, but certainly she was very much the contrary under the present circumstances, and Toby Kiddle remarked that it was a wonder she did not shake her masts out of her.

My poor mother could very seldom be persuaded to come on deck, but lay in her cabin scarcely eating anything, or speaking to anyone except to me, and even then it seemed a pain to her to utter a few words.

From the account I gave Toby and Pat of Captain Oliver, they were very eager to serve again with him, and they promised that should they ever have the chance of finding him fitting out a ship, they would immediately volunteer on board.

I was very glad to hear this, because I hoped they would do so, and that I again should be with them. We had not a few alarms on our homeward voyage from the appearance of strange sails which it was supposed were enemies’ cruisers. We, of course, should have been among the first picked out. However, we escaped all accidents, and at length arrived in the Cove of Cork. As may be supposed, Toby Kiddle made many inquiries about the Little Lady. When my mother got to Cork, her heart somewhat failed her at the thought of going among her own kindred under the present circumstances, and she began to regret that she had not agreed to pay a visit in the first place to Lieutenant Schank’s family, where she would have had the consolation of looking after the little girl. However, it was now too late to do that. We therefore prepared for our journey to the West. Pat insisted on escorting us, declaring that he had plenty of money and did not know what else to do with it. Toby, however, remained on board the old “Porpoise,” intending to go round in her to Portsmouth, where she was next bound with provisions. It was no easy matter making a journey in the West of Ireland in those days. There were the coaches, but they were liable to upset and to be robbed.

Although, therefore, posting was dear, Pat settled that such was the only becoming way for the widow of the “Grecian’s” late boatswain to travel. My mother at length consented to go part of the way in a coach, performing the remainder in a chaise, when no coach was available.

The place for which we were bound was Ballybruree, a town, it called itself, on the west coast of the green island. Her father, Mat Dwyer, Esquire, he signed himself, and her mother, were both alive, and she had a number of brothers and sisters, and a vast number of cousins to boot. But I must reserve an account of our reception at Rincurran Castle, for so my grandfather called his abode, for another chapter.

Chapter Eleven.

“Ben, my boy, you are approaching the home of your ancestors,” exclaimed Pat Brady, who was seated on the box of the old battered yellow post-chaise, on the roof of which I had perched myself, while my poor mother sat in solitude inside. “They are an honoured race, and mighty respected in the country. You will see the top of the ould Castle before long if you keep a bright look-out, and a hearty welcome we’ll be after getting when they see us all arrive in this dignified way—just like a great foreign ambassador going to court. It is a fine counthry this of ours, Ben, barring the roads, which put us too much in mind of our run home in the ‘Porpoise’. But we have mighty fine hills, Ben. Do you see them there? And lakes and streams full of big trout, and forests. But the bogs, Ben, they beat them all. If it was not for them bogs, where should we all be? Then the roads might be worse, Ben. Hold on there, lad, or you will be sent into the middle of next week. But Ben, my boy, as the song says:—

“‘If you’d seen but these roads before they were made,

You would have lift up your hands and blessed General Wade’.”

Thus Pat continued running on as he had been doing the whole of our journey. It was certainly hard work holding on at the top of the chaise, as it went pitching and rolling, and tumbling about over the ill-formed path, which scarcely deserved the name of a road. Still every now and then I sprang to my feet to look out for the castle which he talked about. I had seen of late a good many castles on the coast of the Mediterranean, Gibraltar, and Malta besides. I had some idea that Rincurran Castle must be a very fine place.

“Arrah! Ben, and there it is as large as life. Sure it’s a grand mansion, barring it’s a little out of repair!” shouted Pat, as, turning an angle of the road, we came in sight of a tall, stone, dilapidated building, with a courtyard in front, and two round pillars on either side of the entrance-gate. The pigs had possession of the chief part of the yard, which was well littered for their accommodation, leaving but a narrow way up to the entrance-door.

I quickly scrambled down from the roof to assist Pat Brady in helping my mother out of the chaise. Poor dear, overcome by her feelings, she was leaning back, almost fainting, and scarcely able to move. At length the door opened, and an old gentleman appeared in a scratch wig, with an ominously red nose, and clothed in a costume which, in its condition, greatly resembled his habitation. An old lady followed him, somewhat more neatly dressed, who, on seeing my mother, hastened to the door to receive her.

“What! Is this our daughter Mary?” exclaimed the old gentleman; “and that young spalpeen, can that be her boy?” he added, looking at me in a way which did not seem to argue much affection.

“Of course it is, Mat; and is it you, Mat, the head of the Dwyers, not remembering your childer?” exclaimed the old lady, casting on him a scornful glance. On this my grandfather gave my mother a paternal kiss, a repetition of which I avoided by slipping round on the other side, where Pat caught me, and presented me to the old lady. She then took me in her arms and gave me an affectionate embrace. The tears dropped from her eyes as she looked at my mother’s pale countenance and widow’s dress.

“I don’t ask what has happened, Mary,” she said; “but though the one for whom you forsook all is gone, you are welcome back to the old home, child.”

“Ay, that you are, Mary!” exclaimed my grandfather, warming up a little. “To be sure, grand as it once was, it has been inclined for many a day to be tumbling about our ears. But it will last my day, and there is small chance of your brothers, Jim, or Pat, or Terence, ever wishing to come and stop here, even if it’s living they are when I am put under the green turf.”

While Pat was settling with the post-boy, my grandmother conducted my mother and me into the parlour. The more elegant portions of furniture, if they ever existed, had disappeared, and a table, with a number of wooden-bottomed chairs and a huge ill-stuffed sofa, were all that remained. A picture of my grandfather in a hunting-suit, and a few wretched daubs, part of them of sporting scenes and part of saints, adorned the walls. Such was the appearance of the chief room in Rincurran Castle. My aunts were not at home, two of them having ridden to market, and the others being on a visit to some neighbours. At length two of them came riding up on rough, ungroomed ponies, with baskets on their arms. Having taken off the saddles, they sent their animals to find their way by themselves into the open stable, while they entered the house to greet my mother. They were not ill-looking women, with rather large features, and fine eyes, but as unlike my mother as could well be. So also were my other two aunts, who shortly after came in. They all, however, gave their sister Mary a hearty welcome, and, with better tact than might have been expected, made no inquiries about her husband, her dress showing them that he was gone. I found that she had been brought up by a sister of her mother’s—a good Protestant woman, residing near Cork, where my father had met her. My grandfather was a Romanist, though my grandmother still remained as she had originally been, a Protestant. The rest of her daughters attended the Romish chapel. My mother had not been at home since she was quite a girl, and I soon found had entirely forgotten her family’s way of living, and their general habits and customs. She therefore very soon began to regret that she had not accepted Lieutenant Schank’s invitation to visit his family. Pat Brady made himself very agreeable to his cousins, and had such wonderful stories to tell them that he was a great favourite. I had plenty to amuse me; but there seemed very little probability of my getting the education which Captain Oliver had recommended. The castle also was not over well provisioned, potatoes and buttermilk forming the staple of our meals, with an over-abundance of pork whenever a pig was killed; but as it was necessary to sell the better portions of each animal to increase the family income, the supply was only of an intermittent character. My grandfather made up for the deficiency by copious potations of whisky; but as my mother objected to my following his example, I was frequently excessively hungry. I was not surprised therefore that my uncles did not often pay the paternal mansion a visit; they all considering themselves above manual labour, in consequence of being sons of a squireen, were living on their wits in various parts of the world, so I concluded from the bits of information I picked up about them.

I could not help remarking the contrast between Rincurran Castle and Mr Schank’s neat little cottage in Lincolnshire—the cleanliness and comfort of one, and the dirt and disorder and discomfort of my grandfather’s abode. My mother, who had sufficient means to live comfortably by herself, had had no intention of remaining long with her parents, but had purposed taking a cottage in the neighbourhood. When she discovered the state of things at home she had offered to assist in the household expenses, and having done this her family were doubly anxious to retain her. As however, she found it impossible to mend matters, she resolved to carry out her original intention. The search for a house was an object of interest. In a short time she discovered one at the further end of Ballybruree, which, if not perfection, was sufficient to satisfy her wishes. Here, at the end of a couple of months, she removed, in spite of the disinterested entreaties of her relatives that she should take up her permanent abode with them. Her health soon improved, and I grew fatter than I had been since I landed on the shores of old Ireland.

Our new abode, though very much smaller than Rincurran Castle, was considerably neater, yet not altogether such as would be considered tidy in England. The roof was water-tight, and the chimneys answered their object of carrying up the smoke from the fire beneath. The view from the front window was extensive, ranging down the broad and unpaved street, along which I could watch the boys chasing their pigs to market, seated on the hinder parts of donkeys, urging them forward by the blows of their shillalahs. Now and then we enjoyed the spectacle of a marriage party returning from the chapel, at the further end of the street, or still more boisterous funeral procession; when, of course, as Pat Brady observed, “It ’ud be showing small honour to the decased if all the mourners weren’t respectably drunk, barring the praist, and bad luck to him if he could not stand up steady at the end of the grave. Sure he couldn’t have a head for his office.”

Such, however, as was our new house, my poor mother was glad to get it. We had been located there two or three weeks, and my mother had now time to give me some instruction in the arts of reading and writing. She was thus engaged, leaning over the book placed on her lap by the side of which I stood, when we were startled by a voice which said, “Top of the morning to you, Mistress Burton.”

We looked up, and there stood in the doorway a rubicund-nosed gentleman, in a green coat and huge wonderfully gay coloured cravat, leather breeches, and top-boots, with a hunting-whip under his arm, a peony in his buttonhole, and a white hat which he flourished in his right hand, while he kept scraping with his feet, making his spurs jingle.

“Your servant, Mistress Burton. It is mighty touching to the heart to see a mother engaged as you are, and faith I would not have missed the sight for a thousand guineas, paid down on the nail. Ah! Mistress Burton, it reminds me of days gone by, but I won’t say I have no hopes that they will ever return,” and our visitor twisted his eyes about in what I thought a very queer way, trying to look sentimental.

“To what cause do I owe this visit, Mr Gillooly?” asked my mother, perhaps not altogether liking his looks, for I rather think his feelings had been excited by a few sips of potheen. Her natural politeness, however, induced her to rise and offer him a chair, into which, after a few more scrapes and flourishes of the hat, he sank down, placing his beaver and his whip upon it by his side.

“It is mightily you bring to my mind my dear departed Mistress Gillooly,” he exclaimed, looking very strangely I thought at my mother. “She was the best of wives, and if she was alive she would be after telling you that I was the best of husbands, but she has gone to glory, and the only little pledge of our affection has gone after her; and so, Mistress Burton, I am left a lone man in this troublesome world. And sure, Mrs Burton, the same is your lot I am after thinking, but there is an old saying, ‘Off with the old love and on with the new;’ and, oh! Mistress Burton, it would be a happy thing if that could come true between two people I am thinking of.”

My mother might have thought this very plain speaking, but she pretended not to understand Mr Gillooly, and made no answer.

“Is it silence gives consent?” he exclaimed at last with one of those queer turns of his eyes, stretching out his hands towards my mother.

“Really, Mr Gillooly, seeing I have been a widow scarcely a year, and have seen but little of you at my father’s house, I cannot help thinking this is strange language for you to use. I loved my husband, and I only wish to live for the sake of our boy, and I hope this answer will satisfy you.”

“But when you have seen more of me, Mistress Burton, ye’ll be after giving a different answer,” exclaimed our visitor. “Ye’ll be after making a sweet mistress for Ballyswiggan Hall, and it’s there I’d like to see ye, in the place of the departed Molly Gillooly. It was the last words she said to me—‘Ye’ll be after getting another partner when I’m gone, Dominic, won’t ye now?’ and I vowed by all the holy saints that I would obey her wishes, though to be plain with you, Mistress Burton, I little thought I could do so to my heart’s content, as I did when I first set my eyes on your fair countenance.”

Much more to the same effect did Mr Gillooly utter, without, however, I have reason to believe, making any impression on my mother’s heart. Without rudeness she could not get rid of him; and he, believing that he was making great way in her affection, was in no wise inclined to depart. Mr Gillooly, I may remark, was a friend of my grandfather’s, a squireen, with a mansion of similar description to Rincurran Castle, though somewhat less dilapidated. His property enabled him to keep a good horse, drink whisky, wear decent clothes, attend all wakes, marriages, and fairs, and other merrymakings, and otherwise lead a completely idle life. Mr Gillooly’s visit had extended to a somewhat unconscionable length, when a rap was heard at the door, and my mother told me to run and open it; observing as she did so, “It’s not all people who so want manners as not to knock before they intrude into a lone woman’s house.”

This severe remark of my gentle mother showed me that she was by this time considerably annoyed by our visitor’s continued presence. The person who now entered wore a brown suit, with a low crowned hat on the top of his curled wig. I recognised him as Mr Timothy Laffan, one of the lawyers of Ballybruree. Though short, he was a broad-shouldered, determined-looking man, with a nose which could scarcely be more flattened than it was, and twinkling grey eyes which looked out knowingly from under his shaggy eyebrows. He cast an inquisitive glance round, and then, paying his respects to my mother, took the seat which I had brought him.

“A good boy, Ben,” he said, patting my head. “I came to see how you were getting on in your new house, Mrs Burton, as is my duty as a neighbour. Your servant, Mr Gillooly. I was after thinking that the next time you came into Ballybruree ye would be giving me a call to settle about that little affair. There’s nothing like the present time, and may be you will stop at my office as you go by, and arrange the matter offhand.”

The lawyer’s eyes twinkled as he spoke. Mr Gillooly began to fidget in his chair, and his countenance grew redder and redder. He cast a glance at his whip and hat. Suddenly seizing them, he paid a hurried adieu to my mother, and turning to the lawyer, added, “Your servant, Tim Laffan. I will be after remembering what you say”; and away he bolted out of the door.

I almost expected to hear the lawyer utter a crow of victory, for his comical look of triumph clearly showed his feelings. I had reason to believe that he also was a suitor for the hand of my mother, but I do not think he gained much by his stratagem. Her feelings were aroused and irritated, and at length he also took his departure, after expressing a tender interest in her welfare.

Chapter Twelve.

My mother’s good looks, amiable disposition, and reputed fortune raised up a host of admirers, greatly to her annoyance, for she had, or fully thought she had, made up her mind to live a widow; or at all events, as she told my Aunt Ellen, if she married anyone it should be a sailor, in respect to my father’s memory. I liked Ellen more than any of my other relations. She was more like my mother than the rest of her sisters. She had much of my mother’s beauty, though with more animal spirits, and was altogether on a larger scale, as I think I have said. She was engaged to marry a certain Mr Pat Kilcullin, who I heard was a gentleman of property some distance further west; and that he had a real castle and a good estate, somewhat encumbered to be sure, as became his old family and position. How many hundreds or thousands a year it might once have produced I do not know; but as he and his father before him, and his grandfather, and other remote ancestors had generally taken care to spend double their income, it could not but be supposed that he and they were occasionally in difficulties. As, however, his father had lived, so my intended uncle purposed living also. I will not describe the wedding further than to say that my grandfather was nearly out and out ruined by it. He and his guests all got gloriously drunk. Mr Gillooly and Tim Laffan fell out about my mother, and came to blows in her presence. They were separated by two of the other guests—a certain Dan Hogan, a good-looking exciseman, who was also a suitor for her hand, and Captain Michael Tracy, the master of a merchantman, who had lately come home after a few successful trading voyages to the West Indies. As he, however, was the most sober of the party, he came worst off in the fray, and had not my mother come to his rescue with the aid of her sisters, he would, I have an idea, have been severely handled. Whether or not he was touched by this exhibition of her courage I do not know; but he certainly from that day forward became her warm admirer, and certainly if she showed a preference to anyone it was to him. I did not suppose I had so many relations in the world as turned up at that feast, of high and low degree: the greater number, however, it must be confessed, were of the latter rank. The bride looked beautiful, and the bridegroom in the height of his feelings invited all the guests to pay him a visit that day fortnight at Ballyswiggan Castle. The bridegroom was taken at his word, and though I rather think my Aunt Ellen might have been somewhat annoyed, there was no means of escaping. My mother was, however, unwilling to be present at so uproarious a scene as she knew pretty well was likely to take place; but my grandfather and her sisters insisted upon her accompanying them, and of course I went with her. Some of the guests, however, were not likely to make their appearance, and for the best of reasons Mr Laffan and Dan Hogan could not be present, as it was well-known that no lawyer nor exciseman had ever ventured to set foot in the district in which Ballyswiggan Castle was situated. Most of the guests went on horseback, as the approach was scarcely suited to wheeled carriages. My grandmother was too infirm to move, but my grandfather mounted a rawboned back which had carried him in his younger days, and my aunts and mother rode on their rough ponies. Pat Brady, who, finding himself so happy on shore, had put off going to sea, and I rode together on a beast which we had borrowed for the occasion.

Ballyswiggan Castle was situated amidst fine wild scenery within sound of the roar of the mighty Atlantic. The building itself was in a somewhat dilapidated condition, but exhibited signs of having been once a place of importance. Some out-houses had likewise been strewn with fresh straw to afford sleeping accommodation to a portion of the guests who could not find room within, while sheds and barns had been cleared out for the reception of their steeds.

“Ye are welcome to Ballyswiggan, by my faith ye are!” exclaimed Uncle Pat, as our party arrived, a sentiment which was uttered by Aunt Ellen without any pretension to mock modesty, while she laughed heartily at the complimentary remarks which were passed on her good looks and high spirits.

“Small blame to Rincurran Castle if I am not after getting somewhat stouter here than I did under my paternal roof,” she answered, intending to allude simply to the meagre fare of her ancestral mansion, though from the giggles of some of the ladies, I rather suspect they put a different interpretation upon the remark. To say the truth, Ballyswiggan Castle had been stored with all sorts of provisions, and no end of casks of whisky, so that there appeared little chance of the guests starving or having to suffer from dry throats. We, with other visitors from a distance, arrived the day before the dinner and ball were to take place. On that morning, Peter Crean, steward and factotum to my uncle, awoke him with the news that a ship of war was beating into the Bay, “And sure,” he observed, “it would be a fine opportunity, Mr Kilcullin, to show your loyalty and love to His Majesty’s government, to invite the officers. They will make a fine show in the ball-room too, with their gold lace coats, and white breeches, and may be may make some of the gentlemen jealous, and just bring matters to a close, which have been kept off and on for some months past. The mothers will be pleased, and the girls will be thanking you from the bottom of their hearts.”

This sage advice was instantly followed by my uncle, who, habiting himself in his wedding suit, ordered his horse that he might ride down to the Bay, and be early on board to give the proposed invitation. There were no fears about it being accepted, and, as may be supposed, it formed the subject of conversation at the breakfast-table when it was announced where my uncle had gone. His return was accordingly looked for with no little anxiety, especially by the young ladies of the party, including my three spinster aunts. Mr Kilcullin was not very long absent.

“They will all come!” he exclaimed, throwing up his hat, “and faith, they’re a fine set of gentlemen. She is a frigate, they tell me, but her name has escaped me, and it is my belief they will toe and heel it with the best of you, gentlemen, and may do something towards breaking the hearts of some of you young ladies. However, we will do our best to make them welcome, for the honour of ould Ireland.”

As the hour of dinner approached, the guests began to arrive in considerable numbers; and carts, and cars, and waggons came bumping and thumping over the uneven path, though the greater part made their appearance on horseback. I was looking out of a window which commanded the approach to the castle, when I saw coming along the road a large party of naval officers, whose well-known uniform I at once recognised as they drew nearer, and I fancied I knew two of those who led the way. On they came; I could not be mistaken. There were Captain Oliver and Lieutenant Schank, and several other officers and midshipmen whom I remembered on board the “Grecian”. I ran to my poor mother with delight to tell her this. She turned pale, recollecting the sorrow she had gone through when last she saw them.

“I cannot face them,” she said; “but you go, Ben; they will be glad to see you; I should feel out of place in their company, and though my family may be as good as that of many among them, they knew me under such different circumstances, that I should not like to be sitting at table with them.”

On hearing my mother make these remarks, I too was seized with a bashful fit, but she insisted on my going down to meet them; and at length mustering courage, I ran downstairs. Captain Oliver did not at first know me, but Mr Schank recognised me at once.

“What, Ben, my boy, what brings you here?” he exclaimed.

I soon explained that Mr Kilcullin had married my aunt, and that my mother and I were among the guests.

“Ah! I always thought she was above her position on board,” he observed to Captain Oliver, who, when he found out who I was, shook me warmly by the hand.

“Well, Ben, recollect I shall keep to my promise, and when your mother can spare you, I will take you with me.”

“I hope we shall see her, Ben,” observed Mr Schank, kindly; “I should like to shake hands with her.” I told him how she felt on the subject.

“Oh!” he said, “that cannot signify. Tell her we shall not half enjoy the evening unless she comes down.” The officers now arrived in the entrance hall, where my uncle and aunt were standing to welcome their guests. Of course they received them with all due honour.

“We’re in a wild part of the country, Captain Oliver and gentlemen, but we will show you, at all events, that we have hospitable intentions, however roughly we may carry them out,” said my uncle.

The great dining-hall was very soon filled, and several adjoining rooms, the guests of inferior quality, of whom there were a good many, making themselves happy in separate parties wherever they could find room to sit down. Among those most active in attending to the wants of the guests, and directing the other serving-men, were Peter Crean and Pat Brady, who was a host in himself, for though second cousin to the bride, he did not at all object to acting the part of a servant. As room was scarce, I was among the picnickers outside. The feast was progressing, when I saw Pat Brady come up to Peter Crean, pulling, for him, a wonderfully long face.

“Faith Peter!” I heard him say, “I do not at all like his looks. There’s a hang-dog expression about him, and to my mind he’s a bailiff in disguise!”

“A what?” exclaimed Peter. “Has one of them vipers ventured into the neighbourhood of Ballyswiggan? Faith, then, it would have been better for him had he never seen this part of the country, for it will never do to let him go boasting that he set his foot in it without being discovered. Where is he?”

“He is just now outside the gate,” answered Pat; “but I told two or three of the boys to keep him talking, and on no account to let him come beyond it. I think they have just got an idea that he will not be altogether a welcome guest.”

“I have no doubt who he is, then,” observed Peter Crean. “I have been expecting him. And, sure, he must not see the master, or he would be spoiling the fun of to-day, and for many a long day afterwards. Here, Pat, you go and talk to him, and I will just make arrangements to receive him.”

Peter Crean was a man of action. A small room was cleared of visitors, a table prepared with viands and various liquors. This done, Peter hurried out to receive the guest. His suspicions were thoroughly confirmed on his inspection of the man.

“Your name, sir,” he said, “that I may make you welcome to Ballyswiggan Castle. My master is just now particularly engaged with a few guests, but he will be happy to see you when the wine is on the table; and, in the meantime, you will just come in and satisfy your appetite. You have had a long ride since you took anything to eat, barring maybe the whisky, which is not quite so rare on the road.”

“My name is Jonas Quelch, at your service,” answered the stranger, “and I come from England, though I have been living for some time in Dublin. It’s a fine city, that Dublin.”

“Faith it is, Mr Quelch,” observed Crean; “and fine people in it, and rogues in it, and the rogues sometimes come out of it, and when they do they are pretty glad to get back again, for we don’t like rogues in these parts, Mr Quelch. But I will not keep you sitting on your horse; that will be taken to the stable, and you will just come in, as I said, and partake of the scanty fare this poor part of the country can afford.”

He spoke in a satirical tone. Mr Quelch, holding his riding-whip in his hand, as if for defence, followed him into the house. Peter. Crean was, however, all courtesy and attention. He entreated his visitor to make himself at home, and helped him abundantly to the good things in the dishes placed before him, nor did he omit to ply him with whisky. Glass upon glass he induced him to pour down his throat, till I began to wonder how he could swallow so much without inconvenience. He was evidently a hardened vessel. Crean, however, had not yet done with him. He now placed before him a flagon of claret.

“Faith, this is the stuff for a gentleman,” he observed. “You may just empty the bottle, and feel none the worse, but rather much the better than when you began.”

The stranger, nothing loath, followed the advice of the steward. By degrees, however, Mr Quelch’s speech became thick, and his conversation more and more incoherent. Crean watched him with a wicked look in his eyes, continuing to press the liquor more and more warmly upon him.

“Come, now, Mr Quelch, just let’s begin another bottle. I have always found, where one bottle confuses a man’s head, a second one puts him all to rights again. Now, I should not be surprised but that you are beginning to feel a little fuddled.”

“You are right, friend,” answered Mr Quelch, though the words were jerked out in a manner indicative of his state.

“Just so; and, now, follow my advice. Take the other bottle to cure you. We never like a stranger to come to this part of old Ireland without showing him due hospitality.”

Mr Quelch, unaccustomed to claret, drank it as he would beer, and before he had finished the second bottle, on the top of almost an equal quantity of whisky, his head began to nod, and finally it dropped down on the table, where he let it remain, completely overcome.

Chapter Thirteen.

I was describing, at the end of my last chapter, my uncle’s uninvited guest—Jonas Quelch—dead drunk, with his head on the table. I sat at the further end of the room watching proceedings. Peter Crean gave a well-satisfied nod, and then left the room. In a short time he returned with Pat Brady, and a bundle of papers in his hand. Without much ado, they commenced an examination of the pockets of the stranger, and produced from them several documents. One of them, as Peter ran his eyes over it, seemed to excite his excessive indignation. However, producing one from among his own papers, of a similar size and appearance, he sat down and wrote off several paragraphs, which seemed to afford him and Pat infinite amusement. This, with some other papers, which he had taken from the stranger’s pockets, he then returned to them. This done, he and Pat—having removed the provisions and jugs—left the stranger still sleeping, with his head resting on his arms, as before, I soon got tired of watching, and made my way into the banqueting hall, from which shouts of boisterous merriment were proceeding. His guests were, indeed, doing ample justice to my new uncle’s good cheer, and speeches and songs were succeeding each other in rapid succession. Sometimes, indeed, two or three of the guests seemed disposed to sing or speak at the same time, one exciting the other, and adding not a little to the Babel of tongues. At this state of affairs the ladies took their departure, though not without several gentlemen rushing after them to bring them back. “Are ye after leaving us without a sun in the firmament!” exclaimed one. “The stars are going out, and we shall be in darkness presently,” cried another. “A garden without roses is a sorry garden, by my faith!” exclaimed a third. “What shall we do without those beautiful eyes beaming out on us?” shouted a fourth. However, in spite of the flatteries and efforts of Mr Tim Gillooly and his companions—for he was among the most demonstrative of the party—the ladies made their escape to an upper room. Curiosity at length prompted me to go back and see what had become of the stranger. As I entered the room, he lifted up his head and looked about him, evidently wondering where he was. At length he rose to his feet, and with unsteady steps began to pace backwards and forwards.

“This won’t do,” he said to himself. “I am not in a fit condition, I have a notion, to execute this writ. However, it must be done. That liquor was not bad, or I should not feel as comfortable as I do. If now I can get a basin of water, and pour some of the cold liquid down my throat, I shall be soon all to rights again. I wonder when that foolish old steward will come back. He seemed to fancy that I had some favour to bestow on his master by the way he treated me. However, these Irish have very poor wits, and it is no hard matter to impose on them.”

While he was speaking, Peter opened the door. The stranger made his request, with which he promised to comply. In a short time, Pat appeared with a basin and a jug of water. “I am your man now,” exclaimed Mr Quelch, having dipped his head several times in the cold water, “and shall be happy to pay my respects to your master.”

“To be sure, sir, to be sure,” answered Pat. “He is with his friends in the great hall, and you will be welcome as all gentlemen from England are sure to be. You have only to go in and make your bow and give your message, and depend upon it you will get a civil answer, whatever else you get, and be requested to sit down and make yourself happy with the rest.”

Peter, on this, led the way, followed by Mr Quelch. He did not observe that a number of women and others who had been feasting outside brought up the rear. A large party followed him into the hall, where he enquired for Mr Kilcullin, as he said, that he might make no mistake. “There he is to be sure, at the end of his table, where a gentleman, with a beautiful wife always should be,” answered Peter, pointing to the lord of the mansion, who, with his guests, appeared to be enjoying himself amazingly without any consciousness of the approach of a bailiff.

“Your servant, sir,” said Mr Quelch, advancing towards him, and drawing from his pocket a long document.

“The same to you, I beg your pardon, what is your name?” said Mr Kilcullin, with a complacent smile. “You are welcome to Ballyswiggan, as all honest men are, and if they are not honest, by the powers they had better keep away! And what is that paper with which you are about to favour me?”

“Perhaps, sir, you will read it,” said Mr Quelch, with a somewhat doubtful expression in his countenance.

“Certainly!” exclaimed my new uncle, “with the greatest pleasure in the world. Now listen, friends and gentlemen all. This is to give notice to all present that the bearer—Jonas Quelch—has come across the Channel to the west side of ould Ireland, on a fool’s errand. There are many more like him, may be, but he must understand that he will have to go back the way he came, or else consent to be deported forthwith to the coast of Africa, to live henceforth among the black sons of the soil, for whom alone he is a fit associate.”

The astonishment of Mr Quelch on hearing this knew no bounds. Scarcely recovered from the effects of his ample potations, the little sense he possessed entirely forsook him. He began to storm and swear, and declared that he had been vilely tricked. Loud peak of laughter from the guests present were the only answer he received.

“Come, come, Mr Quelch!” exclaimed Peter Crean, touching him on the shoulder. “You have your choice, my boy, but, by my faith, if you go on abusing Irish gentlemen in this fashion, you will be sent off sooner than a Kilkenny cow can leap over the moon to the country where the niggers come from, and it will be no easy matter for you to find your way back again, I’m after thinking.” This answer only increased the anger of the unhappy bailiff. The consequence was that he found himself seized by several of the men around, and amid the varied cries of the guests quickly hurried out of the hall. Derisive shouts of laughter followed the unhappy man as he was carried away. Most of the guests had, in their time, taken part in a similar drama to that which was about to be enacted, and knew full well how the man was to be treated. The carouse continued till it was time to clear the room for the ball. Several of the guests had to be borne off, and their heads bathed in cold water to make them fit companions for the ladies in the dance. Meantime, Jonas Quelch was carried back to the room he had left, where Crean plied him with a further supply of whisky under the excuse of keeping up his spirits.

“Faith, my friend, we bear you no ill-will,” observed the steward, “but you should have known that in this part of ould Ireland it’s against the law to execute writs. Such a thing never has been done, and it would be contrary to our consciences ever to allow it to be done, and, therefore, though it’s your masters are to blame, it’s you who will have to bear the consequences.”

Mr Quelch, however, by the time these remarks were made, was scarcely in a condition to understand their full meaning; and he was shortly again reduced very much to the condition in which he had been before he had gone into the hall. At this juncture a party of men entered the room, one of them telling him that they had come to conduct him on board the ship which was to convey him to the coast of Africa. In vain he urged that he had no wish to go there, and that he would do anything, even to going back to the country from which he had come, if that would satisfy them. No excuses, however, were available. Away he was carried, in spite of all his struggles, down to the sea-shore, where a boat was waiting, as he was told, for him. As I preferred remaining to see the dancing, I can only give the story as I afterwards heard it. In spite of his struggles he was placed in the boat, which immediately pulled off into the bay, where he quickly found himself transferred on board a vessel which lay there at anchor. He was carried down below, and placed in a small cabin by himself.

“We will treat you decently,” said one of the men, who appeared to be the leader of the party. “There are just two things you will have to do, you must understand, or have a chance of being knocked on the head. You must not attempt to get out, and you must ask no questions. It is to the coast of Africa we are going to carry you, and to the coast of Africa you must go. The voyage will not be a long one if we have a fair breeze, and they are dacent sort of people where we are going to land you; may be they will make you a prince of their country, and let you marry a princess, but you will understand that if you love your life, on the shores of ould Ireland again you will never venture to set foot.”

The unfortunate Mr Quelch could make no resistance. All his expostulations were in vain. He heard, as he fancied, the anchor being got up and sail made, and was fully under the impression that he had begun the voyage which was to carry him away for ever from his native land. The man who had first spoken to him again came below.

“We wish to treat you as a jintleman, though may be it’s more than you deserve,” he said, “so we will not stint you in liquor. You shall have as much as you can pour down your throat, for I have a notion you will not get an over abundant supply when you reach Africa. It’s a fine country, I am told, though a little more sandy than ould Ireland.”

As may have been discovered, one of Quelch’s failings was his fondness for liquor, and he soon imbibed enough to bring him into a state of unconsciousness. He thus had very little idea how the time passed. As soon as he awoke he found another bottle placed by his side. Thus he could not tell whether he had been days or weeks on board the ship. All that he knew was, that he had been fearfully tossed about, and often horribly uncomfortable. It had not occurred to him to feel his beard, in so confused a state was his mind. At length he heard the Captain’s voice calling him.

“Come up, if you please, Mr Quelch, we are off the coast of Africa, and it is time for you to be on shore. We will just see you comfortably landed, and then wish you farewell.”

The shades of evening were just settling down over the land, when Mr Quelch made his appearance on the deck. He could not distinguish objects distinctly, but he saw before him high hills and a sandy beach. On looking over the side he discovered a boat with six black men in her.

“Good-bye, Mr Quelch,” cried the friendly Captain, as he took Mr Quelch’s arm. “Good luck go with you. May be the niggers will look after you when they have put you on shore, but don’t trust them too much, for it’s small love they have for white men.”

Poor Quelch did not feel very comfortable on hearing this, but though inclined to resist, the butt end of a pistol which was sticking out of the Captain’s belt, and which that gentleman significantly began to handle, reminded him that resistance was useless. With a trembling heart he stepped into the boat. He was soon conveyed on shore. From the suppressed laughter of the crew, and from the broad grin which, as far as he could distinguish, appeared on their countenances, he had an idea that they were inclined to be amused at his expense.

“Dare, massa,” said one of them, “step on shore. Welcome to Africa. Make yourself at home. De king of de country come and see you by-and-by. He very fond of eating men, but no eat you, me hope.”

Poor Jonas was compelled to obey, and being placed on shore, the boat again pulled away. Soon after she had disappeared round a rocky point he heard loud shouts coming from inland, and looking up he saw, to his horror and dismay, several black men dancing and shrieking, and showing by their gestures their intention of coming down, and of making him the chief article of their supper. He was now utterly overcome with terror, and dared not leave the shore lest he should fall into the hands of his enemies. Yet, as he had not been supplied with food or water, he was under the dread of dying from hunger or thirst. He sat himself down disconsolately on a rock. The shouts continued round and above him, which made him shrink within himself for fear.

“Oh, if ever I get back home to England it is the last time that I will undertake to serve a writ in the West of Ireland, at all events,” he said, over and over again to himself. Still the savages did not descend, though he every instant expected to see them rushing towards him. At length the sounds ceased, and he sat himself down on the rock, where he remained all the night long, afraid of moving lest he should find himself attacked by them.

The morning broke. He saw a large ship in the offing, and after some time a boat left her side and came towards the spot where he was sitting. “Oh!” he thought to himself, “if I could get on board that ship how happy I should be.” No sooner did the boat’s bow touch the sand than he ran towards her. “Oh! Take me on board! Take me on board out of this savage land!” he exclaimed. “I will do anything to serve you! I will make myself generally useful on board! There is nothing I will not do. Oh! Take me away out of the power of these blackamoors!”

“You may enter as a seaman, perhaps,” answered the midshipman, in command of the boat. “If you will promise to do that, we will take you on board, but we have no idlers, and if you do not know your duty you must learn it as quickly as you can.”

Without further ado Quelch was lifted into the boat, which soon returned to the frigate. He found that she was the “Grecian” frigate, and that she was standing on and off the land, waiting to take the Captain and some of the officers on board. He, however, was at once regularly entered, and found himself speedily transferred into a man-of-war’s-man. Scarcely had he signed the papers, than loud peals of laughter broke from the seamen round him. None, however, would explain the cause of their merriment. At length once more the frigate put about and stood towards the land. As he gazed at the shore, he could not help fancying that its appearance was very much like that of the neighbourhood of Ballyswiggan. At length he put the question to one of the people standing near him.

“Why, my boy,” was the answer of an old quarter-master, “you have been nicely bamboozled. This comes of attempting to serve a writ in this part of the world. As to the coast of Africa, you have never been nearer it than you are at this present moment, nor much further from the place from which you started. However, take my advice; many a better man than you has found himself on board a man-of-war, and has had no cause to regret having done his duty.”

Jonas Quelch had the sense to see the wisdom of this counsel, and fortunately, being an unmarried man, made the best of his case, and, I can answer for it, became a very fair sailor in a short time, though his besetting sin occasionally interfered with his happiness and liberty, and brought him more than once into difficulties.

Chapter Fourteen.

I interrupted my narrative with an account of Mr Jonas Quelch’s adventures, with which I shortly afterwards became acquainted. I wish I could describe the ball which followed the dinner I have already mentioned; how perseveringly the ladies danced country dances and jigs, and how furiously the gentlemen flung about, sprang here and there, rushed up and down the room, and performed antics of every possible description, such as might have astonished the more sober professors of the art across the channel. My mother stole into a corner of the room, where she could see without being observed, and nothing would induce her to go further. Although Captain. Oliver found her out, and entreated her to join in what was going forward, she refused to dance even with him.

“I could not resist joining in the fun as you do, Mrs Burton,” said Mr Schank, “but I am afraid the ladies would object to my hopping up and down the room, lest I should come down upon their tender feet with my timber-toe, so I am obliged to abandon the sport I delighted in in my younger days.” Mr Gillooly, also, at length discovered her, and was far more persevering in his efforts to induce her to take part in the dance, though with no more success.

“Sure, Mistress Burton, you would not be after breaking a jintleman’s heart, which is as soft as butther whenever he is thinking of you!” he exclaimed, pressing his hand on his bosom and looking up with an expression which he intended to be extremely captivating.

“Indeed, Mr Gillooly, but it is more likely that any heart you have got would be after melting rather than breaking,” remarked my mother, observing the fiery countenance and the violent perspiration into which her swain had thrown himself. “My dancing days are over, and had I not supposed that the gentlemen here would have had the good taste not to press me to do what I dislike, I should not have ventured into the room.”

Nothing abashed, however, by this answer, Mr Gillooly continued to pour out his compliments into my mother’s ear, and she had to be still more explicit before he would receive a refusal. At length he left her, and was soon afterwards seen rushing about, as before, with one of my aunts, or with some other young lady of equal powers of endurance. Captain Oliver, after this, sat himself down by my mother’s side.

“Your boy has grown into a fine big lad,” he observed, “and though he is somewhat young, still I think he is strong enough to hold his own in a midshipman’s berth, and if you are disposed to let him go, I am ready to take him.”

“A midshipman’s berth!” exclaimed my mother, and a choking feeling came into her throat. “Surely you cannot intend such advancement to my boy—the boatswain’s son. I never wished him to be above his station, and if he were to rise to be a boatswain like his dear father, I should be well contented.”

“Do not say that, Mrs Burton. His father was a fine seaman, and would have been an honour to the quarter-deck himself. I promised to befriend your boy, and I can do so far more if he is in the rank of a midshipman than if he is simply one of the ship’s boys. From what I see of your relations and friends, indeed, though to be sure some of their doings are a little eccentric compared with our English notions, yet their position is such that their young relative should be placed in the rank of a gentleman. Say no more about it, I will assist him, and so I am sure will Mr Schank, in procuring his necessary outfit. That matter, therefore, need not trouble you, and I hope in a short time that he will pick up so much, prize-money that he will be able to support himself till he attains the rank of Lieutenant.”

Of course my mother could offer no objection to this very generous proposal. All she pleaded was, that I might remain a short time longer with her on shore. Lieutenant Schank then came in with a proposal which he had to make. It was that she should return to his mother’s house, where I might employ my time to advantage in obtaining the instruction which I could not get at Ballybruree. This offer she gladly accepted. Indeed, she told me that she had herself thought of returning to Whithyford, in order to avoid the persevering addresses of Mr Gillooly and her other admirers. The frigate was to remain on the coast for a week or ten days, after which time she had been ordered to go round to Portsmouth to refit. Captain Oliver, therefore, kindly offered my mother and me a passage, should she in the meantime be able to make arrangements for her departure. For this proposal she was very grateful. A journey across the whole width of Ireland and England was both difficult, hazardous, and very expensive, if performed in a comfortable manner. I was delighted with the thoughts of meeting again the Little Lady with the kind Misses Schank; for I must confess that the habits and customs of my relatives did not suit my taste much more than they did that of my mother. As to the ball, I need not further describe it. The ladies who came from a distance occupied all the upper rooms in the house, while the gentlemen were stowed away in the lower rooms and out-houses, many of them, however, little knowing how they got to bed or where they were.

Great was the lamentation her friends expressed when my mother’s determination of going to England was made known; indeed, some considered that a decided insult was offered to her native country. Mr Gillooly, indeed, made some remarks as to her motives, which certainly did not further his cause.

We set off the next day for Ballybruree with the rest of our party, my uncle and aunt inviting us to return to Ballyswiggan, there to remain till the frigate was ready to take us on board. Mr Tim Laffan, who showed much good feeling, undertook to dispose of my mother’s few possessions, and in the course of a few days placed in her hands a sum which she considered even more than their value.

“Well, Mrs Burton, I had hoped other things,” he said, as he shook her warmly by the hand, as she was mounting her pony to proceed to Ballyswiggan, “but I know enough about ladies’ hearts to be aware that they are more difficult to manage than the toughest lawsuit.”

Dan Hogan was away on duty, and we were off before he returned, but Captain Michael Tracy insisted on walking by my mother’s side all the way to Ballyswiggan; indeed I could not help thinking that if anyone was to win her heart, he was likely to be the happy man. We had a somewhat moving scene when bidding farewell to my grandfather and grandmother.

The old gentleman, indeed, wept bitterly as he was apt to do, especially after his tenth tumbler of whisky and water, provided it was of the full strength. I need not say anything more about him at present. We reached Ballyswiggan Castle in safety, the small amount of property my mother wished to retain following us in a cart. Mr Kilcullin was very kind, and my aunt promised to write occasionally, and let us know how the rest of the family got on. She was, indeed, the only one of her sisters who was much practised in the art of penmanship, the others having spent most of their time in gaining a knowledge of horseflesh, in riding up and down the country, and in practising certain very useful domestic duties. I certainly did feel very proud, and so I think did my mother, when the boat from the frigate came to fetch us on board, and we were seated in the stern sheets with our boxes in the bows, a young midshipman in a fresh bright uniform steering. A short, somewhat stout man pulled the stroke oar. He looked at my mother very hard. At length a beaming smile came over his broad countenance, and he could no longer help giving her a look of recognition. I thought I knew him. He was no other than my old friend Toby Kiddle. Still, as the midshipman treated us with so much respect, he evidently thought it did not become him to address us. Our friends on shore, I should have said, saluted us with loud shouts as we pushed off. “Long life to Ben Burton!” cried a voice. “May he live to be an admiral, and an honour to old Ireland, and may he never forget the land of his ancestors.” My mother waved an adieu. Her heart was too full with a variety of emotions to speak.

“Is Ben Burton your name?” said the midshipman, looking at me. “I understand you are going to join us. You are a lucky chap, for our ship is a happy one, and we are likely to see a good deal of service.”

When we got on board, one of the first people I set eyes on was Pat Brady.

“I could not help it, Ben,” he said. “Some of the boys got round me and talked of old times, and faith, though I was living on shore like a gintleman, after all I could not resist the look of the trim frigate, and the thoughts of the fighting and the fun on board. But, Ben, I hear you are to be one of the young gintlemen, and I know my place too well and your interests ever to be claiming relationship with you. You will understand that, Ben. If ever you can do me a good turn I am sure you will, and I need not tell you that when we are boarding an enemy’s ship, and you are in the thickest of the fun, Pat Brady won’t be far off your side. Just tell your mother that, for may be I may not have an opportunity of speaking to her as I would wish.”

“He is a good honest fellow, that cousin of ours,” said my mother when I told her. “It is just like him, and I am very thankful to think that you have so true a friend among the men. If you behave wisely and kindly to them, depend upon it you will always be able to get work done, when others much older than yourself will fail, and that more than anything else will gain you the approval of your superior officers.”

The Third-Lieutenant of the frigate had gone home on sick leave, and his cabin was given up to my mother. She told me she felt very strange occupying a berth aft when she had been so long accustomed to one in the fore-part of the ship. It was satisfactory to see as much attention paid her as if she had always occupied the position of a lady. Indeed I may say with satisfaction that she was well deserving of all the attention paid her, while in her manner and conversation she was thoroughly the lady. I was said to take after her, and, at the risk of being considered vain and egotistical, it is satisfactory to believe I did. “It would be a shame not to place that boy on the quarter-deck,” I heard the Captain observe to Mr Schank one day, when he was not aware how near I was. “He looks, and is, thoroughly the gentleman, and will make a smart young officer, depend on that.”

I was delighted to find myself on board ship again, and if the choice had been given me I suspect that I should have remained rather than have accompanied my mother back to Whithyford. After we had doubled Cape Clear a sail hove in sight, to which we gave chase. She was a large brig, and soon showed us that she had a fast pair of heels, by keeping well ahead. All sail was pressed on the frigate, and yet, after chasing several hours, we appeared to be no nearer to her. Still Captain Oliver was not a man to strike to an enemy, or to give up a chance of making a prize as long as the slightest possibility of doing so remained. All night long we kept in her wake; she probably expecting a fog, or a change of wind, or some other circumstance to enable her to alter her course without being perceived by us. The night, however, was very clear, and when morning broke there she was still ahead. It was evident, also, that we had gained on her considerably.

“I say, Ben, our skipper and First-Lieutenant are licking their lips at the thoughts of the prize we shall pick up before the day is many hours older,” observed my friend Tom Twigg, the midshipman who steered the boat which brought us on board; he had ever since then marked me as an object of his especial favour. He was a merry little fellow, with the funniest round face, and round eyes, and round nose possible. He often got into scrapes; but he declared that, like a hedgehog or slater, or woodlouse, he always managed to roll himself out of them. “I rather think the skipper has entered you on the books that you may have a share in the prize we are going to make,” he observed. “It will not be very great, but it is something, and no man on board will grudge it you.” About noon we got the brig under our guns, when she hauled down her colours, and proved to be a richly-laden Letter of Marque. It was very pleasant returning into port with her, and this circumstance put everybody on board in good humour, the Captain and Lieutenant Schank especially, who of course had large shares.

“I wish I could accompany you, Mrs Burton,” said Mr Schank, when we reached Portsmouth; “but that is impossible. You must let me frank you up, however, to my mother’s. I dare say by this time you pretty well know how to manage on the road. Pay the postboys well, and take care that youngster does not tumble off the roof and break his neck.” Of course my mother thanked the Captain and all the officers for the kindness she had received on board. They insisted on her saying nothing about the matter; indeed, they declared they had not done enough, and would not let her go till they had made her accept a purse of gold, which they declared would have been my father’s share of the prize just taken had he been alive. Lieutenant Schank had written on before to announce our coming. The old lady, therefore, and the three Misses Schank were on the look-out for us as our post-chaise drove up to the cottage, while I saw poor Mrs Lindars looking out at an upper window from the room she occupied, and there in the midst of the ladies downstairs was the Little Lady, a perfect little fairy she looked among the three mature Misses Schank. Miss Anna Maria held her up in her arms, and the little girl cried out, “Oh! Mamma, mamma, I know you are my mamma, though I have got four other mammas here.” She had grown very much, and instead of going off in beauty, had become one of the most perfect little creatures I ever set eyes on. Nothing could be more hearty than the welcome we received, and the dear old lady told my mother that she must look upon herself as one of the family, and only help the other ladies just as much as she felt inclined. Mrs Lindars, soon after we arrived, begged we would come up, and the Little Lady, taking me by the hand, led the way. There was something very striking in the affectionate and tender way the Little Lady addressed Mrs Lindars; indeed it for the moment struck me that they were something alike, though one was somewhat advanced in life, and the features of the other were scarcely yet formed. Mrs Lindars welcomed my mother very kindly. “And Ben has indeed grown into a fine lad,” she observed. “And Emily, too, you see her greatly improved, Mrs Burton. Ben, you must be her champion if she requires one. Alas! I fear she will. I trust her fate may be happier than mine.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will fight for her, that I will,” I answered, looking at Emily; “not that I think anyone would ever be so wicked as to try and harm her.” The poor lady smiled sadly and shook her head.

“Beauty is rather a snare than a protection,” she observed.

Of course I did not exactly understand her meaning; I heard afterwards, though I think I have already alluded to the fact, that the poor lady had, at a very early age, married a foreigner, calling himself Lindars, and that she had one child, a girl. Her husband, after frequently absenting himself, returned to Whithyford, when one day he and the child disappeared. The poor mother was left in an agony of doubt as to what had become of her infant, persuading herself that it had been murdered. A letter, however, at length reached her from her husband, saying that he was on the point of leaving England, and that he purposed carrying the child with him. From that day she had never received the slightest intelligence of her husband or daughter. Her brother Jack had been absent from home at the time of her marriage, and five years passed away before he again returned, so that he had been unable to assist her in her inquiries. I was placed for instruction under the care of an old gentleman residing in the village, who had formerly been a schoolmaster. He was well able to impart to me the knowledge I most required, and as I was very anxious to learn, I made considerable progress. My spare time was spent almost entirely in the company of little Emily. I was never tired of attending on her. As was then the custom, she wore a little red mantle as a walking dress. One day we were out in the fields, when she ran off in chase of a butterfly. At the further end of the field a bull was grazing, having been turned out to indulge his sulky humour by himself. The sight of the red cloak fluttering over the green meadow suddenly excited his rage, and with a loud roar he came rushing up towards it. I saw the little girl’s danger, and quick as lightning darted towards her. The cloak was fortunately secured by a very slight string. I tore it off and told her to run on; while, seizing the cloak, which I at once guessed was the cause of the bull’s rage, I darted off in a different direction. The animal followed, as I had expected. On he came, however, at a speed which was likely soon to bring him up to me. It was some distance to the nearest hedge. Towards that, however, I made my way, as the best means of escape. The bull was not five yards from me. The hedge was thick and high. Into it or over it I must go, or run the certainty of a toss. I sprang towards the hedge. Just at the spot I reached was the stem of a small tree; one branch alone had escaped the pruner’s hatchet. Throwing the cloak against the hedge, I seized the bough and sprang to the top—not a pleasant position, considering the brambles of which it was composed. The bull, with a loud roar, dashed into the hedge below me, into which he fixed his head, tearing up the ground, and making the bushes shake all round. I looked out and saw that Emily had reached the gate in safety; but how to descend was now the difficulty, for if I jumped back into the field out of which I came the bull would probably again attack me, whereas, on the other side, I could not descend without the risk of tearing my clothes and scratching myself with the brambles.

“Thou be a brave lad; I seed it all!” exclaimed a voice near me, and looking down I saw a person who appeared to be a farmer, standing on the further side of the hedge.

“Jump into my arms, I’ll catch thee, lad,” he added, seeing the predicament in which I was placed. I willingly did as he bid me, and, caught by his arms, reached the ground in safety. “We must have the little maiden’s cloak, though,” he said, laughing. “I will bring up some of my men, and we will soon handle the old bull.” He was as good as his word. Five or six farm servants soon made their appearance with a stout rope, which they threw over the bull’s neck and led him quietly off, while, accompanied by the farmer, I passed through a gate a little way on, and, securing the cloak, crossed the field to where Emily, still in a great fright, was waiting for me. The farmer insisted on accompanying us home. He was well-known, I found, to the ladies, and with great glee he recounted to them my exploit, bestowing more praise on me, I thought, than I deserved. Emily, however, declared that he was right, and that if it had not been for me, she was sure the bull would have tossed her up into the moon, or at all events as high as the moon.

My mother was now busily employed in preparing my outfit, and many a tear did she shed over her work when she thought that I was soon to be separated from her. A letter came at length from Captain Oliver, saying that the frigate was ready for sea, and that I must come at once down to Portsmouth. Fortunately my friend Farmer Cocks was going up to London, and undertook to escort me thus far, and from thence he was to see me off in the coach for Portsmouth. I will not describe my parting. There was a good deal more crying than I like to think of, and the dear Little Lady wept till her heart seemed about to break. However, her tears probably soon dried up, but my poor mother’s sorrow was likely to be far more enduring.

“Thou art a brave, honest lad, Ben Burton,” said the good farmer, pressing a five-pound note into my hand as I was about to mount on the top of the Portsmouth coach. “Thou wilt have plenty of use for this in getting thy new clothes for sea; but if not, spend it as thou thinkest best. I have no fear that thou wilt squander it as some do, and mark thee, shouldst thou ever want a home to come to, thou wilt always find a warm welcome at Springfield, from my good dame and me.” I pocketed his gift with a sincere “Thank you,” and he wrung my hand warmly, again and again, until I got fairly out of his reach on to the top of the coach.

Chapter Fifteen.

Captain Oliver had directed me to meet him at the “George,” and I found him standing on the steps of that aristocratic hotel to which very few midshipmen of those days ever thought of going. My mother, being well acquainted with the internal economy of a man-of-war, had provided me with a chest of very moderate dimensions, at which no First-Lieutenant, however strict, could cavil. It and I were deposited at the hotel, and the waiter, seeing the kind way in which the Captain treated me, must have taken me for a young lord at least, and ordered the porter to carry it forthwith inside.

“That will do,” said the Captain, as he eyed it. “And now you must come and get measured for your uniforms, and procure other necessaries, as I hope we may be off in two or three days at furthest.”

I found that Captain Oliver had paid off the “Grecian,” and commissioned a new frigate, the “Orion,” to which most of his officers and men had been turned over, and that she was about to proceed to the Indian station. “There was no use telling your poor mother this,” he observed. “The thoughts that you would be so long separated from her would only have added to her grief at parting from you, and as far as you are concerned, my boy, the time will soon pass by, and you will come back nearly ready for a swab on your shoulder.”

The tailor, under the Captain’s inspection, having examined the contents of my chest, made a note of the things I required besides. My outfit was soon complete.

“And now, my lad, my coxswain will take charge of you and your chest,” said the Captain, “and see you safely on board.”

Greatly to my delight, Toby Kiddle soon afterwards made his appearance. “Why, Mr Burton,” he said, and I thought his eyes twinkled as he addressed me with that title. “Why, you see, the Captain’s last coxswain slipped his cable a few months ago, and as I was one of the Captain’s oldest shipmates, and he knew he could trust me, he has appointed me, and I never wish to serve under a better captain.” Having purchased a few other articles with Farmer Cocks’ five-pound note, which Toby Kiddle suggested I should find useful, we chartered a wherry to go to the frigate.

Among other things I got two or three pounds of tobacco. “You see, Mr Burton, if you deal it out now and then to the men, it will show them that you have not forgotten them; and though you are on the quarter-deck, that you are not proud, as some youngsters show themselves, but still have a kindly feeling towards them.” I gladly followed his advice. As we approached the “Orion,” and I observed her handsome hull, her well-squared yards, and her trim and gallant appearance, I felt proud of belonging to so fine a frigate. The boatswain’s whistle was piping shrilly as we went up the side, and as my eye fell on the person who was sounding it, I had an idea that I recollected him. I asked Toby who he was. “Your old friend, Bill King,” he said. “I wanted to see whether you would remember him; I am glad you do. It is a good sign when old friends are not forgotten.”

While Kiddle got my chest up, and paid the boatman, I went and reported myself to Mr Schank as come on board; and very proud I felt as I stepped on the quarter-deck in my bran-new midshipman’s uniform. The First-Lieutenant, who was stumping on his wooden leg here and there with active movements, watching the proceedings of the various gangs of men at work in different ways, stopped when he saw me and smiled kindly. He had grown thinner, if not taller, since I last saw him, and looked somewhat like the scathed trunk of a once lofty poplar, battered and torn by a hundred tempests.

“You know the ways of a ship, Ben, pretty well, but as you are still somewhat small, I have asked Mr Oldershaw—one of the mates—to stand your friend, and he will give you a help also in navigation. And, Ben, mind, do not you be ashamed of asking him anything you want to know. You may live a long time on board ship, and still learn nothing about seamanship, if you do not keep your eyes open, and try to get others to explain what you do not understand.” As Mr Schank spoke, he beckoned to a grey-headed old mate who just then came on deck. “This is the youngster I spoke to you about, Mr Oldershaw,” he said. “You will have an eye on him, and I hope you will be able to give a good report of his behaviour.” I naturally looked up at my protector’s countenance, and was well-satisfied with the expression I saw on it. He soon afterwards took me down below, and on my way told me that I was to be in his watch, and that if I did not become a good seaman before the cruise was up, it should not be his fault.

“You see, Ben, I feel an interest in you on many accounts. I entered before the mast, and was placed on the quarter-deck, much as you may be said to have been, and was also left an orphan at an early age. I have not been very fortunate as to promotion; indeed, though my family were very respectable in life, I had no interest. I suppose some day I shall be made a lieutenant, and then I do not expect to rise much higher; but a lieutenant is a gentleman by rank, and though the half-pay is not overwhelming, yet, as I have saved a little prize-money, I shall have enough to keep me till I am placed under the green sward. When I visit some quiet churchyard, I often think how sweet a resting-place it would be after having been knocked about all one’s life on the stormy ocean, and after having met with so many disappointments and sorrows.”

I do not know what induced Oldershaw to speak to me in that way, for in truth he was one of the happiest and most contented people on board, so it seemed to me. While others grumbled and growled he never uttered a word of complaint in public, but took everything as it came, in the most good-humoured manner. He was a true friend to me from that time forward, and gave me many a lesson in wisdom as well as in other matters, which was of value to me through life. Tom Twigg who was the only midshipman I knew, received me cordially. There was another young gentleman, who, though he might have been older, was considerably smaller than I was. There was a roguish, mischievous look about the countenance of Dicky Esse, which showed me at once that I must be prepared for tricks of all sorts from him. Another mate was seated in the berth, to whom Oldershaw introduced me. His name, I found, was Pember. He was a broad-shouldered, rough-looking man, with a suspiciously red countenance and nose, his features marked and scored with small-pox and his eyelids so swelled, that only a portion of the inflamed balls could be seen. He uttered a low growl as I entered.

“We have kids enough on board already,” he observed. “They will be sending the nurses with them next.”

“Never fear, Pember, he will soon grow out of his kidhood,” observed Oldershaw. “We want young blood to supply the place of us oldsters when we slip off the stage.”

“You mean to be placed over our heads, and to trample us down,” said Pember. “Why there is our skipper. I was a passed midshipman when he came to sea, and now he is a post-captain, and I am where I was, and shall be probably to the end of the chapter.”

As soon as I could leave the berth I hurried to the boatswain’s cabin, to which Bill King had just then descended. “You do not remember me, Mr King,” said I, shaking him by the hand, “but I recollect you, and that you were one of my father’s oldest shipmates, and my mother’s kindest friend.”

“Bless my heart, Ben, is it you?” he exclaimed, for he really had not at first known me. “Well, I did not think it. I am glad, that I am, boy, to see you, whom I have dandled in my hands many a time, come to sea on the quarter-deck. You must be an admiral, Ben, some day, that you must. Those who have sent you to sea must give you a shove upwards while you have still youth and strength and health in your favour. To many, promotion comes too late to do them any real good. When hope is knocked out of a man he is fit for very little in this world, or rather, I should say, nothing!”

“And Mrs King?” I asked; “how is she?”

“I could not bring her on board again, Ben, but she is very well, and as strong and active as ever. She has set up a coffee-shop in Gosport, which gives her something to do, and will help her to keep the pot boiling till I get back.”

We had a fine run down Channel, and a fair wind carried us along, till we were in the latitude of the Azores. Our orders were, not to go out of our way, but to do as much damage and harm to the enemy as we conveniently could on our voyage to the South. We consequently kept a bright look-out, in the hopes of falling in with a ship worth capturing. Several times we had chased vessels, but they either managed to escape us during the night, or proved to be neutrals. At length, however, when about twenty leagues to the north of Teneriffe, we saw a sail standing apparently towards that island. That she was a Spaniard seemed probable, and there were great hopes that she might prove a merchant vessel. We made all sail, hoping to overhaul her before the sun went down, but she was a fast craft, and kept well ahead of us. Hour after hour passed by. All the glasses on board were constantly turned towards her. Great doubts at length began to be entertained of our capturing her after all. In our berth, especially, some of the young gentlemen were ready to sell their expected share of the prize-money, while others of more sanguine temperament were not unwilling to buy. Dicky Esse, especially, wanted to purchase my share.

“What will you give, Esse?” I asked, not, however, making up my mind that the transaction was a very wise one.

“Ten shillings would be handsome, but I have no objections to give you thirty. She is very likely to be in ballast, and we are more likely still not to catch her, so that you at all events will be the gainer of thirty shillings.”

“I should not object to the thirty shillings, but if we take her I may possibly get thirty pounds, and more than that if she is a richly-laden craft.”

“Don’t have anything to do with the business, Ben,” exclaimed Oldershaw. “I do not bet, and do not intend to begin, but I say there are five chances to one that we shall take her, so keep your prospects in your pocket, my boy, and I hope they will prove good ones.” Although the hammocks were piped down at the usual hour, very few officers or men turned in. It was well-known that Captain Oliver would not let the chase escape as long as there was a prospect of getting hold of her. There was a bright moon, and by the master’s calculation we should sight Teneriffe before dawn. A sailor’s eye alone could have made out the shadowy form of the chase ahead of us, but not for a moment was she lost sight of. The wind fell as the night drew on, and the sea became calm, rippled over only by little wavelets, upon which the moonbeams played brightly. It was a lovely night. Bright as was the moon, many of the stars were to be seen also, vying with her in splendour. Yet here were we, with thousands of stars looking down upon us, about to commit an act of rapine and slaughter, for such, lawful as it might be thought, was the deed we were about to do. It was Oldershaw’s watch, and I was walking the deck with him. I made some remark of that sort. He responded to it.

“Yes, Ben,” he said, “I wonder what the bright seraphic beings up there—for surely there must be such in that pure heaven above us—are thinking of the proceedings of us mortals down here below. We have to fight, and it is right to defend our country, but I tell you, Ben, I have seen a good deal of it, and, putting what people call glory aside, it is very fearful, disgusting, dirty work. It makes a man feel like a devil for a time, and it is devilish, there is no doubt about that. I am in for it, and I expect to have plenty more of the same sort of work to do, but I am very sure that for men to kill each other is hateful to the God who made us. There is only one thing worse, and that is when they lie, and cheat, and deceive each other, and it seems often to me that more than one-half of the world is employed in doing one or the other.”

“Have we gained much on the chase, Mr Schank?” asked the Captain, who just then appeared on deck.

“The best part of a mile, sir, I should think, in the course of the last hour. If the wind does not fall still more, we shall come up with her soon after daylight. She is heavily laden, and requires a breeze to send her along.”

Oldershaw at length persuaded me to go below and turn in, promising to have me called should anything occur. When I came on deck in the morning, as the hammocks were piped up, the chase was still some distance off, running in for the land, which appeared on our starboard-bow. We followed her pertinaciously, however, though, as the wind frequently shifted, we did not gain upon her as at first. At length, however, we saw her run in for a bay with a fort on one side of it. “We have her safe now,” observed Captain Oliver to Mr Schank. “Before this time to-morrow I hope she will be ours.”

Having reconnoitred the bay, and found that the fort was rather too strong to attack in the day, Captain Oliver stood off the land once more. It soon became known that a cutting-out expedition was in contemplation, and the men were busily employed in sharpening their cutlasses, and looking to the locks of their pistols. From the appearance of the chase, there was no doubt that she was a merchant vessel, and it was hoped would offer no great resistance. Every precaution which prudence could dictate was taken. Four boats were ordered to be got ready, and towards evening we again stood in for the land. A bright look-out had been kept all day, so that there was no risk of the expected prize having made her escape. I greatly longed to be in one of the boats, but Oldershaw told me there was no use asking, as he was sure the Captain would not let me go. He, too, was disappointed, finding that he was not to be one of the party. The Second and Third Lieutenants, with Pember and the master, commanded the two boats, and, all things being ready, away they pulled. They had got to some distance when it was discovered that they had gone without signal-rockets or port-fires. Oldershaw, on this, volunteered to carry them in the dinghy, and I begged that I might accompany him.

“Well, look after the boy, and take care he gets into no mischief, Mr Oldershaw,” said the Captain, “and he may then go.”

I was delighted. Toby Kiddle and Pat Brady offered to pull the boat, for, of course, she had no regular crew. Two other men also volunteered, and away we went. The other boats, however, had got a long way ahead. We could only just distinguish the dim outline of the bay. We pulled rapidly on, when, just as we were at the entrance of the harbour, suddenly, from the deck of the ship, there burst forth loud shouts and cries, the flashing of pistols and musketry, and the clashing of steel, the sounds coming over to us across the calm water. Our men were hotly engaged, of that there was no doubt, but, from the frequent flashes of pistols, and the shouts of Spaniards as well as Englishmen, it was doubtful which was gaining the day. The contest was evidently a fierce one. Oldershaw’s blood, in spite of his principles, was quickly up, and he evidently thought very little about me or anything else, except getting on deck as fast as he could, and joining in the fray. Our crew strained every nerve to get alongside. As we pulled by, the shouts and cries increased. The whole deck seemed one blaze of fire from the rapid discharge of pistols and muskets, while every now and then fearful shrieks burst from the bosoms of those who had been cut down. The ship was a high one, and there was some difficulty in climbing up out of our small boat.

“Here’s a lower port open!” exclaimed Pat Brady, springing up and hauling himself into it. We all followed, and found ourselves the sole possessors of the lower-deck. Whether our people had the fore or after part of the deck we could not ascertain. We were about, however, to make our way up, when we caught sight of several figures descending. They were Spaniards, going apparently to the magazine for more ammunition. Before they were aware of our presence, our men had sprung upon them and cut them down. Scarcely had they ceased to breathe when three other persons came down, apparently for the same object. Led by Oldershaw, Kiddle and Brady with the others were upon them, and they too were cut down. It being supposed, probably, that they were skulking, a still larger number of people came down to look them up in the same incautious manner, and before they had time to cry out they also were slaughtered. An officer and several more men, swearing fearfully at the cowardice of their companions, now jumped below, and were in like manner cut down. I scarcely like to say how many people were killed in this fearful way. Our men now made a dash aft with such fury that the Spaniards on deck thought only of defending their lives. Two dead bodies came tumbling down the hatchway, as well as another poor fellow, only half killed, with a desperate wound on his shoulder. I should say from the way he groaned, and an exclamation he uttered, I felt sure he was an Englishman. I ran up to him, “Who are you?” I asked. It was one of our men.

“Is that you, Mr Burton?” he answered, in a faint voice. “It is going hard with us, for the ship was full of people and they are fighting well.” Oldershaw, who just then came up, heard the words. “We will turn the tide then!” he exclaimed. “Come on, lads!”

We on this made our way forward, and reached the fore hatchway. Pat Brady sprang up first, shouting, “The ship is ours! The ship is ours!”

Oldershaw then taking the lead, we rushed aft, where our men were fighting with a number of Spanish soldiers and seamen. With loud shouts we dashed at our enemies, who, not seeing our numbers and supposing that a fresh set of boarders had gained the deck, began to give way.

We pressed on them, those who refused to yield or escape over the taffrail being speedily cut down. The ship was ours, but we had still a good deal to do. We had lost several people, killed and wounded, and we had a large number of prisoners to keep in order. As yet the garrison in the fort, not knowing who had gained the day, had not commenced firing at us. We had time, therefore, to secure our prisoners. Sail was then made on the ship, and her cable being cut, the boats towed her head round. The topsails were sheeted home, and with a light land-breeze we stood out of the bay. Having to pass pretty near the fort, Mr Tilhard, the Second-Lieutenant, ordered the greater number of the people to go below, he and Kiddle taking the helm; while the few who remained on deck were directed to keep close under the bulwarks. It was fortunate that these arrangements were made, for, as we drew near, the Spaniards began to pepper us pretty sharply with round-shot and musketry, the bullets flying thickly about us, while several shots struck the hull. Had they been better gunners they might have done more damage. Happily no one was hurt, though the sails were riddled and the white planks laid bare in several places.

As soon as the fight was over I thought of the poor fellow who had been tumbled below. I went to look for him with a lantern. For some time I could not discover where he was, for several Spaniards who had been killed had fallen down at the same spot. Pat, who accompanied me, at length discovered him. “He will not want any more human aid,” he observed, holding the lantern to his face. “The Spaniards have already done for him.” Whether, if instant aid had been afforded him, the man might have escaped, I do not know, but his wound was a desperate one, and he had apparently bled to death. We were received with loud cheers from the frigate’s decks, as in the grey dawn of morning we passed close under her stern.

Chapter Sixteen.

Our prize—a ship of six hundred tons, and mounting fourteen guns—called the “Santiago,” proved to be of considerable value. A prize crew being put on board, we steered for Saint Helena, where it was possible we might find a purchaser, and if not, Captain Oliver resolved to take her to the Cape. Fortunately, at Saint Helena we found the officers and crew of an Indiaman, which had been burnt at sea; and the Company’s agent there was very glad to purchase our prize, and send her on, most of the goods being suitable to the Indian market. On concluding the bargain, the agent presented the Captain with a couple of young tigers. They were somewhat inconvenient pets, though they would have been valuable had we been going home. However, as we had no others on board, he accepted them, thinking they might serve to amuse the ship’s company, and having an idea, I believe, that they might be perfectly tamed. We in the midshipmen’s berth welcomed them with glee, and at once began to teach them to perform all sorts of tricks. They would let us ride on their backs, and they learned to leap through hoops and over ropes, and they would rush round and round the deck at a rapid rate, and soon they became the most playful, engaging creatures possible. Oldershaw was the only person who expressed doubts about their amiability.

“If I were the Captain, I would clip their claws and draw their teeth before I would let them play with you youngsters,” he observed. “Their tricks may be playful now, but they will serve you a scurvy one before long, or their nature is more changed than I believe it to be.”

Of course we laughed at his prognostications, and continued to amuse ourselves with our pets as usual. The Cape was reached. We took on board a supply of live and dead stock, having now a long run before us across the Indian Ocean, into that part of the world where I had first seen the light—the China Seas. We had several sheep and a supply of hay to feed them on. Some of the men had an idea that our tamed pets would gladly feed on the hay, but their carnivorous teeth refused to munch it. They, however, turned suspiciously hungry glances towards the newcomers. Oldershaw observed it, “They have probably never eaten sheep or midshipmen,” he observed, “but the nature to do so is in them, and depend upon it their nature will have sway if we give them the opportunity.” However, as the animals were tolerably well-fed, and were carefully caged, they gave no exhibition when anyone was watching them of their evil propensities, if they possessed them. When our stock of fresh meat was exhausted, first one sheep and then another was killed to supply the Captain and officers’ tables, a portion falling to the lot of some of the men’s messes. Their skins, which were peculiarly fine, were cleansed and prepared by the armourer, who happened also to understand the trade of a currier. Two of them were hung up to dry, when it came into the brains of Tom Twig and Dicky Esse to clothe themselves in the skins, and in high glee they came prancing about the deck, baa-ing away, imitating two frolicsome lambs, with a tolerable amount of accuracy. They afforded much amusement to us, their messmates, and not a little to the men who happened to be on deck. Not content with amusing us, off they went, into the neighbourhood of the tigers’ cage. It ought to have been shut, and generally was shut. So exact was their imitation of nature that the beasts, after watching them with great eagerness for some moments, could no longer resist their natural propensities. With fierce leaps they rushed against the door of their cage. It gave way, and out they sprang. One bound carried them on to the backs of their expected prey. In another instant Tom and Dicky Esse would have been torn to pieces, had they not, in a way midshipmen alone could have done, slipped out of their skins, and rolled pale with terror across the deck. The animals, finding only the dry skins, were about to make another spring, when the man who had charge of them and had witnessed the scene, came rushing up with his stick of office, and several other men coming to his assistance with ropes, the savage creatures were forthwith secured. Both the midshipmen were rather more frightened than hurt, and in consideration of their terror they escaped any further consequences of their conduct which was looked upon by the First-Lieutenant as somewhat derogatory to the dignity which they were in duty bound to maintain.

After leaving the Cape, we were constantly becalmed, and then, getting further east, fell in with a hurricane, from the effects of which nothing but first-rate seamanship, under God’s Providence, could have preserved the frigate. We were now getting much in want of water, and Captain Oliver, unwilling to go out of his way to any of the settlements to obtain it, resolved to search for a supply at the first island we should fall in with. At length we came in sight of a large island, with yellow sands, and green palm trees waving in the breeze. Nothing could be more attractive, but it appeared that nobody on board had been there before. The master knew the existence of the island on the chart, but whether it was inhabited or not, or by whom, he could not say. As no anchorage was found, the ship was hove to, and three boats, with casks, under the command of the Second-Lieutenant, and my friend Oldershaw, and Pember, were directed to go on shore. I went with Oldershaw, and Twigg and Esse went in the other boats. We pulled into the bay abreast of the ship, where, between two projecting rocks, we found an excellent landing-place, and not far from it a stream of water, clear and limpid. As no natives appeared, the opinion was that that part of the island, at all events, was uninhabited, and this made us somewhat careless. All the casks being filled, the boats were sent back for a fresh supply, as we could not hope to find a better place for filling up with that important necessary. Pember, directing Tom Twigg to take charge of his boat, invited Dicky Esse and me to accompany him meantime on a stroll to see the island farther inland. He directed Toby Kiddle and Pat Brady to follow with a couple of muskets.

“Not that they will be wanted,” he observed; “but if we do fall in with any natives, it will make them treat us with respect.”

“If I were you, Pember, I would not go far from the bay,” observed Oldershaw, as he shoved off.

“You are always uttering warnings, old Careful,” muttered Pember; and, leading the way, he turned his back on the sea and proceeded inland.

The country was very beautiful. We soon came to a grove of cocoa-nuts, when Pember proposed that we should procure a supply. This, however, was more easily thought of than done. Pat Brady, who was the most active of the party, declared that he could manage it after the native fashion. He and Kiddle having placed the muskets against a tree, were considering the best way of mounting. We went first to one tree and then to another, to find one which seemed most easy to climb, with a satisfactory reward at the top of it for our trouble. Having made a band of sufficient strength with our handkerchiefs, Pat commenced his ascent. He had got some way up, Kiddle having helped him as far as he could reach, when suddenly a dozen dark-skinned savages sprang out from among the trees, and before we could draw our pistols they had brought us all to the ground. Forthwith they proceeded to bind our arms behind us. Pat, seeing there was no use going higher, came gliding down the tree, and was secured in the same manner. We endeavoured to make them understand that we had desired to do them no harm, and that if the cocoa-nuts were theirs, we should be happy to pay for them. Whether they understood us or not I cannot say, but without more ado, three of them attaching themselves to Pember, and a like number to each of the other men—one black fellow, however, only taking charge of Dicky and another of me—they dragged us off into the interior. In vain Pember struggled and expostulated. The fierce gleam of their dark eyes, and the keen blades of their glittering creeses which they flourished before us, showed that it would be dangerous to dispute the point with them. All we could do, therefore, was to move forward as they insisted, hoping that, when our absence was discovered, a strong party might be sent in pursuit of us, and that we might be recovered. We had not gone far when they were joined by another band of a similar number, and we could not help suspecting that they had been watching us all the time, but seeing so many armed men round the boats had not ventured to attack us. This made us still more regret our folly in having ventured alone into the country. On, on we went. We had great reason to fear that they had no intention of restoring us. At length they stopped at a village of bamboo huts, covered with cocoa-nut leaves, from which a number of women and children came forth to gaze at us. The children went shrieking away when they saw our white skins, while the women advanced cautiously and touched us, apparently to ascertain whether the red and white would come off.

“Faith, they take us for white niggers!” said Pat Brady, observing the look of astonishment, not unmixed with disgust, with which the women regarded us. “It’s to be hoped they won’t set us to work as we do the blacks, though, to be sure, it would be better than eating us, and I don’t like the looks of those fellows at all, at all.”

“Depend upon it, if they don’t eat us they will make us work, or why should they otherwise carry us off?” observed Kiddle. “These Malay fellows make slaves of all the people they can lay hands on. If it was not for that they would cut our throats.”

These remarks made Dicky Esse and me feel very uncomfortable, till Pember observed that perhaps they had carried us off in the hopes of obtaining a ransom. This idea kept up our spirits a little; but as they continued to drag us on further and further into the country, our hope on that score greatly decreased. At length we reached another village, in which was a large hut. Under the shade of a wide-spreading verandah in front of it an old chief was seated on cushions; a dozen half-naked savages with drawn swords standing behind him. He was dressed in a dark-coloured turban, with a shawl over his shoulders, a belt, in which were three or four formidable looking daggers with jewelled hilts, and a curved sword by his side. His dark countenance was unpleasantly savage and morose, and we felt that our lives would be of little value if they depended upon the amiability of his disposition. Our captors arranged us before him, and then appeared to be explaining how they had got possession of us. He smiled grimly at the narration. As Pember, Dicky Esse, and I were placed in advance, it was evident that our captors looked upon us as of more value than the men. This made us hope that they were entertaining some thoughts of allowing us to be ransomed, for in every other way the men were likely to prove more useful to them than we should.

After our captors had said all they had to say, the old chief made a few remarks in return. Before he had ceased speaking, several of his guards advanced towards us with their sharp-looking swords glittering in the sunbeams. It was a moment of intense anxiety. It seemed evident they intended to kill us. We could, however, neither fly nor defend ourselves.

“I say, Ben, have you said your prayers?” whispered Dicky to me. “If not, it is time to begin.”

Pember prepared to meet his fate with dogged resolution, his dark red countenance turning almost to an ashy hue. Kiddle and Brady, as I cast my eye on them, were evidently preparing to show fight.

“Knock the fellow next you down, Pat,” said Toby, “and get hold of his cutlash. I will treat mine the same, and if we cannot get away we will die game.”

Suddenly our expected executioners stopped, and stood waving their weapons at a short distance from our necks. The chief continued haranguing for some time, and when he ceased others stepped forth from the crowd and addressed him. Whether or not the chief had intended to kill us, we could not ascertain, but having kept us in most disagreeable suspense for half-an-hour or more, though it seemed several hours, the men with the swords faced about, and marched back to their former position. Our guards then carried us off to a hut at a little distance, into which we were all thrust, several men standing outside as a guard over us. After some time they brought us a mess of grain of some sort, well seasoned with pepper.

“I suppose they don’t intend to kill us, or they would not give us this,” observed Pat, taking a handful from the bowl, as, of course, we were left to feed ourselves, with our fingers. “Faith, it’s not so bad, after all.”

His example was followed by Dicky and me, and after a time Pember and Kiddle, unable any longer to restrain their appetites, also commenced eating. A supply of dry leaves and long grass, with several carpets, were brought in, and we were given to understand that they were to serve us as beds. This sort of treatment again raised our hopes that our captors might give us our liberty on receiving a ransom. Our difficulty would be to communicate with the ship.

“They cannot expect any very large sum for us,” observed Pember, who, deprived of any stimulant, was getting sadly out of spirits. “The Captain would not consent to pay much for me, I am afraid, and you two youngsters are worth little enough.”

“Speak for yourself,” answered Esse. “I rather think the Captain sets a higher estimation on me than you do.”

“Whether or not, for the honour of the flag they will not desert us,” I observed.

Pember on this gave a faint sickly laugh.

“Few inquiries would be made at the Admiralty as to what had become of an old mate and two youngsters. Expended on a watering party—killed by savages. Such would be our epitaph, and the matter would be settled to the satisfaction of all parties.”

No wonder, considering the circumstances, that our conversation did not take a more lively tone. Pat Brady, to be sure, did his best now and then to get up a laugh, but with very poor success.

“Keep silence, man!” exclaimed Pember, at last, in a surly tone. “You will be singing out in a different way to-morrow morning when they get the ovens ready.”

“Faith, I suppose they would be after making me into an Irish stew, or a dish of bubble and squeak!” exclaimed Pat, whose spirits were not to be quelled even with the anticipation of being turned into a feast for cannibals. I had an idea, however, that the people into whose hands we had fallen were not addicted to such practices, and was, therefore, not much influenced by the remarks which Pember occasionally made as to our probable fate. We were allowed to pass the night in quietness, and next morning another bowl of food was brought to us, with a basket of fruit of various sorts, very acceptable in that hot climate. We waited anxiously, expecting the arrival of a party from the frigate, either to rescue us by force, or to offer a ransom for our liberty; but no one appeared, nor did any of the natives, except the man who brought the food, come to the hut. Once, during an interval of silence, Esse declared he heard firing, but though we listened with all our might, the sounds reached no other ears. After a time, indeed, we all fancied we heard the boom of great guns, but even of that we could not be quite certain. Night again came round, and no one had come to look for us.

Chapter Seventeen.

Several days passed by; we were still prisoners, and all hope of being rescued by our friends vanished. We came to the conclusion that they supposed we were killed, especially as Kiddle told us he had known of several boats’ crews having been cut off by the natives in those seas. What was to be our fate we could not tell; it was not likely to be a pleasant one, at all events. One day the whole village appeared to be in commotion; loud shouts were heard, and presently the door of our hull was thrown open, and several men entered, who dragged us out into the midst of a large crowd collected in the open space in front of it. Among them was the old chief whom we had seen on the day of our capture; a number of the men had hoes and other implements of agriculture. After a good deal of palaver, a hoe was put into Pember’s hands, and signs were made to him that he was to go to work with it. Toby and Pat had hoes given to them also. Esse fancied that we should be allowed to escape.

“They think us too little to work, I hope,” he observed; but scarcely were the words out of his mouth than we both of us had implements put into our hands, and a pretty heavy whip being exhibited, signs were made to us that we should join our companions. We were forthwith marched off to a field where several natives were already at work. Apparently it belonged to the old chief, for he sat on a raised spot at the further end, under an awning, watching the proceedings with a complacent air which especially excited Pember’s wrath. When, also, at times the old mate relaxed in his labours, a dark-skinned fellow with a turban on his head, who seemed to act the part of an overseer, made him quickly resume them by an unmistakable threatening gesture. Thus we were kept at work till late in the evening, when we were all allowed to knock off and go back to our hut, where a larger amount of food than usual was awarded us. Next day we were called up at early dawn, and the hoes again were put into our hands. Sometimes the overseer, and sometimes one of the other men, came and showed us how to use them. All day long we were kept at work with the exception of a short time, when we were allowed to rest and take some food which was brought to us in the fields. We could no longer enjoy any hopes of regaining our liberty. It seemed as if we were destined to be turned into slaves, and to be worked as hard as any negroes in the West India plantations. At first Pember was very miserable, but abstinence from his usual liquor at length, I think, did him good, and he grew fatter and stronger than he had been since I first knew him. Still he persisted that he was dying, and should never again see the shores of England. The rest of us did our best to keep up our spirits, Esse and I told stories to each other, and formed plans for escaping. Some of them were very ingenious, and more or less hazardous; most, in reality, utterly impracticable, because, not knowing where we were, and having no means of getting away from the coast, even had we made our way to the shore, we should very soon have been brought back again. I might spin a long yarn about our captivity, but I do not think it would be interesting. Our days were monotonous enough, considering we were kept at the same work from sunrise to sunset. What a glorious feeling is hope! Hope kept us alive, for in spite of every difficulty we hoped, some time or other, to escape. At length one day as we were working, the old chief as usual looking on, a stranger arrived, and, going up to where he was seated, made a salaam before him. After a palaver of some minutes, which I could not help thinking had reference to us, the old chief called the overseer, and sent him down to where we were working. He went up to Pember, and made signs to him to go to the chief.

“Sure that’s a message for us!” exclaimed Pat Brady. “Arrah, Ben, my boy, you will be after seeing your dear mother again; and the thought that she has been mourning for you has been throubling my heart more than the hard work and the dishonour of labouring for these blackamoors. Hurrah! Erin-go-bragh! I am right sure it’s news that’s coming to us.”

By this time the overseer had spoken to Kiddle, and finally we were all conducted up to the chief. What was our astonishment to see the stranger produce a letter and hand it to Pember. It was written by the captain of a frigate, stating that having heard that some British seamen were detained by a petty chief, he had gone to the Rajah of the country, who had agreed that they should be liberated. The letter was addressed to any officer, or the principal person who was among them, advising them to follow the messenger, who could be trusted. The old chief seemed very indignant, but the envoy was evidently determined to carry out his instructions.

“Sure he need not grumble,” observed Pat Brady, “the big thief has been getting a good many months’ work out of us, and sure that’s more than he had any right to. Still we will part friends with him, and show him that we bear him no ill-will.” On this, Pat, not waiting for the rest, went up and insisted on shaking the old chief cordially by the hand; the rest of us, with the exception of Pember, did the same. I need scarcely say that it was with no little amount of satisfaction that we began our march under the guidance of the Rajah’s envoy. I doubt if any of our friends would have known us, so changed had we become during our captivity. Rice and other grain diet may suit the natives of those regions, but it certainly does not agree with an Englishman’s constitution. We were all pale and thin, our hair long and shaggy, our clothes worn and tattered. We had darned them and mended them up as best we could with bits of native cloth, but in spite of our efforts we officers had a very unofficerlike appearance; while the two men might have served for street beggars, representing shipwrecked sailors, but were very unlike British men-of-war’s men. Eager as we were to get on, we made little progress across the rough country, and not till nearly the close of the second day did we obtain a glimpse of the bright blue sea. Our hearts bounded with joy when we saw it. Still more delightful was it to gaze down from a height which we reached on the well-squared yards and the white deck of a British frigate which lay at anchor in the harbour below us. Pat threw up his hat and shouted for joy. He was the only one of us who retained anything like a hat; only an Irishman, indeed, would have thought of preserving so battered a head-covering.

“Sure it serves to keep my brains from broiling,” he observed, “and what after all is the use of a hat but for that, and just to toss up in the air when one’s heart’s in the mood to leap after it?” So near did the frigate appear that we felt inclined to hail her to send a boat on shore, though our voices would in reality have been lost in mid-air, long before the sound could reach her decks. We should have hurried down to the shore, had not our guide insisted on our proceeding first to the Rajah’s abode, where he might report our arrival in safety and claim a reward for himself, as well as the better to enable the Rajah to put in his own claims for a recompense. We were still standing in the presence of the great man, when a lieutenant and a couple of midshipmen with about twenty armed seamen made their appearance in the courtyard. Dicky Esse and I no sooner caught sight of them than, unable to restrain our eagerness, we rushed forward intending to shake hands with them.

“Hillo, what are these curious little imps about?” exclaimed one of the midshipmen, as we were running towards them.

“Imp?” exclaimed Dicky. “You would look like an imp if you had been made to hoe in the fields all day long with the sun right overhead for the best part of half-a-year. I am an officer like yourself, and will not stand an insult, that I can tell you!” This reply was received with a burst of laughter from the two midshipmen; but the lieutenant, guessing who we were, received us both in a very kind way, and Pember with Kiddle and Pat coming up, he seemed highly pleased to find that we were the prisoners he had been sent to liberate. The frigate, he told us, was the “Resolution,” Captain Pemberton, who, having heard through some of the natives that some English seamen were in captivity, had taken steps to obtain our release.

“We told the Rajah that if any of you were injured, or if his people refused to restore you, we would blow his town about his ears—a far more effectual way of dealing with these gentry than mild expostulations or gentle threats. And now,” he added, “if there are no more of you we will return on board.” In a short time we were standing on the deck of the frigate. Her captain received us very kindly, and soon afterwards we made sail. The frigate being rather short of officers, we were ordered to do duty till we could fall in with our own ship. Pember grumbled somewhat, declaring that he ought to be allowed to rest after the hardships he had gone through. People seldom know what is best for them, nor did he, as will be shown in the sequel. Both Dicky Esse and I were placed in the same watch, as were our two followers. The “Resolution” had not fallen in with our frigate, and therefore we could gain no tidings of any of our friends, and as she, it was supposed, had sailed for Canton, we might not fall in with her for some time. We cruised round and about the shores of the numberless islands of those seas, sometimes taking a prize, and occasionally attacking a fort or injuring and destroying the property of our enemies whenever we could meet with it. One night, while I was on watch, I found Kiddle near me. Though he did not hesitate to speak to me as of yore, yet he never seemed to forget that I was now on the quarter-deck.

“Do you know, Mr Burton,” he observed, “that I have found an old acquaintance on board? He was pilot in the ‘Boreas,’ and he is doing the same sort of work here. I never quite liked the man, though he is a fair spoken enough sort of gentleman.”

“What! Is that Mr Noalles?” I asked.

“The same!” and Toby then gave me the account which I have before noted of that person.

“That is strange!” I said. “I really fancied I had seen him before. Directly I came on board it struck me that I knew the man, and yet of course I cannot recollect him after so many years.” He was a dark, large-whiskered man, with a far from pleasant expression of countenance. The ship had been on the station some time, and rather worse for wear and tear. We had not been on board long, when one night as I was in my hammock I felt it jerk in a peculiar manner, and was almost sent out of it. I was quickly roused by a combination of all conceivable sounds:—the howling of the wind, the roar of the seas, which seemed to be dashing over us. The rattling of ropes and blocks, the creaking of bulkheads, the voices of the men shouting to each other and asking what had happened, were almost deafening, even to ears accustomed to such noises.

“We are all going to be drowned!” I heard Dicky Esse, whose hammock slung next to mine, sing out. “Never mind, Dicky,” I answered, “we will have a struggle for life at all events, and may be, as the savages did not eat us, the sea will not swallow us up.”

Finding everybody was turning out, I huddled on my clothes as best I could, and with the rest found my way on deck, though I quickly wished myself below again, as it was no easy matter to keep my footing when I was there, and preserve myself from slipping into the sea, which was dashing wildly over our bulwarks. The ship was on her beam-ends. By the light of the vivid flashes of lightning which continued incessantly darting here and there round us, I saw the Captain half-dressed, with his garments under one of his arms, shouting out his orders, which the lieutenants, much in the same state as to costume, were endeavouring to get executed, their voices, however, being drowned in the tempest. For some minutes, indeed, even the best seamen could scarcely do anything but hold on for their lives. One thing appeared certain: either the masts must be cut away, or the guns hove overboard. It seemed impossible, if this could not be done, that the ship would continue above water. Suddenly with a violent jerk up she rose again on an even keel with her topmasts carried away, and the rigging beating with fearful force about our heads.

“Clear away the wreck!” shouted the Captain. Such was now the no easy task to be performed. The officers, however, with axes in their hands, leading the way, sprang aloft, followed by the topmen. Blocks and spars came rattling down on deck to the no small risk of those below. At length the shattered spars having been cleared away, head sail was got on the ship, and off she ran before the hurricane, the master having ascertained that we had a clear sea before us. When morning dawned, the frigate, which had looked so trim at sunset, presented a sadly battered appearance, her topmasts gone, the deck lumbered with the wreck, two of the boats carried away, a part of the lee-bulwarks stove in. The carpenter too, after going below with his mates, returned on deck and reported that the ship was making water very fast. “We must ease her, sir,” I heard him say, “or I cannot answer for her weathering the gale.” The Captain took a turn or two along the quarter-deck, his countenance showing the anxiety he felt.

“It must be done,” I heard him say. “Send Mr Block aft.” He was the gunner. “We must heave some of our upper-deck guns overboard, Mr Block.” The gunner seemed inclined to plead for them.

“It must be done,” said the Captain. And now the crew, who would have sprung joyfully to the guns to man them against an enemy, began with unwilling hands to cast the tackles loose in order to launch them into the ocean. Watching the roll of the ship, first one gun was sent through the port into the deep—another and another followed.

“By my faith it’s like pulling out the old girl’s teeth, and giving her no chance of biting,” observed Pat Brady, who was standing near me.

“We will keep a few of her grinders in though, Pat,” observed Kiddle: “we must handle them the smarter if we come alongside an enemy, to make amends for those we have lost.”

The heavy weight on her upper-deck being thus got rid of, the frigate laboured less, and the pumps being kept going, the water no longer continued to gain upon us. However, it was necessary to work the chain pumps night and day to keep the water under. At length we arrived at Amboyna, where we remained some time repairing damages and refitting the frigate as far as we were able.

“I wish we were aboard our own ship again,” said Kiddle to me one day, “for I don’t know how it is, but the crew of this ship declare that she is doomed to be unlucky. I don’t know how many men they have not lost. They have scarcely taken a prize, and they are always getting into misfortune. It’s not the fault of the Captain, for he is as good a seaman as ever stepped, and the officers are all very well in their way, and so there’s no doubt it’s the ship’s fault. Some of the people, to be sure, don’t like Mr Noalles, the pilot. They don’t know who he is or where he came from, though that to my mind has nothing to do with it, for it’s not likely he would be aboard here if he was not known to be a right sort of person.”

At length we once more sailed for a place called Booroo, where we got a supply of wood and water, as well as refreshments and stock, and then sailed for the Straits of Banca. As we were standing along the coast, when daylight broke one morning, we saw towards the land a number of vessels, which were pronounced to be pirate prows. In their midst was a large brig, which they had apparently captured. We were standing towards them when the land-breeze died away, and we lay becalmed, unable to get nearer. On this the boats were ordered out, and two of the lieutenants, the master, and a couple of mates took the command. Dicky Esse and I accompanied the Second-Lieutenant. Our orders were to board the prows, and if they offered any resistance, to destroy them. The water was smooth and beautifully blue, while the rising sun tipped the topmost heights of the lofty hills, which rose, as it were, out of the ocean, feathered almost from their summits to the water’s edge with graceful trees. There lay the brig, while the prows were clustered like so many beasts of prey around their quarry. The pirates seemed in no way alarmed at our approach. Our leader, however, had made up his mind, in spite of their numbers to board the brig, and then, should the prows interfere, to attack them. As soon as this resolution was come to, we dashed forward to get on board her without delay. The pirates seemed scarcely aware of our intention, and before any of the prows had lifted an anchor we were on board. Some forty or fifty dark-skinned, villainous-looking fellows had possession of the brig, but they were probably unable to use the big guns, and though they made some little resistance, we soon drove them forward, a considerable number being cut down, the rest jumping overboard, and attempting to swim towards the prows, which, instantly getting out their sweeps, began to approach us.

Chapter Eighteen.

The brig was ours, but we were not to be allowed to carry her off without a struggle. There were certainly not less than twenty prows, each of them carrying from fifty to a hundred men; and though the frigate’s guns would have dispersed them like chaff before the wind, she was too far off to render us any assistance. We had therefore to depend upon the guns of the brig for our defence. They had all been discharged probably by her former crew, who had struggled desperately in her defence. Several of them lay about the deck, cut down when the pirates boarded. They appeared to be Dutchmen, with two or three natives. One of the mates and I, with a couple of men, were ordered down immediately we got on board to bring up shot and powder from the magazine. On our way I looked into the cabin. There, a sight met my eyes which made me shudder. Close to the entrance lay on his back a tall, fine looking old gentleman with silvery locks, while further in, two young women, their skin somewhat dark, but very handsome, they seemed to me, and well dressed, lay clasped in each other’s arms, perfectly dead. It seemed as if the same bullet had killed them both. We had no time, however, to make further observations, but hurrying down we found that the magazine was open. We immediately sent up a supply of powder, as well as round-shot, which were stowed not far off. We were hurrying on deck again, when I thought I saw something glittering under the ladder. It was a man’s eye. Repressing the impulse to cry out, I told Esse what I had seen. At the same moment we sprang down and seized the man, Esse receiving a severe cut as we did so. At the same instant a pistol bullet whistled by my ear. It was shot at the magazine, but happily it was at too great a distance to allow the flash to ignite the powder. Fortunately my right hand was free, and drawing my dirk, I pinned our antagonist through the throat to the deck. He still struggled, but another blow from my companion silenced him for ever. I felt a sensation come over me I had never before experienced, but it was not a time to give way to my feelings. Had I not discovered the man, we should probably in a few minutes have all been blown into the air. The prows were coming rapidly on.

“If we had a breeze we should do well,” observed our commanding officer, “but if not we shall have tough work to keep these fellows off.” Our guns were loaded and run out. “We must not throw a shot away,” observed the Lieutenant. He kept looking out in hopes of a breeze. The topsails had been loosened, and all was ready for making sail. “Cut the cable,” he shouted at length.

“Sheet home the topsails! Man the starboard braces! Up with the helm!” Our sails filled and the vessel’s head slowly turned away from the shore, just as the nearest prow was a dozen fathoms from us. A couple of shot threw her crew into confusion, and before they could grapple us we glided by them, every instant gathering way. “Give the next the stem,” shouted the Lieutenant. We did so, but we had scarcely way enough to do the vessel much injury. The other prows were now gathering thickly round us, and it was time for us to open on them with our guns. The enemy had no great guns, but the instant we began firing, they returned the compliment with matchlocks and javelins, which came flying thickly on board. As we had to fight both sides at once, we had but little time to use our own small-arms. However, while the men were working the guns, Esse and I and another midshipman loaded the muskets with which the men fired while the guns were being sponged and loaded, we youngsters doing our part by firing the muskets which were not used. So rapidly did we work our guns, that many of the prows at a distance hesitated to approach us, while those which got near were quickly half knocked to pieces. “Hurrah! There goes one of them down!” sung out Kiddle, who was hauling in his gun. “And there’s another! And another!” shouted others of the crew. The breeze was increasing. Again the prows came on on both sides, but our guns were all loaded, and we gave them such a dose, few of our guns missing, that once more they dropped astern in confusion. The wind had now reached the frigate, which under all sail was standing towards us. When the pirates saw this they well knew that their chance of victory was gone, and the crews of the headmost ones, again firing their matchlocks and darting a few more spears at us, pulled round, and made off with all speed towards the shore. Luffing up, we brought our broadside to bear upon them, and gave them a few parting shots, our crew giving a hearty cheer in token of victory. We were soon up to the frigate, when Captain Pemberton ordered us by signal to run back, and keep as close in shore as we could, in order to watch the proceedings of the pirates. However, before long it again fell a calm, and both the frigate and brig had to come to an anchor. Soon after, the Captain and several officers came on board the brig to examine her, and to ascertain more particularly what she was, and who were the murdered persons on board. Among others was Mr Noalles the pilot. No sooner did he enter the cabin than he started back with a cry of horror.

“What is the matter? Who are those?” asked the Captain, seeing the glance he cast at the dead man and the two ladies.

“Little did I expect to see them thus,” he answered. “They were my friends, from whom I have often when at Batavia received great attention. That old man was one of the principal merchants in the place, and those poor girls were his daughters,” and again I observed the look of grief and horror with which Mr Noalles regarded them. There had apparently been two or three other passengers on board, but what had become of them, or the remainder of the crew, we could find nothing on board to tell us. The sight of those poor girls, cruelly murdered in their youth and beauty, was enough certainly to make the hardest heart on board bleed, and yet how much worse might have been their fate. A prize crew was put on board the brig, but of course the cabin was held sacred till the murdered people were committed to their ocean grave. At first it was proposed to bury them on shore, but a strong force would have been required had we landed, and as their remains might afterwards have been disturbed, it was determined to commit them to the deep. For this purpose the next morning the Captain came on board the brig with most of the officers, the sailmaker having in the meantime closely fastened up each form in several folds of stout canvas, with a heavy shot at the feet. As Mr Noalles informed the Captain the deceased were Protestants, he used the burial service from the Church of England prayer book. The words, indeed, sounded peculiarly solemn to our ears. All present probably had heard it over and over again when a shipmate had died from wounds in battle or sickness brought on in the service, but their deaths were all in the ordinary way. These people had been cut off in a very different manner. I remember particularly those words, “In the midst of life we are in death.” They made an impression on me at the time, and more so from what afterwards occurred. As they were uttered the old man’s corpse was allowed to glide off slowly into the calm ocean, into the depths of which it shot down rapidly. The bodies of the poor girls were launched one by one in the same manner, and I could not help jumping into the rigging to watch them, as the two shrouded figures went down and down in the clear water, till gradually they were lost to view. Most of us then returned on board the frigate. Such stores as the brig required were sent to her, as well as a prize crew, and she was then despatched to Amboyna to bring the frigate certain stores which it appeared she required. As our ship was supposed to be cruising in another direction, we remained on board, in the hopes of falling in with her. A light breeze towards evening enabled the brig to get under weigh three or four days after the circumstances I have just related. Esse, who drew very well, made a sketch of her as she stood along the land, the rays of the setting sun shedding a pink glow on her canvas, while the whole ocean was lighted up with the same rosy hue. One side of the picture was bounded by the horizon, the other by the yellow shores and the lofty broken tree-covered heights of the island. We remained at anchor, intending to sail in the morning, should there be sufficient wind to enable us to move. As the sun was sinking into the ocean, the sky and water for a few seconds were lighted up with a glow of brightest orange, which faded away as the shades of night came stealing across the water from the east. In a short time the stars overhead burst forth, and shone down upon us, their light reflected in the mirror-like expanse on which we floated. The heat was very great. Esse and Pember had the middle watch under the Third-Lieutenant of the ship (the second had gone away in the prize). The heat making me unwilling to turn into my hammock, I continued to walk the deck with Esse. Sometimes we stopped and leaned against a gun-carriage, talking, as midshipmen are apt to talk, of home, or future prospects, or of late occurrences.

“That foreign-looking pilot aboard here is a strange fellow,” observed Esse to me. “The people think him not quite right in his mind. They say he talks in his sleep, and did you observe his look when he caught sight of the murdered people aboard the brig?” I did not, however, agree with Dicky’s notions.

“The man had been employed on board ships of war for many years, I am told,” I answered. “And if he was not a respectable character it is not likely that they would take him.”

“As to that I have my doubts,” answered Esse. “All they look to is to get a good pilot who knows the ugly navigation of these seas, and that, I suppose, at all events, he does. But see, who is that on the other side of the deck?” As he spoke he pointed to a person who was standing, apparently looking out at some object far away across the sea.

“Yes, that is he,” I whispered. “I hope he did not hear us.”

“If he did it does not signify,” said Esse. While we were looking at him, the man walked directly aft, and remained gazing, as he had done before, into the distance over the taffrail. The watch at length came to an end. “I shall caulk it out on deck,” said I. Esse agreed to do the same. Indeed several of the crew were sleeping on deck—Kiddle and Brady among them. There also was Pember. Indeed it seemed surprising that anybody could manage to exist in the oven-like heat which prevailed in the lower part of the ship. “Sound slumber to you, Burton,” said Esse, and he and I before a minute passed were fast asleep. How long we had slept I do not know, but I was awoke with the most terrific roar I had ever heard. I felt myself lifted right up into the air, and then, as it were, shoved off with tremendous violence from the deck on which I was lying, and plunged into the water. Down! Down! I sank. My ears seemed cracking with the continued roar. My breath was going. The horror of deep waters was upon me. Then suddenly I appeared to be bounding up again. I thought it was all a dream; I expected to find myself in my hammock, or in my bed at Whithyford, and certainly not struggling amidst the foaming waters in the Indian Seas.

Chapter Nineteen.

When I came to the surface, I found myself amidst a mass of wreck, and several human beings struggling desperately for dear life. Some were crying out for help, others clutching at fragments of timber which floated near, and others striking out and keeping themselves afloat by their own exertions. I had become a pretty good swimmer, and seeing a part of the wreck above water not far from me, I made towards it. On my way I saw a person clinging to a spar a couple of fathoms off. “Who is that?” said a voice. It was that of Dicky Esse. “Burton,” I answered. “Oh! Do help me!” he cried out. “I cannot swim, and I cannot hold on much longer, and if I do not reach the wreck I shall drop off and be drowned!”

“Hold on,” I shouted, “and perhaps I may be able to tow the spar up to the wreck. I will try at all events; but do not let go, Dicky! Do not on any account!”

I swam to the spar, and, partly resting on it, shoved it before me towards the wreck, but still I made but slow progress. I was afraid that I should be obliged, after all, to give it up, as I felt my strength going, when a man swimming powerfully reached us. “Help! Help! Do help me!” I cried out. He said nothing, but just touching the spar with one hand, so as not to sink it deeper in the water, he shoved it on till we reached the wreck. The hammock nettings were just above water, and afforded us a better resting-place than we could have expected. “Thank you! Thank you!” I said, as the man hauled Dicky and me into this place of refuge. “What shall we next do?”

“Wait till morning, and if we are then alive, we must get on shore as best we can,” he answered. I knew by the voice and accent of the speaker that he was Mr Noalles. The bright stars shining down from the sky gave us sufficient light to distinguish objects at a considerable distance. As we looked out we saw several other persons still alive, some swimming, others holding on to bits of timber. We shouted out to them, lest they should not be aware that they could obtain a place to rest on, at all events, until morning. A voice not far off answered us. “Who is that?” I cried out, for I thought I recognised it. “Toby Kiddle, sir,” was the answer. He was swimming up towards us. “I have just passed Mr Pember clinging to a piece of the wreck. I will go back and try to bring him here.”

“I will go with you,” I said.

“No, no, youngster, stay where you are,” observed Mr Noalles; “you will be drowned if you make the attempt; I will go!” The next instant he was striking out in the direction in which Toby was now swimming.

Esse and I watched them anxiously as they disappeared in the gloom. I was very thankful to think that Toby Kiddle was alive, but I could not help wishing that Pat Brady had escaped also, as I knew that he had been on deck and close to Kiddle. While we were looking out for the return of our shipmates, another man, one of the seamen, reached the wreck. He said he was greatly scorched, and it seemed surprising that he should have been able to swim so far. There were yet a number of people floating about alive, and when we shouted several voices answered us. Among them I thought I recognised Pat’s. “Brady, is that you?” I cried out. “By the powers it’s myself, I belave,” answered Pat, “but where I have been to, or what I have been about, or where this is happening bothers me particularly. And how I am ever to get to you is more than I can tell.”

“I must go to help him,” said I to Esse, “for he will be drifted away, even if he manages to cling to whatever he has got hold of.”

“But surely he is drifting towards us,” observed Esse. “He has got nearer since he began to speak.” Such indeed was the case, and even before Kiddle and Mr Noalles returned with Pember, not only Pat, but two or three other men had been drifted up to us. Pat had helped himself along by striking out with his feet, though he was but a poor swimmer; indeed, I have scarcely ever met an Irish seaman who could swim. We could make out other people still floating at some distance. Now and then a cry was heard. We shouted in return, but there was no reply. It was the last despairing utterance of one of our shipmates, before he sank below the surface. Those on the wreck were already so exhausted that no one could go to their assistance. There were rather more than a dozen altogether, I believe, clinging to the wreck. Several of them, from the exclamations they uttered, I found were suffering from scorching, or the blows they had received from falling pieces of the wreck.

Morning at length dawned upon us poor human beings—the sole survivors of the ship’s company, who but a few hours before were I enjoying life and strength. Just then the words which I had heard at the funeral came across my mind—“In the midst of life we are in death.” How true it had proved to them. It might prove true to us also, for our prospects of escape were small indeed. Pieces of the wreck were floating about around us, and I thought I made out two or three people still holding on to the fragments, but I could not be certain. In the far distance were the shores of the island. It seemed so far off, that we could scarcely hope to reach it; yet reach it we must, if our lives were to be saved. The sea was smooth, and the warmth of the water prevented our being benumbed from being so long in it. Still, as the sun rose, all hands began to complain of thirst. Something must be done, however. I asked Pember what he would advise, as he, being the highest in rank among us, would have to take the command; but his drinking habits had unnerved him, and he answered, incoherently, “We must swim, I suppose, if we cannot get the wreck under way.” Esse and I then turned to Mr Noalles. He had occasionally uttered a deep groan, as if in pain. I found that he was severely hurt, partly from the fire, and also from the blows he had received. At first, apparently, he had not been aware how seriously he had been injured. “We must build a raft, lads,” he answered at length. “See! Here is the main-yard alongside of us, with the main-sail and plenty of rope hanging on to it. We shall have no lack of materials, but there are not many of us, I am afraid, fit for the work.” He spoke too truly. Esse and I had escaped the best. Kiddle, also, was only slightly injured, and two of the ship’s company had escaped, while all the rest were more or less hurt, two or three of them very badly. It seemed a wonder they could have got on to the wreck, while Pember, either from external injury or the shock his nerves had received, was likely to be of little use.

While we were looking out for the spars and pieces of timber to form our raft, a round object appeared at a little distance. “It’s a pumpkin!” cried one of the men. I darted into the water and struck out for it. Thankful, indeed, was I to get such a prize. I soon brought it back. It was meat and drink to us, and though, divided into so many, there was little for each, yet it might assist in saving our lives. A double share was awarded me, but I declined taking more than the rest. It revived us greatly, and with our strength somewhat restored, we began the building of our raft. Those who could swim every now and then struck off to get hold of pieces of wood to serve our purpose. Among other things the jolly-boat’s mast was found, and it was agreed that it would serve us well for a mast for the raft. It was hard work getting up the canvas which hung down in the water, but at length with our knives we cut off a sufficient quantity for a sail. The rope served as for lashing the spars which we had collected together. At length we managed to get a frame-work formed. Across this we lashed other spars and planks, but it was a very slow business, for some of the men could only use one hand. Others had their legs so injured that they could not move from where they sat; while so greatly diminished was the strength of everyone of us, that we were unable to secure the lashings as thoroughly as was necessary.

“It is to be hoped no sea will be after getting up, or all our fine work will be tumbling to pieces entirely,” observed Pat, as he surveyed what we had done.

“This will never do as it is,” observed Mr Noalles. “We must build a platform on the top of it, to keep us out of the water.”

There was no lack of materials to do as he proposed, and we, therefore, immediately set about building the platform. Its weight brought the lower part of the raft deeper into the water, but that could not be helped. Some hours passed by while we were thus engaged, and again thirst attacked us. We had only eaten half the pumpkin. Some of the men entreated that they might have the remainder. “Give it them—give it them,” sang out Pember, “and give me a piece. It is the last morsel we shall probably put into our mouths.” The fruit was cut up into twelve small slices, and distributed evenly. Even now I recollect the delight with which my teeth crunched the cool fruit. Every particle, rind and all, was consumed, as may be supposed. We now stepped our mast, and got a sail ready for hoisting. As the raft was small for supporting so many people, great care was necessary in balancing ourselves on it. Mr Noalles, who was evidently suffering greatly, and three of the men who were most injured, were placed on the platform in the centre. The rest of us ranged ourselves round them, Kiddle steering with a spar, which we had rigged as a rudder. There was very little wind; what there was, was blowing in the direction of the low land of Sumatra, which we calculated to be about four leagues off. Mr Noalles told us that some fifteen or twenty leagues to the north of it was a Dutch settlement. If we could reach it, we might there obtain assistance. By this time Pember had roused up a little, and was able to assume the command of our frail craft, for when he had his proper wits about him he was a very good seaman. Noalles, meantime, was getting worse and worse. It was nearly two hours after noon before our task was accomplished. We had picked up everything we could find floating about the wreck, but not a particle of food appeared, nor did a cask of water pass near us. What would we not have given for that. All this time the sun, in burning splendour, had been beating down upon our unprotected heads, for most of us had lost our hats. I secured a handkerchief round my head, and Esse did the same.

“Are you all ready, lads?” asked Pember. “Ay! Ay! Sir,” was the answer. “Then shove off, and I pray we may reach yonder coast before dark.” We glided slowly on. For some time we appeared to be approaching the land. Then, from the way we moved, we discovered that a current was running, and was carrying us to the southward, rather away from than nearer the point we hoped to reach. Mr Noalles, who was just able to sit up, saw what was happening.

“I thought so,” he muttered. “With so great a wretch as I am on board, there is little chance of the raft reaching the shore. If the people were wise they would heave me overboard; but, oh! I am not fit to die. I dare not face death and that which is to come after it!”

These words were said in so low a tone that I alone, who was sitting close to him, could understand him.

“Die! Did I say? And yet how often have I faced death, without a moment’s thought of the future, or a grain of fear!”

“What makes you then think so much about it now, sir?” I asked. “I hope we shall get on shore, and that you will recover.” I was anxious to calm the feelings of the poor man, though I was scarcely surprised to hear him speak as he did.

“Is that you, Burton?” he said, hearing my voice. “They tell me that we have been shipmates before, and that I was on board the ship when you were born; but I don’t remember the circumstance.”

“I have been told so,” I said, “and the man steering, Toby Kiddle, remembers you.”

“Ah! Yes, I think I have an idea of your mother—a pretty woman. Where is she now?” And I told him that she was living with Mrs and the Misses Schank, and I added, “There is another sister—a Mrs Lindars, whose husband deserted her.”

“Mrs Lindars?” he said slowly, “and is she still alive?”

“Yes,” I answered, rather astonished at the question.

“I have been saved another crime!” he muttered between his teeth. He was silent for some minutes. Then he abruptly addressed me. “Burton, I believe I am dying. I should like to make a clear bosom before I go out of the world. A viler wretch than I am has never been borne shrieking through the air by demons to the place of torment. You speak of Mrs Lindars. She is my wife, for that is my real name. I have borne many since then. I was young then, and so was she—very young and very beautiful, I thought. I wished to run away with her, but she would not consent, and we married. At first I thought I could settle down in the country, and support myself by my literary and musical talents. I soon found that this would not bring me a sufficient income to supply my wants, for I had somewhat luxurious tastes. My wife gave birth to a child—a daughter. She was a sweet little creature. I loved her in a way I never loved anything before. Each year she increased in beauty. At length I had an opportunity of obtaining a large sum by committing a crime. A fearful crime it was, and yet I did not hesitate. It was necessary to fly the country. I could not bear the thoughts of leaving my child behind me. It was a cruel act to desert my wife, and still more cruel to carry away the child, for I knew that her mother loved her as much as I did. My wife was ill, and I pretended to take the child to see a relation, from whom I told her I had expectations. I knew she could not follow me. Changing my name, I crossed to France where I had relations. I never cared for gambling, or I should probably quickly have got through my ill-acquired wealth. I had followed the sea during the early part of my life, and soon again I got tired of remaining on shore. I was eager to start on a new expedition, but what to do with my daughter in the meanwhile I could not decide. I ought in common humanity to have sent her back to her poor mother; but had I done so, I was afraid I should not be able again to see her. She was so young when I took her away that she did not know her real name. I therefore carried her to Jersey, to which island my family belonged, and there left her, pretending that her mother was French, and had died soon after her birth. The arrangement having been made, I came out to the Indian Seas and China, and, engaging in the opium trade, made a considerable sum of money. I lost, however, the larger portion, and then once more, seized with a desire to see my child, I returned to Jersey. I found her grown into a beautiful girl. A new undertaking had presented itself to me. I would go out to India, and make my fortune by serving under one of the native princes. I had several times visited that country during my wanderings. My daughter, I knew, would materially aid me in my undertaking. As I placed before her the advantages to be gained in the most glowing colours, and hid what I knew would be objectionable, she willingly consented to accompany me. Her beauty, I felt sure, would enable me to secure a wealthy marriage for her, but, as that might not assist my views, I secretly resolved to throw her in the way of some native prince, and she, once becoming his favourite wife, I felt very sure that I should rise to the highest offices in his court. The degradation to which I was dooming my child did not deter me; indeed, I persuaded myself that I was about to procure a splendid position for her, which she might well be satisfied to gain.”

Chapter Twenty.

Mr Noalles, as I will still call him, spoke with difficulty, but some secret impulse, it seemed, made him anxious to disburden his mind. “I make these confessions to you, Burton,” he said, “because I want you to convey to my poor wife, should you ever return to England, the expression of my sorrow for the way I treated her; and if you can by any means discover my daughter, that you may tell her, her miserable father died blessing her; though, alas! I feel that blessings proceeding from such lips as mine may turn to curses. But I did not tell you that mercifully she escaped the dreadful fate to which I devoted her. Among the passengers on board the ship in which we went out to India was a young writer. He was pleasing in his manners, but far more retiring and silent than his companions, and I did not for a moment suppose that he was likely to win the affections of my daughter. He had already been in India some years, and was returning after a short absence. He therefore knew the country, and immediately on landing proceeded to his station. I flattered myself that I had got rid of him, for latterly I had observed that my daughter was more pleased with his society than with that of anybody else on board. We remained some time at Calcutta, where, as I expected, my daughter was greatly admired. I, meantime, was perfecting myself in Hindostanee, and gaining information to guide my further proceedings. At length we got off up the country, but on the way I was taken seriously ill. It happened to be at the very station where Mr Bramston was residing. He heard of my being there and instantly called, and very naturally pressed his suit with my daughter. Believing that I was dying, I consented to his becoming her lawful protector, for otherwise I dreaded lest she should be left in the country alone and destitute. Scarcely, however, had the marriage taken place than I recovered, and all the plans I had designed were brought to nothing. I found that my character was suspected, and hastening back to Calcutta, I took a passage on board a ship bound for Canton, again changing my name to that by which you know me. From that time forward I have knocked about in these seas in various capacities, just able to support myself, but ever failing to gain the wealth for which I had been ready at one time to sell my soul. Of the child I had loved so dearly I had never heard. If she wrote to me, her letters must have miscarried, and from that day to this I have received no tidings of her. Often and often I have thought of returning to India, but the dread of being recognised has deterred me, and I felt that my appearance would more likely produce shame and annoyance than afford her any satisfaction or pleasure. Thus all my plans and schemings have come to an end, and such fruits as they have produced have been bitter indeed; I cannot talk more, Burton. Promise me that you will try to find out my daughter and her husband. Bramston, remember, Charles Bramston of the Civil Service—the Bengal Presidency, and his wife bore the name of Emily Herbert. Herbert was the name I then assumed. She often asked me questions about her childhood, but I invariably led her off the subject, so that of that she knew nothing. Tell her that you saw her father die, and that his last thoughts were of her.”

I entreated the unfortunate man to keep up his spirits. I pointed out that we were approaching the shore, and that before many hours had passed we should probably land on it; when, although the Dutch were our enemies, our forlorn condition would assuredly excite their compassion, and induce them to afford us all the relief we could require. “Do not trust too much to them,” he answered slowly. “Besides, the natives on this coast are savage fellows, who would scruple very little to put us all to death, and as to getting on shore at all, you will not be there for many hours, depend on that!”

He ceased; appearing very much exhausted from having spoken so long. His sufferings, indeed, also, had become very intense, for the salt water and the heat of the sun had greatly inflamed his legs, which had been severely burnt. His voice, in a short time, almost failed, but his lips continued to move, and I heard him murmuring, “Water! Water! Oh! Give me but one drop to cool my tongue! Where am I? Is this hell begun already? Water! Water! Will no one have compassion on a burning wretch?”

Still, so strong was his constitution, that in spite of his sufferings he lingered on. Another poor man, apparently not more hurt than he was, in a short time sank under the injuries he had received. The man had been sitting up trying to catch a breath of air, when suddenly he uttered a low groan, and fell back on the platform.

“The poor fellow is dead, I am afraid,” said Esse, taking up his hand, which fell helpless to the position from which it had been raised. “Can we do anything to restore him?”

“There is no use,” said Pember, putting his hand on the man’s mouth, “he will never speak again. The sooner we heave him overboard the better.”

He was the first of our number we had to launch into the deep. The body floated astern for some time, and we could scarcely help casting uneasy glances at it. “Oh! Look! Look! He was alive after all!” exclaimed Esse. We turned round. The body seemed to rise half out of the water, the arms waving wildly. Then down it sank and disappeared from view. We also expected to hear a shriek proceed from it. “Oh, Pember!” I exclaimed, “why did you let us throw him overboard? What a dreadful thing!”

“Save your sympathy for those who want it, youngster,” answered the old mate. “He was as dead as a door nail. Don’t fear that. Jack Shark had got hold of his heels, and that made the body rise suddenly out of the water, as you saw him. Well! It will be the lot of more of us before long. I do not like the look of the weather. I wonder what Mr Noalles thinks of it.” Noalles, however, was unable to speak. The wind was increasing, and the sea had already got up considerably, making the raft work in a very unsatisfactory manner. We had the greatest difficulty in holding on, while the smaller pieces of timber, which had been less securely lashed to the frame-work, began to part. Still we ran towards the island, our sail helping us considerably. As the sea increased, steering became more difficult, while the lower part of the raft was so completely immersed in the water, that we had the greatest difficulty in preventing ourselves being washed off, when the foaming seas came rolling over it. We held on as best we could, by the beckets, which had been secured to the raft for this purpose. We had all now reason to dread that we should lose our own lives; for though the raft appeared to be still approaching the shore, yet so furiously was it tumbled about by the fast rising seas, that we could with difficulty cling on to it, while we could scarcely hope that it would hold together. Noalles, as I have said, had been with Pember and two other men on the platform. A foam-covered sea came roaring towards us. We all held on to the main part of the raft. The sea struck it, and before we could make any effort to secure it, away it was carried, to a considerable distance from us, with our three shipmates still resting on it. It seemed surprising that they should not have been washed off. The same sea carried off one of our number, thus leaving six of us only clinging to the main part of the raft. At the same moment our mast and sail were carried away, and we were left at the mercy of the seas. In vain we endeavoured with the paddles, which we had saved, to get up to the other raft. It appeared to be receding further and further from us, when another sea, similar in size to that which had torn it from the main part, struck it with full force, and hid it from our view. We looked again. The few fragments of the wreck could alone be seen; but our late companions had sunk beneath the surface of the troubled waters, which now leaped, and foamed, and raged above their heads. We had little time to mourn their fate, for we were compelled to look after our own safety. Night was coming on. A dreary prospect was before us. Still Pat Brady kept up his spirits wonderfully. “Sure, Mr Burton, old Mother Macrone of Ballynahinch was after prophesying you would become an admiral one of these days, and sure if we was drownded, we should not live to see it, nor you neither for that matter; and so sure as Mistress Macrone is an honest woman, and spoke the truth, we need not be after throubling ourselves about not getting to land. It will be some time before we can manage to reach it, however.” I cannot say that Paddy’s remarks had much effect on us, although I fully believe he spoke what he thought to be the truth. We were still a long way from the land, when darkness settled down upon us, and the shattered raft continued tossing up and down on the foaming seas. Every instant we thought would be our last, for we knew that the spars to which we were clinging might be torn from the frame-work, and we might be deprived of our last remaining support. Still, life was sweet to all of us. We who had escaped were the least injured of the party. Twelve had left the wreck, six now alone remained alive, two only of the crew of the ill-fated frigate—Smith, an Englishman, and Sandy McPherson, from the North of the Tweed. They were both brave, determined fellows, but Sandy’s spirit was troubled, not so much, apparently, by the fearful position in which we were placed, as by what he called Pat Brady’s recklessness and frivolity. Even when thus clinging to our frail raft, now tossed high up on a foaming sea, now sent gliding down into the bottom of the trough with darkness around us, almost starved, and our throats parched by thirst, Brady’s love of a joke would still break forth. “Arrah, but it’s illegant dancing we’re learning out here!” he exclaimed, “though, faith, I would rather it were on the green turf than footing it on the top of the green waves, but we will be safe on shore before many hours are over.”

“Ay, laddie, but it’s ill dancing o’er the graves of your friends,” observed Sandy. “Just think where they are, and where we may be not ten minutes hence. You will not keep the breath in your body half that time under the salt water, and we may, one and all of us, be fathoms deep before five minutes have passed away.”

Sandy spoke what we all knew to be the truth, but still we would rather have shut our eyes to the unpleasant fact. It is extraordinary that men should be able to disregard the future, even when on the very brink of the grave. Is it apathy, or stolid indifference, or disbelief in a future existence that enables them to do so? I speak of those without the Christian’s hope—men who lead profligate lives; men stained with a thousand crimes; men who have never feared God, who seemed scarcely to have a knowledge of God. I have thought the matter over, and have come to the conclusion that some men have the power of shutting out thought. They dare not let thought intrude for a moment. They struggle desperately against thought. Sometimes thought conquers, and then fearful is their condition. Then the terrors of hell rise up, and they would give ten thousand worlds to escape the doom they know well they have merited. Even now I do not like to think of that night. Slowly the hours dragged on. We fancied as we rose to the top of the sea, that the wind was blowing with even greater force than before, and our frail raft was dashed here and there, with even greater violence than it had yet endured. We felt it breaking up. With a desperate grip we held on to the larger portions of the timber which composed it. At length it parted, and Kiddle and I were left clinging to one part, while our four companions held on to the other. We could scarcely hope finally to escape. The two portions, however, continued floating within hailing distance of each other. We shouted to our friends to hold on. Pat Brady answered with a cheerful “Ay! Ay!” It cheered our spirits somewhat, though not very greatly, it must be owned. From that moment the sea appeared to be going down, and gradually daylight, which we thought had been much further off, stole over the world of waters. Fortunately there were some thin boards still secured to the portion of the raft which supported Kiddle and me. We agreed to tear them up, and with them to paddle towards our friends.

After a considerable amount of labour we reached them, and immediately set to work, as the sea had again become almost smooth, to repair our raft. So thirsty had we become by this time, that it was with difficulty we could avoid drinking the salt water. We counselled each other, however, not to do so, well knowing the ill effects which would be produced. We felt now the loss of our sail, for the wind was setting directly on shore. Still, slight as was the breeze, it assisted us along, when we stood up, which we did by turns, while the rest laboured with the paddles we had constructed. We gazed anxiously at the land, but the current still appeared to be sweeping towards the south. Suddenly it changed, and we advanced with far more rapidity than we had hitherto done. We could now distinguish objects on the shore. We looked out eagerly. No houses or huts were to be seen, nor any vessels at anchor. A heavy surf, however, was setting on the beach, and Kiddle urged us on no account to attempt to land there. This was tantalising, but the danger of having our raft upset and being carried out to sea was too great to be encountered. With might and main, therefore, we continued to paddle along the shore, hoping to find some place into which we might stand with less danger. We had to continue for some distance, till at length we got round a point by which the land on the other side was completely sheltered. We could scarcely hope to find a better place. And now, exerting ourselves to the utmost, we made towards the beach. With thankfulness did we hear the timbers grate against the sand. Esse and Brady, who were nearest the shore, attempted to spring on to the beach, but so weak were they, as we all were, that in doing so they fell flat on their faces. Had we not kept the raft off with our paddles, the next sea which came up would have thrown it over them. By great exertions they worked themselves up, however, out of the reach of the water, and the rest of us crawled on shore with more caution. We looked round. No one was to be seen. Our first impulse was to throw ourselves down on the sand and rest, but scarcely had we done so when the sensation of thirst came over us, and weak as we were we set out at once to search for water. The trees came down very nearly to the shore, here and there rocks appearing among them. We soon separated, each one going in the direction in which he hoped he should find the longed-for fluid. I went forward almost as in a dream. My eye at length caught sight of a rock at a little distance. I had a feeling that water would be found not far off. A sound struck my ear—a low, soft, trickling. Yes! It was water, I was sure of it—I almost fell in my eagerness to hurry on. I cannot easily forget the delight with which my eye rested on a natural fountain—a rocky basin, into which a bright stream flowed from a crevice in the rock. I rushed on shouting out “Water! Water!” Eagerly I put my mouth to the pure fountain-head. Oh! How deliciously sweet I found it! I let it run over my face, parched and cracked by the hot sun and salt water. Brady, who was nearest to me, heard me shout. “Hurrah, lads! Hurrah, lads! Here’s water!” he cried out, making a few attempts at leaps, as he rushed forward. The others took up the cry, till the whole six of us were putting our mouths to the fountain, for scarcely had I withdrawn mine than I returned again for a fresh draught, the others doing the same thing. It is surprising that we did ourselves no harm by the quantity we swallowed. Brady declared that he heard it fizzing away as it went down his throat, from the heat of his inside.

Chapter Twenty One.

Having quenched our burning thirst, our next impulse was to seek for rest. Since we had been sleeping on the deck of the ill-fated frigate, not one of us had closed his eyes. Collecting, therefore, a quantity of dried leaves and boughs, we made a bed, on which we threw ourselves, the boughs forming a shade overhead. In an instant almost I was asleep, and so, I believe, were most of my companions. We had escaped the dangers of the sea, but we had a good many more to encounter. The thoughts of them, however, could not drive away sleep. I was awakened by feeling a gnawing sensation of hunger. It was not so painful, perhaps, as thirst, but it was very trying. I could have eaten a raw lizard had I found it crawling over my face. My companions soon awoke from the same cause, but nothing eatable, animal or vegetable, could we find. We hurried down to the beach, and searched about for shell-fish. Not one could we see.

“It will not do, lads, to stop here to starve,” observed Kiddle. “What do you say, Mr Burton? Had not we better push on along the shore, while we have a little strength left, and try and find some natives who may give us food?”

Esse and I agreed at once to Toby’s suggestion, and returning once more to our fountain for another draught, we set out along the coast. Esse and I had on shoes, but, after being so long in the salt water, they became shrunk and shrivelled when they dried, and were rather an inconvenience than any assistance in walking. The rest of the party had no shoes, and the hot sands burned and blistered their feet. We dragged ourselves on for about a mile, or it might have been more, when, turning a point, we saw before us in the deep bay a prow at anchor. She was so close in shore, that should we continue in that direction we could scarcely hope to escape the observation of those on board. Should she prove to be one of the fleet with which we had had the scratch a few days before, her people might not be inclined to treat us very civilly. Still, hunger made us desperate. We pushed on, therefore; when, surmounting a rocky height and looking over the ridge, we saw down below us a party of dark-skinned natives, collected at a short distance from the shore, while three or four other prows were at anchor a little further on. Some of the people were squatting round a fire cooking, others were repairing a boat, and others lying on the ground. An old man with silvery beard, whom we took to be a chief, was seated on a carpet, under the shade of a tree, smoking his long pipe, while two or three men squatted at a little distance, apparently ready to obey his commands. We discovered that they had each of them some ugly-looking weapons in their hands, and it suddenly occurred to us that should we make our appearance together, they might, without asking questions, use them upon our heads. I, therefore, undertook to go forward by myself, advising my companions, if they saw me killed, to make the best of their way off in an opposite direction.

“By the powers, though, but that will never do!” exclaimed Brady. “If anybody’s to be killed, I’m the boy, and so just let me go forward, if you plase.”

“No, no,” I said, “I am young, and much less likely to excite their anger than you would be.”

Pat still demurred. At length I had to exert my authority, and directed him to stay quiet while I went forward. I shall not forget the poor fellow’s look of anxiety as he saw me creep away down the hill, for I was anxious that the Malays should not discover from what direction I came. I confess that I did not feel quite comfortable about the matter, but I thought to myself, it is just as well to be killed outright as to die by inches from starvation. The Malays were not a little astonished at seeing an English midshipman in their midst, although I certainly had very little of the smart look which belongs to the genus. The guards in front of the old Rajah, as soon as they cast eyes on me, started to their feet with uplifted weapons, at which I halted, and made a profound salaam to the old gentleman beyond them. It had its due effect, for directly afterwards they lowered their swords, and their looks became much less threatening. I thought, therefore, that I might venture to approach, and advancing slowly, I made another salaam. As I could not speak a word of Malay, I had to explain by signs the intelligence I wished to convey. I therefore pointed to the sea, and then put my hands together, rocking them up and down, in imitation of a vessel, and then making the sound of an explosion, I endeavoured to explain that my ship was blown up. Next, I pointed to myself, holding up one finger, adding five others, and then, moving the palm of my hand from the sea toward the shore, indicated that we had just landed. I judged from the expression of the spectators’ countenances that they understood me, and, making another salaam, I asked permission of the Rajah to go and fetch my companions. He nodded, and I hurried off. I could not, however, resist the temptation of passing near the fire where the men were cooking. On it was boiling a large pot of rice. I held out my hands, and entreated that the cooks would put some of their food into them. They understood me, and I presently had my hands filled with hot rice, so hot, indeed, that I nearly let it fall. In spite, however, of the heat, my mouth was soon embedded in it. Before I had gone far, I had eaten the whole of it. I made signs that I should like to take some to my companions, but the Malays in return signified that they must come and fetch it themselves. Pat Brady’s delight on seeing me knew no bounds. Followed by the party, I quickly returned. We were none of us objects to excite fear. Malay pirates are not much addicted to feelings of pity. Such we believed to be the occupation of the gentry before us. Smith, I found, could speak a little Malay, and, putting him forward as interpreter, we explained more clearly to the Rajah what had happened, and begged him to help us to reach some European settlement, whence we could find our way back to our ship. This request made him cast a suspicious look at us.

“Are you Dutch?” he asked us suddenly.

Smith assured him that we were British.

“He says, sir, it is fortunate we are so,” observed Smith to me, interpreting the Rajah’s reply. “They vow vengeance against the Dutch, whom they say tyrannise over them, and declare that if we had been Dutch they would have cut the throat of every mother’s son of us.”

“If they have any doubt about the matter,” exclaimed Brady, “tell them that I will dance an Irish jig, and, by the powers, that’s more than any Dutchman could ever do. But I say, Bill, before I favour them with a specimen of my talents, just hint that a little provender will be acceptable down our throats.”

Smith explained that we had a great dancing-man among us, an art in which the chief in his sagacity must be aware the Dutch did not excel, and he hinted that not only to the dancing-man but to the rest of us some food would be very acceptable. The Rajah in reply told him, if we would sit down, our wants should soon be supplied. By this time the messes over the fire were cooked, and, with more liberality than I had expected, the Malays placed before us a couple of bowls full of fish and rice. Without ceremony, we plunged our hands into the food, which disappeared with wonderful rapidity down our throats.

“Take care the bones don’t stick in your gullets, boys,” cried Pat, every now and then turning round to the Rajah and making him a bow. “I say, Smith, just tell his Majesty, or whatever he calls himself, that as soon as I have stowed away as much as I can carry, I will give him a specimen of the jintalist Ballyswiggan jig that he ever saw in his life before.”

Paddy was as good as his word, and no sooner was our meal finished than, jumping up, forgetting all his fatigue, he began dancing a real Irish jig with wonderful agility, making the music with his own voice, crying out to us, every now and then, to strike up an accompaniment. The effect was at all events very advantageous to us, for the old Rajah looked on with astonishment and approval as Paddy continued his performance. When he ceased, the chief called Smith up to him, and spoke a few words.

“He asks where you learnt the art of dancing,” said Smith.

“Oh! Jist tell his honour, or his riverence, if that title plaises him the better, that it comes natural to an Irishman with his mother’s milk. I have danced ever since I put foot to the ground. Just as natural, tell him, as it comes to him and his friends to go out robbing and murdering, and such like little divartisements.”

I rather fancy Smith did not give an exact interpretation of Brady’s answer; at all events the performance put the old pirate into a very good humour. Seeing the condition of our clothes, which were the worse for having been soaked in salt water so long, he sent a boat aboard his prow, which returned with a supply of Eastern garments. How they were come by we did not inquire. They had never been worn, and were most probably part of the cargo of some captured trader. We very thankfully put them on, and the chief then told Smith that if we liked to lie down and sleep, we should have another meal when we woke up again, provided our dancing-man would undertake to give more of his performances, as he would then have a few other friends as spectators.

“Tell his honour I will do it with all the pleasure in the world,” answered Brady, making a salaam at the same time towards the Rajah, who seemed highly pleased with his good manners. The chief then pointed to a shady spot, on which his attendants spread some carpets. Here we thankfully lay down, and I do not think I ever slept more soundly in my life, forgetting all the hardships I had gone through. When we awoke the sun was well-nigh dipping into the ocean, and the Malays had finished the repair of their boat. The old chief was, however, still seated on his carpet, with four or five other individuals, habited much in the same way, and all gravely smoking. As soon as we sat up, another bowl of rice and fresh meat was brought us. After we had partaken of it, the Rajah called to Smith, who told Paddy that he was expected to begin his performance.

“With the greatest pleasure in life!” he exclaimed, springing up, “but you must all come and support me, and sing and clap your hands, and toe and heel it, too, every now and then. It will make my dancing go off better, and show the old boy that we wish to do our best to please him.”

Paddy’s strength having been completely recruited by his sleep and ample meals, he far outdid his morning’s performance, and elicited the warmest signs of approval from the spectators of which Orientals are capable. When it was over, all hands got into the boats, the Rajah taking us with him on board his vessel. We had from the first suspected, as was the case, that the prows did not belong to this part of the country. It being evident that the pirates did not intend us any harm, we went to sleep again soon after we got on board, in spite of our afternoon snooze. At daybreak the fleet of prows made sail for the spot where the frigate had blown up. No part of her was, however, now above water. A few seamen’s chests were seen floating about, and pieces of the wreck; and the saddest sight of all, here and there, the corpses of some of our late companions. From the way we were treated, we concluded that our friends did not form part of the fleet with which the boats of the “Resolution” had been engaged a few days before, and of course Smith wisely forbore to mention the subject. Finding that nothing more was to be picked up from the wreck, the pirate fleet continued their cruise along the coast, looking out for trading craft, from China, Java, and other parts. At night, when the weather was fine, we kept under way, like a pack of wolves, hoping to come suddenly upon a quarry. In the day-time the fleet would lie hid behind some point of land, so that they might dart out on any unwary passer-by. I learnt a lesson from their mode of proceeding, from which I hoped some day to benefit, should I, in the course of service, be ever sent to look after such gentry. What were their intentions regarding us all this time we could not tell. The old chief, though ready enough to ask questions of us, was not very communicative in return, and Smith could learn nothing from him.

“Perhaps he intends to demand a ransom for us,” I observed.

“He may, sir, but I rather think that he will keep us until some day he is hard pressed by any of our men-of-war, and then he will threaten to cut our throats if our friends do not let him get off, and it is my belief he would do it, sir. These sort of people are very civil as long as you please them, but just get on the other tack, and they will not scruple a moment to knock their best friend on the head.”

This was not a pleasant piece of information, but it did not greatly damp our spirits. We had all recovered from the effects of our exposure on the raft, but were getting somewhat weary of our long detention on board the prows. That Smith was right in the description of our hosts, we had soon too clear evidence. It was night. We were gliding calmly over the moon-lit ocean when suddenly we came upon three native craft. Smith said they were Javanese. The prows boarded, one on each side of the strangers. In an instant the Malays threw themselves on board. There was very little resistance, and they returned almost immediately, each man laden with a bale of goods. With wonderful rapidity the more valuable part of the cargo was transferred on board the prows. The chiefs prow remained at a little distance, ready to render assistance apparently if required. Esse and I were watching what was taking place. Presently we saw a figure appear at the stern of the prize. The next instant there was a plunge, and the waters closed over the man’s head. Another and another followed. The prow then cast off, and a bright flame burst forth from the merchant vessel. The materials of which she was composed ignited rapidly, and in another instant she was one mass of fire; one after the other was treated in the same way. We had got half-a-mile from the scene before all the vessels taken had burned to the water’s edge and sunk, leaving not a trace behind, while we sailed away with the goods which had lately filled their holds. I confess I did not feel quite as comfortable in the society of our friends after this occurrence as I had done before. We had been nearly six weeks on board, and the pirates had taken a considerable number of prizes, when Smith told us that he suspected, from the conversation he overheard, that they were about to return to their own stronghold, to which traders were wont to resort for the purchase of their goods. Our best chance of escape will be to make a bargain with one of the captains, and get him to buy us of the Rajah, we promising to repay him. Esse and I talked over the matter, and, though it did not appear very promising, we of course agreed to attempt it, if we could find no other way of escape. Two nights after this we were at sea, with the wind aft, and the water smooth, though the sky was overcast. Now and then the moon came forth, soon again, however, to be obscured. Our prow was leading. A small vessel, apparently a trader, appeared ahead, and we gave chase. She must have seen us, and made all sail to escape. We pursued eagerly. Now we saw her, now the darkness hid her from sight. On we went. The night was hot, and Esse and I, with our companions, were on the fore-part of the deck watching the chase, hoping heartily she would escape.

“She’s distancing us, sir,” observed Kiddle. “She’s in luck, for I don’t think the black fellows will have her this time.”

Suddenly the moon beamed forth.

“Hillo! Why, what is that?” exclaimed Esse.

We all eagerly looked out. A little on the starboard-bow, the rays of the bright luminary fell upon the white canvas of a tall ship standing across our course.

“She’s a man-of-war, or I am a Dutchman!” exclaimed Kiddle, “and a frigate too.”

“Perhaps she is the Orion herself, after all,” cried Esse. “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

Chapter Twenty Two.

Directly the crew of the prow discovered the frigate they lowered the sails, and getting out the oars, began to pull her head round in the direction of the wind’s eye. At that moment, however, the chase had got close to the frigate.

“She is telling her what sort of gentry we are, and depend upon it she will be after us directly,” said Kiddle.

He was right, apparently, for immediately the frigate’s head sails were seen shivering in the breeze, and slowly coming about, she stood towards us on the other tack. The other prows discovered her at the same moment that we did, and were now pulling away as fast as their crews could urge them through the water. The frigate, as she approached, began firing from her foremost guns. Had one of her shots struck us between wind and water, it would have sent us to the bottom. As to the prows escaping, it seemed scarcely possible. Still the Malays held on, tugging desperately at their oars. While some of the crew were rowing, the rest were employed in examining the priming of their muskets and feeling the edge of their swords, while a low conversation was carried on among them.

“I do not quite like what they are saying, sir,” said Smith to me. “As far as I can make out, they are vowing to Allah, that if the frigate comes up with them they will knock us all on the head and blow themselves up. They are in earnest, I am afraid, for I know their people have done the same sort of thing before now.”

“Tell them,” I said, “that as they have treated us so well, that if they will haul down their colours we will use our influence with the captain of the ship to have them set at liberty. Tell them we think she is the ship we belong to, and that if they are wise men they will follow our advice.”

Smith, knowing pretty well that our lives depended upon the way he might put the matter to the old chief, began to address him slowly. Gradually he grew more energetic and warm. While he was speaking a shot came flying close by us, carrying away the greater number of the oars on one side. Escape now seemed impossible. Again we urged our advice. The chief seemed unwilling to follow it.

“Ask him if he hasn’t got a wife or two and a few young children at home who would like to see him again,” said Brady to Smith. “Tell him at all events we have, and if he’s a wise man that he will live himself and let us live. Faith, it’s a little exaggeration as far as some of us are concerned, but if it excites the old gentleman’s commiseration, sure Father O’Rouke would absolve me for that as well as a few other lies I have had to tell in my life.”

Smith interpreted these remarks. The Rajah spoke to his crew. Directly afterwards the uninjured oars were thrown in.

“We have got your promise, then, young officer, that my people and I shall be uninjured, and shall be allowed to go free?” said the chief.

“Yes,” I answered, “I fully believe if that frigate is the one to which we belong, that the captain will carry out my promises.”

On this the chief briefly addressed his crew.

The frigate, understanding apparently that we had given in, ceased firing, and directly afterwards hove to. There was just time to lower a boat, when again she stood on in chase of the other prows. The moon was now shining brightly, and by her light we saw a boat approaching us. In a few minutes she was alongside, and her crew, led by an officer, sprang on board. I thought I recognised Oldershaw’s figure. “They have given in,” I shouted out, “and we have promised that you would spare their lives and let them go free.”

“Hillo! Who is that? Bless my heart, who are you?” exclaimed Oldershaw. “What! Ben Burton! Is it possible!”

We were all of us, it must be remembered, in Eastern dresses, finding them far more comfortable than those we had laid aside.

“Yes, and I am here too!” sung out Dicky Esse.

“I am heartily glad of it,” exclaimed Oldershaw. “We thought you had all been knocked on the head by the savages long ago. And have any more of you escaped?”

“Yes, sir,” said Toby Kiddle. “Here am I, and here’s Pat Brady, and these two men of the ‘Resolution,’ and fortunate men they are, for they are the only ones alive out of the whole ship’s company.”

Oldershaw now learned from us, for the first time, of the sad loss of the frigate. We told him also how well we had been treated by the Rajah. On this Oldershaw went up and shook him by the hand, and told Smith to assure him that no harm would be done him or his people, and that the captain of the frigate would be very much obliged to him for the way he had treated us. The old chief seemed highly pleased, and ordered pipes and coffee to be brought aft, and in ten minutes we were all seated in the after part of the prow, smoking the fragrant weed and sipping the warm beverage, while the Malays were doing the honours to our men. I need not say, however, that Oldershaw told us all to keep a bright look-out, so that, in case of treachery being intended, we might not be taken by surprise. The frigate stood on, and from the rapid firing we heard, it was pretty evident that she was roughly handling the other prows. The chief shrugged his shoulders. “It was the will of Allah,” he said: “if his people were killed, it was not his fault, nor was it ours, so he hoped it would not interfere with our present friendly relations.” Such, at least, was something like the interpretation which Smith gave us of his remarks. At length the frigate was seen running back. As she approached, we fired a gun to draw her attention, and in a short time she was up to us, shortening sail as she approached. Another boat now came off from her, when Esse and I went on board and reported ourselves to Captain Oliver. He was walking the quarter-deck when we appeared at the gangway. “What!” he exclaimed, “you my midshipmen! I thought when I saw you that you were a couple of young Malays. Come into the cabin, and let me hear your account. I am, indeed, heartily glad to hear that you have escaped.” Mr Schank expressed equal satisfaction at again seeing us, as, indeed, did all our shipmates. When he heard how well we had been treated by the old Rajah, he sent to request his presence on board, that he might thank him personally for his kindness to us. After some little delay, notice was given that the Rajah was coming on board in one of our boats. The sides were manned to do him honour, and in a short time he appeared at the gangway, no longer habited in the dingy costume in which we had seen him, but superbly dressed with a turban glittering with gems, and richly jewelled sword by his side, attended by four other persons also finely habited. Without the slightest embarrassment, he followed the captain, after a due amount of salaams had passed between them, into the cabin. He there took his seat with perfect composure, and Smith was summoned to act as interpreter. Captain Oliver again thanked him for his kindness to us, and then took occasion to express his regret that he should ever be engaged in deeds of which the English could not approve, such as robbing vessels and knocking their crews on the head, or sending them overboard. The old chief did not for a moment deny that such were his usual occupations, but observed quietly that his fathers had done the same before him, and, as it was necessary to live, he should be glad to hear if the English chief could point out any better occupation. “Surely,” he remarked, “you do just the same. What are all these guns for? For what are the arms you and your people carry, but to rob and kill your enemies?” and the old gentleman chuckled, fully believing that he had checkmated the infidel chief.

“Well, well,” answered Captain Oliver, “we will talk of that another time; but have you any favour to ask which it is in my power to grant, as I shall be glad to do anything to please you, to show my gratitude.”

The Rajah thought a moment. “No,” he said. “You have refrained from sending my vessel to the bottom when you had the power to do so, and I have no more to ask since you allow me to go free. But there is one favour. I should like again to see your dancing-man go through his wonderful performance.”

Until we explained the remark, Captain Oliver was puzzled to know what his guest meant. “What do you say, Schank. We have a few men on board who can dance, besides the Irishman, have we not?”

“Yes, sir, there are several,” observed Mr Schank.

“Very well, just go and make such arrangements as you can best manage on deck, and we will have our guest up when all is ready.” In a short time Tom King entered the cabin.

“Please, sir,” he reported, “the ball-room is prepared, and the dancers are ready.”

“Very well,” said the Captain, and he made a sign to our Malay friends to accompany him on deck.

A number of the crew with lanterns in their hands had been arranged round the quarter-deck. On the after part, carpets and cushions had been spread, on which our guests were requested to take their seats, while between every two men with lanterns stood others, each with a blue light case in his hand. We had on board a couple of fiddlers, besides the marines’ fifes and drums. All our musical powers had been mustered for the occasion.

“Strike up!” cried Mr Schank, and the fiddlers began to play, joined in by the other instruments as they did so. The circle of lantern men opened, and Pat Brady, followed by nearly a dozen other men, sprang into the centre. Pat first performed a jig for which he was celebrated. It was followed by a regular sailor’s hornpipe. When this was finished, the band struck up a Scotch reel. At the same time the blue lights were ignited, and four men in kilts and plaids sprang into the circle and commenced a Highland fling, shrieking and leaping, and clapping their hands in a way that made the old Rajah almost jump off his cushions with astonishment, the glare of the blue lights increasing the wild and savage appearance of the dancers.

“Bismillah! These English are wonderful people!” exclaimed the old Rajah. “If they would but follow the prophet, and take to piracy like us, they might possess themselves of the wealth of all the world, for who could stand against them!” So delighted was the old gentleman with his entertainment, that he declined receiving any further present with the exception of a few bottles of rum, which he could not bring himself to refuse. He promised also that should any English people fall into his power, that, for the sake of us and our dancing friends, he would always treat them with kindness, and assist them in reaching any port they might desire.

We now put him on board his prow, and sent him rejoicing on his way. Possibly he might not have been so well-pleased when he came to discover that three of his fleet had been sunk by our guns, and yet he was evidently too great a philosopher to allow such a matter to weigh heavily upon his spirits. I was very thankful to be once more on board the frigate. Captain Oliver treated me and Esse with the greatest kindness, for, though we had kept up our spirits, we were rather the worse for the hardships we had gone through, and the strain on our nerves; for midshipmen have nerves, whatever may be thought to the contrary, though they are fortunately very tough and not easily put out of order. We were accordingly put into the sick list and relieved from duty for a couple of weeks. I repeated to Mr Schank the account which Mr Noalles had given me of himself. He was greatly astonished at what I told him.

“I little thought the man I knew so well when I was last in these seas was the one who had behaved so cruelly to my poor sister,” he said. “However, he has gone, and peace be to his memory. I will do my utmost to discover his daughter, and I should think, as Mr Bramston must be well-known in Bombay, there can be little difficulty in doing that. I will write the first opportunity to a friend I have in Calcutta, and get him to make all the inquiries in his power.” After cruising for some months among the East India Islands, we returned to Canton. We were there directed to convoy a fleet of merchantmen round to Calcutta. What with risks from pirates, from rocks and shoals, from hurricanes, from enemies’ cruisers, and from the unseaworthiness of some, it is a wonder that we managed to bring the greater portion of the vessels under our charge safe to their destination. Mr Schank’s friend told him that he had inquired for Mr Bramston, and found that he had for some years been residing as a district judge in Ceylon, where, indeed, he had passed the greater portion of his time. He understood that he was alive and married, but how long he had been married he could not tell, or whether he had married a second time. This much was satisfactory.

We had now been upwards of four years on the station, and were every day expecting to be ordered home. The Admiral, however, told our Captain, that not having more frigates on the station than he required, he must keep us till we were relieved. We were just weighing anchor to proceed back to Canton, when a frigate was seen standing towards us.

She soon made her number. “The Thetis.” The signal book was in instant requisition, and the answer to our question was: “Direct from England to relieve the ‘Orion’.” The signal midshipman threw up his hat as he read it. A shout ran along the decks. Before she had come to an anchor, our boat was alongside, and returned with a bag of letters and newspapers. We delayed our departure that we might receive her letters home in return. For a long time I had not heard from my mother. She was well, and she gave me a very good account of Mrs and the Misses Schank, and the dear Little Lady. But she said that she herself was sorely annoyed by letters from Mr Gillooly, who still persevered in his suit. “They are warm enough and devoted enough in all conscience,” she observed, “so much so, indeed, that I feel sure they are written under the influence of potent tumblers of whisky. Though I never could endure a milk-sop, yet I have a still greater objection to the opposite extreme. Besides, Ben,” she added, “my dear boy, however my friends may urge me, I wish to die as I have lived, faithful to the memory of your brave father.”

I could not but applaud the resolution of my mother, at the same time that I felt anxious that she should do whatever would most conduce to her happiness. The officers and parties of the ships’ companies having exchanged visits with each other, we bade our relief farewell, and with joyous hearts made sail for Old England.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Old England was reached at length. I need not give the particulars of the passage home. Nothing very particular occurred. Portsmouth was a very busy place in those days. Ships fitting out or paying off kept up a constant bustle. The water was alive, the streets were alive with human beings, and the inns were full of them. We were several days paying off, but at length were once more free. I was eager to go and see my mother, and the Little Lady, and our kind friends. Mr Schank, having business in Portsmouth, told me to go on before him, promising to follow in a few days.

“Give my love to my mother and sisters, and my very kind regards to your excellent mother,” he said.

I thought he looked somewhat oddly as he spoke, and I have an idea that a more ruddy glow than usual came over his features; but that of course might have been fancy. Oldershaw, who lived a little to the north of Whithyford, agreed to accompany me, and Dicky Esse and Tom Twig happened to be going up to London the same day. We therefore all took our places on the coach together. Oldershaw had secured the box seat; we three took our places behind him. There was one other spare place, and we were wondering who would occupy it, when a stout, large-whiskered, middle-aged man climbed up and took the seat. By the way he stepped up, and by his general appearance, I saw at once that he was a seaman. Whether he was an officer or not I could not exactly make out. The guard’s horn sounded, and off we dashed up Portsmouth High Street. I had by this time grown into a tall, well-made lad. I looked indeed, as I was, quite a young man, particularly contrasted with my companions, who, though really older, were both remarkably small for their age. We were not too old, however, to be up to all sorts of midshipmen-like pranks, and Oldershaw had some difficulty in keeping us in order. Dicky and Tom were somewhat inclined to play their tricks on our companion, and made several attempts to sell him. He took their jokes, however, in very good part, and always turned their batteries upon themselves. I was sitting on the opposite side to him.

“Take care what you are about,” I whispered to Esse. “He may be a post-captain or an admiral, and you will find he is one of your examining captains when you come to pass.”

“They do not travel on the top of stage coaches,” answered Dicky. “Only small fry enjoy that privilege—lieutenants, mates, and midshipmen.”

“Do not be too sure of that,” I said. “At all events, you may find him the First-Lieutenant of the next ship you join, and he may not forget your free and easy style.”

“If he is worth his salt he will not harbour revenge for what I have said or done,” persisted Dicky.

However, I observed that both he and Twig were more careful than before in their way of addressing the stranger. I heard them telling him where we had been and some of the adventures we had gone through.

“Have you ever been out in those parts, sir?” asked Tom.

“Yes, and I know something about them, but it is a good many years ago, probably before any of you young gentlemen were born, or so much as thought of,” answered the stranger.

“Have you been away from England lately?” asked Tom.

“For a good many years, young gentleman,” answered the stranger.

“To a distant station, I suppose—to North America or the West Indies?”

“No,” answered the stranger; “I have been where I hope you may never be, and where I may never be again—kept from all you love or care for on earth. I have been inside the walls of a French prison.”

“I hope not, indeed,” said Tom. “Parlez-vous Français, Monsieur?”

“As to that, I may understand a few words, but it is no pleasant matter to learn the lingo of one’s enemies, and I felt something like an old master who was shut up with me, and declared he would never prove such a traitor to his country as to learn one single French word all the time he was in prison.”

In a very short time Dicky and Tom got back to their chaffing mood. I was sorry not to have some conversation with the stranger. The latter, however, did not seem inclined to exchange jokes with them and became silent, every now and then, however, speaking a few words with Oldershaw, behind whom he sat. We separated in London, where Oldershaw took us to a respectable lodging-house with which he was acquainted, and early the next morning we started by the coach for Lincolnshire. Oldershaw and I occupied the only two places outside.

Just as the coach was starting, who should we see but the stranger who had come up with us from Portsmouth.

“There is one place inside if you do not mind taking it,” said the guard. “Very sorry, otherwise you will have to wait for the night coach, or to-morrow morning.”

The stranger stepped in and the coach drove off. I need not describe the incidents of the journey. It was dusk when we arrived at Whithyford. At length the light from the window of the little inn, at the end of the lane where I purposed getting down, appeared in sight. Begging the coachman to stop, I wished Oldershaw good-bye, and descended from my perch on the roof. My chest and bag were handed down, and the coach drove on.

“I cannot believe my eyes, Master Burton, sure it’s not you!” exclaimed Mrs Fowler, the landlady of the “Wheatsheaf.”

I assured her that I was no other than little Ben Burton, though somewhat increased in bulk during the five years I had been absent.

“And my mother?” I asked. “Is she well? And her kind friends?” The answer was satisfactory. The Misses Schank had, however, gone out to a tea party at Mr Simmon’s the lawyer.

“And my mother?” I asked, “is she there too?”

“Oh! No, Lor’ bless you, she never goes to such gay doings. She would be stopping to look after the old lady, who keeps up wonderfully. And I should not be surprised but what you find somebody else there. There was a strange gentleman came over from Ireland some days gone, and has been stopping in my house. He is a free and easy spoken sort of man, though I do not understand all he says, for he speaks in the Irish way, but he is a good customer at the bar, and is liberal-handed enough. However, Master Burton, I do not know as I should advise your mother to go and do it. You see if he was to ask me, it would be a different matter. I could hold my own. Besides, I am accustomed to such doings as his. When my good man that’s gone, Simon Fowler, was alive, he was not happy till he had got a few quarts of beer in his inside—not to speak of gin and rum. But do you see, your dear mother is a different sort of person, and it would not do for her to take up with a gentleman with such habits.”

I now began to comprehend the drift of the landlady’s remarks.

“What!” I exclaimed, “is there a person such as you describe wanting to marry my mother?”

“Well, that’s the plain matter of fact,” answered Mrs Fowler; “and what is more he swears he will have her. He has come all the way over from Ireland, and is not going back nonplussed.”

I was greatly concerned at hearing this, for although, had my mother wished to marry again, I should have been very thankful if she could have found a suitable protector, yet I was sure that such a person as Mrs Fowler described would make her miserable. There was another person I was longing to ask about, but I own, from a somewhat different feeling, I hesitated. “And Miss Emily?” I asked at length, trying to get out of the light of the candle as I spoke. “How is she?”

“Oh! She is the light of the house—the most beautifullest and brightest little creature you ever did see,” answered Mrs Fowler, with enthusiasm. “Whether she’s the captain’s daughter, or anybody else’s daughter, it does not matter to me, but I know she is a blessing to all around her.”

“Thank you, Mrs Fowler, thank you,” I answered, scarcely knowing what I said. “I am anxious to see my mother. Take care of my chest; I will take my bag with me.” Saying this, I darted out of the house and hurried down the lane. I well knew how delighted my mother would be to see me, and I had an undefined feeling that the sooner I could be with her the better. Passing through the wicket I found the house-door partly open, and heard a voice proceeding from the back parlour. It was a somewhat loud one too:

“Oh! Mistress Burthen! Mistress Burthen! Ye will be after breaking my heart, ye will; and me waiting for you these long years, and now at last come all the way over from old Ireland to find ye as hard and obdurate as the blacksmith’s anvil in the corner of Saint Patrick’s street, in Ballybruree,” were the first words that caught my ear. “Shure you will be afther relenting and not laving me a disconsolate widower, to go back to Ballyswiggan all alone by myself.”

“Indeed, Mr Gillooly, I feel that your constancy—your pertinacity shall I call it?” and there was a slight touch of sarcasm in the voice,—it was my mother who spoke, “deserves to be rewarded; but at the same time I confess that I cannot bring myself to undertake to recompense you as you desire. All I can do is to give you my best advice, and that is to try and find some other lady who is more disposed to receive your addresses than I am.”

I did not wish to be an eaves-dropper, and at the same time I scarcely liked suddenly to rush unnoticed into the room. Old Mrs Schank would, I concluded, be in the front parlour, and perhaps Emily might be with her, and I would ask her to break my arrival to my mother. Again Mr Gillooly pleaded his cause. I began to fancy, from the tone of my mother’s voice and the answers she made, that she was somewhat relenting. I knew enough of the world to be aware that even sensible people sometimes marry against their convictions, and I thought it was now high time for me to interfere. Just then I heard my mother exclaim:

“Who’s that? I saw someone at the window. It is impossible; yet— Oh! Mr Gillooly, you are very kind, you are very generous, but I cannot, I cannot marry you. After what I have just now seen, it is impossible!”

“It’s on my knees, then, I implore you, widow Burthen!” exclaimed Mr Gillooly. “Oh! Say, would you render me a desperate man and send me forth to join the Ribbonmen, or Green Boys, or other rebels against King George? It’s afther killing me ye’ll be by your cruelty; and it’s more than Jim Gillooly can stand, or has stood in his life, and so by the powers, Mistress Gillooly, you shall be, in spite of your prothestations and assartions, and—”

I now thought it high time to interfere, and rushing into the room, presented myself to the astonished gaze of Mr Gillooly, who was on the point of rising from his knees, with anger depicted on his countenance, and a gesture sufficient to alarm even a less timid person than my mother. She was staring with eyes open and lips apart towards the window which looked into the garden. The light from the lamp on the table fell on the face and figure of a man whom I at once recognised as my fellow-traveller from Portsmouth.

“Who are you?” exclaimed Mr Gillooly, as he saw me advancing. “That lady’s son,” I answered.

“Then out upon you for an impostor. That lady can have no big spalpeen of a son like you!” exclaimed Mr Gillooly, rushing towards me with uplifted fist. I could easily have escaped him by flight, but that I disdained to do, though his blow was likely to be one capable of felling me to the ground. My mother uttered a scream. At that instant the window was flung open, and in sprang the stranger. The scream arrested my assailant. He turned his head and discovered the stranger, a man of powerful frame, rushing towards him.

“Murther! murther! I’m betrayed!” shouted Mr Gillooly. “Oh! Widow, it’s all your doing, and you have led me into an ambush! Murther! Murther!” and without stopping to pick up his hat or whip he rushed from the door and out through the garden and along the lane, so I concluded, as I heard his heavy footsteps growing less and less distinct as he gained a distance from the cottage.

Chapter Twenty Four.

I left my mother, at the end of the last chapter, standing in the middle of the back parlour of Mr Schank’s cottage, her Irish admirer, Mr Gillooly, scampering up the lane as fast as his two legs would carry him, the stranger who accompanied me from Portsmouth having just before, most opportunely for me, sprung through the window and saved me from the effects of that worthy’s anger.

I had no disposition to follow him; indeed, I had a matter of far more interest to occupy my attention at the moment. My mother sank into a chair. I sprang forward to embrace her, and while she threw one of her arms round my neck, she pointed at the stranger, exclaiming:

“Is it real, or am I in a dream? Who are you? Say! Say! Do not mock me!”

“Polly, you are my own true loving wife, and I am your live husband—your faithful Dick Burton!” exclaimed my father, for he it was in reality, as he came forward and took my mother in his arms.

“No wonder you thought me dead, Mary, and a long yarn I have to tell you, how it all happened. And is this young gentleman Ben, our Ben?” he asked, as he put his arm round my neck and kissed me on the brow. “I know it is; yet if I had not seen him here I should not have known him. Well, to see him a quarter-deck officer, and on the road to promotion, and you, Mary, alive and well, and as young looking as ever, repays me for all I have gone through, and that’s no trifle.”

Now, most women under the trying circumstances I have described would have fainted away or gone into hysterics, but my mother did neither one nor the other. Perhaps we had to thank Mr Gillooly for saving her from such a result. My idea is the agitation which that worthy gentleman had put her into counteracted the effects which might have been produced, first from my sudden appearance, and then by the unlooked-for return of my father. I do not mean to say that she was not agitated, and was very nearly fainting, but she did not faint; indeed, her nerves stood the trial in a most wonderful manner. After I had been with my mother and my newly-found father for some time, I bethought me that I ought to go and pay my respects to Mrs Schank and to Miss Emily, who, my mother told me, was sitting with her; I therefore went to the drawing-room door, and, tapping, asked if I might enter.

“Come in,” said a sweet voice. The owner of the sweet voice started when she saw me, for she was evidently uncertain who I could be, while the old lady peered at me through her spectacles.

Emily, however, coming forward, put out her hand.

“How delightful! You are welcome back, Ben!” she exclaimed. “I mean Mr Burton. It is Mr Ben Burton, ma’am,” she said in a higher key, and turning to the old lady.

“Ah, Ben! You are grown indeed, and you are welcome, lad. You are always welcome,” she added after a minute, and made some inquiries of her son. “And you have come back in the very nick of time, for there is an Irish gentleman wants to marry your mother, and we do not like him, do we, Emily?”

“Oh! No, no,” said Emily, shaking her head; “it would never do.” This gave me the opportunity of saying that Mr Gillooly had taken his departure, and also that there was another very strong reason for my mother’s not marrying him—the return of my father. The old lady’s astonishment knew no bounds on hearing this. “And my girls are out! Dear me, they will be surprised when they come back. What a pity they should not have been here. It is a mercy your mother did not faint away altogether. And he is actually in the next room. Your father, who has been killed so many years!”

“They thought he was killed, ma’am,” exclaimed Emily. “He could not have been killed or he would not be here!”

“No! To be sure! To be sure!” said the old lady. “That is very clear, and very wonderful it is; but if he had been killed it would be still more wonderful! Well, I am very glad he has come back.” After a little time I went back to my father and mother, and brought him in to see Mrs Schank and the Little Lady, both of whom welcomed him cordially. I inquired after Mrs Lindars.

“She is much as usual,” answered Emily, “but she looks almost as old as grandmamma. You know I call Mrs Schank grandmamma now. She really is like a grandmother to me, and the Misses Schank are like kind aunts, though I look upon your mother, Ben, quite as a mother, for one she has been to me all my life.”

I was doubtful how I ought to convey her husband’s message to Mrs Lindars. Indeed, I felt that it would be a very difficult task. However, it was managed. I determined first to consult my mother and the poor lady’s sisters. At length they returned, and various were the notes of exclamation and astonishment with which they heard of the existence and return of my father, and still more so when they saw him.

“Well, I must say you are a very substantial, good-looking ghost,” said Miss Anna Maria, in her funny, chirruping voice, “and a much better husband you will make her, I am sure, than that strange Irishman who has been haunting the village for the last week.”

“Thank you, miss,” said my father, looking affectionately at my mother.

“And you must stay here as long as you can, Mister Burton,” said old Mrs Schank.

“Thank you again, ma’am. I shall be in no hurry to leave my wife now I have come back to her,” he said, with a sailor’s bow.

“But we want to know, Mr Burton, where you have been, and what you have been about,” said Miss Martha Schank.

“That would take up a long time, but I will try and satisfy you ladies as soon as you are ready to hear.”

“As to going to bed without some notion, we should not sleep a wink all night for thinking of it, and not be sure, after all, whether you are yourself, or your ghost, or somebody else,” exclaimed the Misses Schank almost in chorus, Miss Anna Maria adding the last remark: “We heard that you were knocked overboard and killed attacking a French ship off the coast of Italy. Was that not the case?”

“It is all very true that I was knocked overboard,” said my father. “But had I been killed, I do not think I should be here. The fact is, that when I fell into the water I came to myself, and not being able to reach the boats I got hold of the rudder chains of the vessel we had hoped to capture. There I hung on till the anger of the Frenchmen had somewhat cooled down, and then, finding I could hold on no longer, I sang out, and asked them to take me on board. They did so, and there being a surgeon in the ship, he dressed my wounds. They treated me pretty fairly till I got well, I must say that for them, but after that they sent me to a French prison. Unfortunately I had no money in my pocket, and was unable to buy paper to write a letter. What with the hard treatment I received, and the thoughts that my wife and child were left without anybody to look after them, I fell sick, and remained between life and death for many months. A kind French widow and her daughter took compassion on me, and by their means my life was saved. I after this wrote several times, but my letters must have been treated as were many others, and were never sent. I should, however, in time have got my freedom, but I fell in with an English officer who was going to be married, he told me, to a beautiful young lady, just when he was taken, and now she would have to wait for him for many years, or perhaps go and marry somebody else, thinking he was dead. He would, he said, give everything to make his escape, so I promised to help him, which I wished to do for his own sake. But I thought also that I might get away myself. It would be a long yarn if I was to tell you all our plans, and all the tricks we had to play to get out of prison. At last, however, we managed to get free and stand outside the walls of the town. He could talk French like a Frenchman, but I could not say a word. We were both dressed as countrymen—he of the better sort, and I, as a lout, born deaf and dumb. This did very well for some time, and whether or no the country people suspected us I cannot say, but I rather think they did, though many of them were very kind to Englishmen, and would gladly have helped them to escape if they dared. We worked our way north, travelling by unfrequented paths, or, when we had to take to the high road, going on generally at night. We got into high spirits, thinking that all would be right. This made us careless, when one day, just as we were leaving the town, a party of their abominable gendarmes pounced upon us. The captain showed great surprise, and wondered why they should lay hold of two innocent people. This was of no use, however. They soon showed him they knew who we were, and we were marched back to prison, looking very foolish, and the next morning sent off, with several other prisoners, to the place we had escaped from. There we were kept closely shut up. It was very hard and very cruel in them, just because we wanted to get our liberty. I made several other attempts, for I was determined to get free if I could. Life was worth nothing away from my wife and child. At last I succeeded with two others—an officer and another man. We reached the coast, cut out a small boat, and were making our way across the Channel when we were picked up by a man-of-war. It had come on to blow very heavy. Our boat was swamped alongside, and, as she was outward bound, we had to go away in her. I entered on board. We took several prizes, and I filled my empty pockets with gold. I was one of the prize crew of the first man-of-war we took worth sending home, and at last I once more set foot on the shores of England. As soon as I was free of the ship I came down here. There you have my history; I will tell you more particulars another day. It may serve, however, to convince you that I am no ghost, or that if I am, I am a big liar, saving your pardons, ladies, and that is what Dick Burton never was. Besides, I have an idea that my wife believes me, at all events. Don’t you, Polly?”

Following my father’s example, I must be somewhat brief in the remainder of my yarn. I should say, that soon after his arrival he and my mother took a cottage which happened to be vacant in the village. He fortunately had a considerable amount of prize-money and pay due to him, for which it appeared my mother had neglected to draw, and with this, in addition to what he had lately obtained, he was well able to keep house. Mrs and the Misses Schank, however, insisted upon my remaining with them, which, as may be supposed, I was very glad to do.

I spent a very happy time at Whithyford. Little Emily was my constant companion, and every day I was with her. I learned to love her more and more. At first we talked of being brother and sister, but we knew we were not, and somehow or other in time we came to leave off calling each other so. After this, at first I called her for a few days Miss Emily, but I soon dropped that again. Then I began to talk of how I was going to rise in my profession, and make heaps of prize-money, and I scarcely know, indeed, what I was going to do and be. There was Lord Collingwood, and Lord Nelson, and Lord Saint Vincent, and old Lord Camperdown, who had all been midshipmen once on a time, and were admirals and lords, and why should I not be a lord too? Emily, of course, thought that I should be, and I am not quite certain that we did not choose a title. I was to be Baron Burton of Whithyford, and I took to calling her Lady Burton, and sometimes Lady Whithyford. I do not mind confessing this now. It did no harm, and at all events made us very happy. Why should not people be happy when happiness is so easily obtained—by a little exercise of the imagination? I quite forgot to mention my mother’s devout admirer, Mr Gillooly. On inquiring the next morning after our arrival of what had become of him, we found that he had been taken ill and was laid up in bed; so it was said at the “Wheatsheaf,” where he remained for some time under the tender care of Mrs Fowler. When he recovered, unwilling to go back to Ireland without an English wife, which he promised he would bring, I rather think to spite some Irish fair one who had refused him, as a reward to the landlady for all her kindness, he made her an offer of his hand, which she accepted. They were married shortly afterwards. She disposed of her establishment, and, dressed in a new satin gown of the gayest colours, accompanied him back, not only as a blooming bride, but, as Anna Maria observed, a thoroughly full-blown one, to become the mistress of Ballyswiggan Hall. When Mr Schank at last came home, there was a great rejoicing, and two days afterwards the postman’s knock was heard at the door, and Emily, running out, brought back a long official looking letter.

“It has come at last,” he exclaimed, and his voice showed more emotion than he was wont to exhibit. “Oliver is a fine fellow; I knew he would do his best;” and holding up the letter to us all, we saw it was addressed to Commander Schank. “And now the next thing they must do is to give me a ship and post me, and then, mother, I may perhaps do something to place you and my sisters in the position you ought to occupy, and make you all comfortable to the end of your days.”

“No, no, Jack! We are as well off as we wish to be. You must marry as you said you would. We would far rather see you married happily than change to the finest house in London.”

“No, no, sisters,” he answered, and something very like a sigh burst from his heart. “I once had a dream, but that has passed. I shall marry my ship when I get one, and I hope never to lose her while I have life.”

Captain Schank was known to be too good an officer to be allowed to remain long unemployed, or I should say Captain Oliver was too zealous a friend to allow his merits to be passed by. At length another letter arrived, appointing him to the command of a fine brig sloop just off the stocks at Portsmouth. He was at once to go down and commission her, and fit her for sea.

“Ben,” he said, “Captain Oliver writes me too that you will be appointed to her. You have only one year to serve, and after that he hopes you will get your commission. If the Ministry keeps in and he lives, his hopes will, I am very sure, come true. Oldershaw, as you know, is promoted, and has been appointed Second-Lieutenant of her. The First-Lieutenant is a stranger to me. I see he has been a good many years at sea as First-Lieutenant; but he may not be the worse as a First-Lieutenant on that account I hope. I must get your father to come down to Portsmouth, to help me pick up hands for the brig Oliver hopes to get him a berth on board a ship in ordinary, as some recompense to him for his long imprisonment, and for his gallant efforts to assist the Honourable Captain Burgoyne in escaping from prison.

“You should not miss the opportunity of seeing a ship fitted out. Take my advice. Make yourself practically acquainted with everything on board, from stowing the hold to rigging the topgallant masts.” The next day Mr Schank started for Portsmouth, telling me to be prepared to follow him in the course of a few days.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Conclusion.

The last days I spent at Whithyford ought to have been very delightful, for my kind friends vied with each other in making much of me, as of course so did my mother. My father talked of going down to Portsmouth with me, but he changed his mind.

“No, no,” he said, “you know how to take care of yourself; and it is as well the old boatswain should not come and interfere with you. God bless you, my boy; go on as you have begun, and you will do well.”

And Emily. I am not going to repeat all we said to each other. We were very young, and I dare say very silly. We exchanged vows, and hoped to marry when I became a commander, or perhaps, we agreed, it might not be so long; perhaps when I was a lieutenant. Many lieutenants had wives, and though, to be sure, some were not very well off, yet we hoped to be an exception to the general rule, and to have at all events enough to live upon. Thus, full of love and hope, I started away for Portsmouth. I was quickly on board the “Pearl”. The First-Lieutenant, Mr Duff, was a man after Captain Schank’s own heart—a thorough tar, and under him, doffing my midshipman’s uniform, I was speedily engaged with a marline-spike slung round my neck, and a lump of grease in one hand, setting up the lower rigging. The brig was soon fitted for sea. Oldershaw joined her as Second-Lieutenant. My two other friends Tom Twig and Dicky Esse were glad to go to sea again with Captain Schank. I also fell in with Toby Kiddle and Pat Brady at Portsmouth. I persuaded both to join, Toby being rated as a quarter-master, and Pat as captain of the foretop.

“You see, Mister Burton,” he observed, with a wink, “I can now write home to Ballybruree to tell them I have been made a captain; and sure it’s the truth, and it will help to raise the family in the estimation of the neighbours, and may be they will think one captain as good as another.”

I confess that I should have preferred being in a rattling frigate; and yet we had brave hearts on board the brig, and hoped at all events to do something in her. We were ordered out to the North American station, and then to proceed on to the West Indies. It used to be thought, in those days, a good thing to give ships’ companies the advantage of a hot and cold climate alternately. The cold was to drive away the yellow fever, and the heat to cure us of frostbites, to which we might be subjected at Halifax or up the Saint Lawrence. We preferred, on the whole, the West Indies, for, being constantly at sea, we had not much sickness on board. We took a good many of the enemy’s merchant vessels, which struck without offering much resistance; but, though they assisted to fill our pockets, we gained little honour, or glory, or a chance of promotion. We had been, indeed, a year and a half on the station without exchanging a shot with the enemy. At length, when off the east end of Jamaica, while we were on the starboard tack, a strange ship was discovered steering under easy sail on the opposite tack. What she was we could not make out. She was considerably larger than we were, but still Captain Schank determined, should she be an enemy, to attack her. About an hour before noon she passed to leeward of us, and almost within gun-shot. We made a private signal. It was not answered.

“About ship!” cried the Captain, and away we stood in chase. In about a couple of hours we were within gun-shot. Our bow gun was fired and returned by the enemy’s stern chaser. She then hoisted French colours and set more sail, edging away to the southward. At length we got up abreast of her, and brought her to close action. She, however, fought well, and we soon had our braces, bowlines, and tiller-ropes shot away. The enemy, now expecting to make us an easy prize, ran us aboard.

“Boarders away!” cried Captain Schank. The Captain’s wooden leg preventing him from getting on board the enemy as rapidly as he wished, Mr Duff led our men. Scarcely, however, had he reached the ship’s deck when a pistol bullet through his head laid him low. I was close behind him. Oldershaw was bringing on a fresh set of boarders.

“On, lads, on!” shouted Oldershaw. We swept the enemy before us, and, though they made a stout resistance, in ten minutes we had killed, or driven below or overboard, the greater part of the crew. The remainder, who had escaped aft, threw down their arms and cried for quarter. Our prize mounted twenty-four guns, and the crew amounted to upwards of two hundred men. Two days afterwards we were entering Kingston Harbour with her in triumph. Oldershaw was appointed First-Lieutenant of the brig, and I received an order as her Second-Lieutenant. Soon after this, we were ordered to proceed, with three ships of the line and two frigates, in search of a French squadron, which had been committing depredations on the African coast, and had just been heard of in the neighbourhood of the West Indies. We were delayed by a hurricane which raged over those seas. Fortunately we were in harbour, but some of the ships which were outside suffered greatly. However, as Toby Kiddle observed, “What is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,” and we could only hope that the enemy had suffered in the same way. At length, after cruising for some time, we, being ahead, discovered a frigate, which, from the cut of her sails, we had little doubt was French. Signalling to our consorts, we gave chase, keeping considerably ahead of all the rest. In about two hours we had got within two miles of the chase, and as we approached still nearer we commenced firing our bow guns. The French frigate, hoisting her colours, returned our fire with her stern chasers. We now shortened sail.

“If we get much nearer,” said Captain Schank, “she may send us to the bottom with one of her broadsides; but at this distance we may cripple her and prevent her escaping.” The nearest English frigate was by this time about three miles astern of us. Already the Frenchman had cut up our rigging a good deal, and at length one of her shots struck our bow between wind and water. It was quickly plugged, and we continued at some distance firing away, our shot every now and then striking the enemy, but what damage we had done we could not ascertain. The leading frigate was a very fast one, and was now rapidly coming up. We, I confess, were anxiously looking out for her, for, although prudence might have forbade us getting nearer the enemy, our eagerness to stop her would have made us run every risk to effect that object. At length the English frigate got within gun-shot of the enemy. She opened fire with her bow chasers. Down came the Frenchman’s flag, when once more we made sail and hove to close to the prize. Captain Schank ordered me to proceed on board and take possession. I felt, I must confess, almost as surprised as a mouse would do at conquering a lion. The French captain, however, with becoming politeness though with somewhat a wry face, presented me with his sword, and we found ourselves in possession of a forty-four gun frigate, measuring upwards of one thousand tons, and a crew of three hundred and fifty men. Besides Frenchmen, there were on board several Englishmen, who formed part of the crew of an Indiaman the frigate had captured two days before. Among them were the second and third officers. The Indiaman had been overtaken at night, and the French ship had fired into her, and killed the captain and first officer and a number of the crew. The passengers who were below had happily escaped. The Indiaman’s officers, thorough gentlemanly young fellows, told me that they had only lost sight of the prize the day before, that she was a slow sailer, and from the direction in which she was standing, they had little doubt in what direction we should find her. The recaptured prisoners also told us whereabouts we should fall in with the remainder of the French squadron.

We accordingly sent one of the Indiaman’s officers on board the frigate, while Captain Schank received orders from the Commodore to proceed in search of the Indiaman. Scarcely had we lost sight of our squadron, which was standing in the direction the Frenchmen were supposed to be, when it came on to blow from the north-west. The wind rapidly increased till it became a downright heavy gale. Our brig, however, was a fine sea-boat, and under close-reefed topsails rode it out bravely. Our chief anxiety was, however, on account of the risk we ran of losing the Indiaman. Still the mate was convinced that she could not have passed to the northward of where we then were.

“She will be standing on the larboard tack, Captain Schank,” he observed; “if she sees all clear she will run through the Gut of Gibraltar, or if not, will make for some port in the Bay of Biscay.”

However, as the Atlantic is a broad highway, our hopes of falling in with her were far from sanguine. For three days we lay hove to, till at length the gale moderating we once more made sail and stood to the eastward. A bright look-out was kept for the sight of a sail, and from sunrise to sunset volunteers were continually going aloft, in the hopes of being the first to see the wished-for ship. Next morning, when it was my watch on deck, I heard a voice from the maintopmast head shouting:

“A dismasted ship on the weather-beam not four miles away.”

I sent Esse, who was midshipman of the watch, aloft, and he corroborated Pat Brady’s statement.

Sending below to call the Captain, I kept the brig away in the direction of the ship. The sea was still running very high. As daylight increased, we could see her clearly rolling in the trough of the sea, and in an utterly helpless condition. For some time the mate could not tell whether it was his own ship or not.

“Too likely,” he observed, “for the Frenchman’s shot had wounded some of our masts, and she very probably lost them in the late gale.”

Captain Schank and all the officers were quickly on deck, as were the crew, and all eyes were turned to the wreck. As we drew near, we were left in no doubt of her being a large Indiaman; and Mr Paul, the mate, soon recognised her as the “Yarmouth Castle,” to which he had belonged. The signal of distress was flying on the stump of her mizzen-mast. As we drew near, we discovered that the gale had otherwise severely handled her. Most of her boats were gone, and her bulwarks stove in, probably when the masts were carried away. As we passed a short distance to windward of her, a person ran to the side with a large board, on which was chalked, “Keep by us! Sprung a leak! Pumps choked! Captured by Frenchmen!”

“Ay, ay,” shouted Captain Schank, and his voice borne down by the wind probably reached them. As we passed, several people rushed up to the man who had shown the board, and tore it out of his hands. This showed us that we must be careful when going alongside, lest the Frenchmen should attempt to beat us back. The difficulty of communicating with the ship was still very great, for the sea continued high and broken, and she rolled very much. We accordingly wore round and hove to at a little distance, intending to wait till the sea should go down.

The mate told us that there were a great many of the English crew and Lascars left on board, and he thought, should they make the attempt, they would be able to retake the ship from the Frenchmen. No attempt was made, however, and at length, the weather moderating, a boat, of which I took the command, was lowered, the brig being sufficiently near at the time to fire into her, should the French prize crew offer any resistance.

What was taking place on board the Indiaman we could not see, but just as we got alongside several people appeared and hove ropes to us, and assisted me with four of my men to get on board. I observed, as I reached the deck, that a scuffle was taking place forward, and I then found that the passengers and some of the crew had suddenly attacked the Frenchmen, who, it appeared, had intended manning their guns in the hopes of beating off the brig. Our appearance quickly gave an easy victory to our friends. The superior officers of the Indiaman had all been taken out of her. The carpenter, however, was on board, and told me he hoped, if the pumps could be cleared and properly worked, that the leak could be kept under. A richly-laden Indiaman was indeed a prize worth recovering. The passengers had nearly all remained on board, and expressed their gratitude for the timely succour which had been afforded them. The Frenchmen, finding that all hope of carrying off their prize was gone, yielded themselves prisoners; their commanding officer, who had, with his men, been driven forward, delivering up his sword to me. I sent the boat with Dicky Esse back to tell Captain Schank that I thought, with some thirty of our hands in addition to the ship’s crew whom we had on board, to be able to keep the pumps going, and to rig jury-masts by which the ship might be safely carried to England. Among the passengers a gentleman was pointed out to me who had been very active in retaking the ship from the hands of the Frenchmen. I inquired his name. “Mr Bramston,” was the answer.

“How strange,” I thought: “and is Mrs Bramston on board?”

“Yes, sir, she is, but she is very ill, and has constantly kept her cabin.”

“Have they any children?” I asked.

“No, none, sir,” said a lady who overheard the question. “Poor lady, she once had a daughter, a little girl, who was lost in a very sad way, and I do not think she has ever recovered that event.”

As may be supposed I could not then ask further questions, as my entire attention was required for the duty of the ship. I asked Kiddle, who accompanied me on board, what he thought of the weather.

“It’s moderating, sir, and I hope we shall be able to keep the ship afloat if we get more assistance.”

The sea rapidly went down, and the men I asked for were sent on board. The pumps were again speedily set going, and as the ship laboured less we began to gain upon the leak. Fortunately there was a good supply of spars on board, and I hoped, should the weather continue moderate, to be able to rig jury-masts the following day. We worked hard till nightfall, most of the Frenchmen giving their assistance at the pumps. Indeed, had we not fallen in with them, the probabilities are that the ship would have gone down; so that they owed their lives to us, although they were not well-pleased at being made prisoners. I now for the first time was able to enter the cuddy. Coming off the dark deck, I was struck by the bright light of the cabin, the tables glittering with plate and glass set for supper, well secured, as may be supposed, by the fiddles, a number of passengers, ladies and gentlemen, being collected round them. They greeted me warmly, and numerous questions were put to me as to the probability of the ship’s reaching home in safety. I assured them that I hoped in the course of a week or so, if the wind was favourable, that we might find ourselves in the Chops of the Channel. “Although,” I added, “you know the chances of war, but I promise you that our brig will stick by you and fight to the last for your protection.”

I was not sorry to take my seat at table among them, as I had eaten nothing for some hours. The gentlemen all begged to take wine with me, and assured me they believed that, had we not fallen in with them, the ship would have gone down. When Mr Bramston addressed me, I replied that I knew his name, and asked if he came from Ceylon.

“Yes,” he answered, “I have been there for many years.”

I then told him that my commander, Captain Schank, had some time before written to him on an important matter, and asked whether he had received the letter.

“Yes,” he answered, “just before I left India, and I will speak to you by-and-by on that matter.”

After supper he took me aside, and begged to know further particulars of the death of Mr Herbert. “Though,” he remarked, “that was not the name by which you knew him.”

“Well,” he said, after I had told him, “the less his poor daughter knows of these painful circumstances the better. I am now returning with her, and, I am thankful to say, her health has already benefited by the voyage. I trust the meeting with her mother will have a beneficial effect on her.”

“I am sure it will on Mrs Lindars,” I observed: “her great wish was, that should her daughter have been taken away, she might have left some children on whom she might bestow her long pent-up affection.”

“Alas!” said Mr Bramston, “our one only child, a little daughter, was taken from us at an early age in a very sad way. Mrs Bramston had been very ill, and had been advised to proceed to Madras for change of air. An old naval friend offered her and me a passage, and I accordingly hurried on board, leaving our child under the charge of a friend at Colombo. I returned as soon as possible, and finding my wife yearning for her little one, I resolved to send her to her. A dhow was on the point of sailing, in which several friends had taken a passage. I committed our child and nurse to their charge. The dhow never reached her destination, and we have every reason to believe that she foundered with all on board.”

“That is indeed strange!” I said aloud. I stopped, for I was afraid of raising hopes in the heart of the father which might be disappointed. He heard me.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“When was this?” I inquired.

“In the month of July, in the year —,” he said.

“That is indeed wonderful,” I exclaimed, scarcely able to restrain my feelings. “I was a child at the time,” I said, “but I was on board a frigate, which fell in with the wreck of a dhow. The only people alive on board were an Indian nurse and a child—a little girl. The nurse died; but the child was taken care of by my mother, and is now under the protection of the family of the commander of the brig to which I belong, Captain Schank, the officer who wrote to you on the subject of Mr Herbert’s death.”

“God be praised!” exclaimed Mr Bramston. “I cannot have the shadow of a doubt that the little girl who was picked up by your frigate was my daughter.”

“By-the-by, I have a man with me who was on board the ‘Boreas’ at the time, and he can tell you even more than I can,” I remarked.

Mr Bramston was eager to see him. I sent for Kiddle. He corroborated my account, adding further particulars, which left no doubt whatever on the mind of Mr Bramston that the Little Lady—my Emily—was his daughter.

“And is she a pretty child? Can you give me an idea of her size and appearance?”

“Yes, she is, sir, indeed, very pretty; but you must remember she is no longer a child; she is a young lady,” I answered, feeling that my voice was very likely to betray my feelings.

“I long to see her,” exclaimed Mr Bramston. “But I must break the tidings gently to her mother, or the sudden joy may be too much for her.”

We were busily employed all the next day getting up jury-masts, and not till the next evening was I able to go into the cabin. I was then introduced to Mrs Bramston. I found that she was somewhat prepared for the narration I had to give her. The moment I saw her I was convinced that Emily was her daughter, for the likeness was very striking. Well, I must cut my yarn short. Having rigged jury-masts we made sail, and, the wind coming to the southward, steered a course for England. The brig kept cruising about us like a vigilant sheep-dog, ready to do battle with any who might interfere with his charge. At length England was reached, and getting leave, I accompanied my new-found friends to Whithyford. I will not describe the meeting of the mother and her child, and the elder child and her mother. One thing only made me unhappy. I dreaded lest Mr Bramston, who I found had made a large fortune in India, should object to his daughter marrying a poor lieutenant of no family. I could not bear suspense, and so Emily and I told him that we were engaged, and she added that she should break her heart if she were not allowed to marry me. Mr Bramston smiled.

“You are rather young to think of such matters now,” he said, “but when my friend here becomes a commander, if you are still in the same mind, I promise you that neither your mother nor I will object.”

In the course of two years I did become a commander. We were in the same mind and married. I stuck to my profession, however, was posted, got the command of a dashing frigate, in which I did good service to my country, and am now a KCB with my flag in prospect.

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WHG Kingston

"Ben Hadden"

Chapter One.

Ben’s Home.

On the east coast of England, there is a small hamlet surrounded by high sand-hills, with scarcely a blade of grass or even a low shrub to be seen in its neighbourhood. The only vegetable productions, indeed, which can flourish in that light soil, are the pale green rushes, whose roots serve to bind the sand together, and to prevent the high easterly winds, so constantly blowing on that coast, affecting it as much as they would otherwise do. Even in spite of the opposition of the rushes, several deserted huts have been almost entirely covered up by the drifting sand. See Note 1.

The population of the village consists of seafaring people and their families. The men form the crews of the numerous vessels employed in the herring fisheries which belong to the various fishing-places on the coast. Nowhere along the shores of England are finer sea-boats or more hardy crews to be found.

Most of the herring vessels are luggers, from thirty to forty tons burden, and entirely decked over. Each carries from eight to ten men. They are divided below into compartments, or tanks: in one compartment, salt is stowed; into another, the herrings, as soon as caught, are thrown; in a third they are salted, and are then packed away in lockers, on either side of the vessel, till she is full. She is then steered for the shore to the point nearest to a railway, or where there is a market. Each vessel has several long nets: the upper part of the net floats close to the surface of the water, buoyed up by bladders; the lower part is kept down by small bits of lead, and one end is moored to the bottom by a heavy weight. The fish, as they swim in large shoals, strike against the net as against a wall, and are caught in the meshes. Herring fishing is carried on at night, when the fish cannot see the nets. When a vessel or boat has cast out her nets, she hangs on to the lee (See note 2) end of them till the morning.

Besides these large herring luggers, many open boats are used; and great numbers of other boats from the coasts of Scotland and the North of England resort to these seas in the herring season. There is yet another class of vessels which frequent this coast. They are the deep-sea fishing smacks—cutters measuring from thirty to fifty tons, each carrying about ten men. Their nets differ much from those used by the luggers and boats. They fish with trawls, and so are called trawlers. A trawl is a net with a deep bag fastened to a long beam, which long beam has a three-cornered iron at each end. This beam is dragged along at the bottom of the sea, and stirs up the turbot, bream, plaice, soles, and other flat-fish which lie there; when they swim into the bag and are caught. These trawlers fish in the North Sea, sometimes a hundred and a hundred and fifty miles away from England, off the Texel. Other fishing grounds are from twelve to twenty miles off the British coast. At times, more than a hundred vessels are together, forming a large fleet. One of the oldest and wisest of the captains is chosen as their head man, and is called the admiral of the fleet.

They have, of course, many rules and laws to govern them. When they fish far from the land, they remain out six weeks, or more; and do not once, all that time, go into port. There are, however, steamers employed, which run to and fro to carry them food and fresh-water, also to take ice to them. With this ice the fish are packed, as soon as caught, in large baskets. The steamers then collect the fish from the different fishing-vessels, and carry it to London, or to the nearest port where there is a railway station. This account will give an idea of the many thousand people employed as fishermen on the eastern coasts of our country. In summer, while the weather is fine, their calling is pleasant and healthy; but when storms arise the hardships and perils are very great, and many of the men every year lose their lives, leaving widows and orphans behind them.

There was belonging to Sandhills, the little hamlet about which I have spoken, as fine and bold a set of fishermen as any to be found on the British coast. There were from fifteen to twenty families. The largest family was that of old John Hadden. He had eight sons and several daughters: three of his sons were away at sea—two of these were on board men-of-war, and the third was on board a trading-vessel; four followed his calling as fishermen, and formed part of the crew of the lugger of which he was master; the youngest, the eighth—Little Ben as he was always called, the son of his old age—was as yet too young to go regularly to sea. He, however, went with his father and brothers in the summer season, when fine weather was looked for, and he would not probably be exposed to hardships too severe for his tender years.

The fishermen of that coast were long known as rough and careless men, thinking nothing of religion, and utterly ignorant of religious truth. It used to be said of them, that as a rule they lived hard and died hard, caring for nobody, and nobody caring for them. This was too true of many, but not of all. It was not true of John Hadden. His outside was rough enough, and very much so in winter, when he had on his high fishing-boots, broad-flapped sou’-wester, thick woollen comforter, Guernsey frock, with a red flannel shirt above it, and a pea-coat over all. But he had an honest, tender, true, God-loving, and God-fearing heart. As he had been brought up, so he brought up his children in “the way they should go,” trusting “that when they were old they would not depart from it.”

John Hadden was able to do what many of his friends could not; he could read, having learned early in life. Not that he read very well, but well enough to study the Book of books so as to understand what it teaches. There are many, alas! who can read it far more easily than could John Hadden, but do not. How many have the Bible, but do not even look into it, treating it as though it were of less value than any common book! How many would rather read light foolish books than the “Holy Scriptures,” though they “are able to make us wise unto salvation, through faith which is in Christ Jesus!”

What does that verse mean? That if we read and study the Scriptures, with faith in Christ Jesus, they will show us how we may, without fail, gain more joy, happiness, wealth, and glory than words can tell; not such as will pass away in a few short years, but such as will last for ever and ever.

John Hadden prized the Bible as the only light which could point out to him the way of eternal life. He read and read, and, more than all, he prayed as he read, till he understood the Bible well, and was able to shape his own course by it, and to point out to his sons how they might shape theirs. When he took up the Bible he humbly prayed, “Lord, teach me that I may read and understand Thy holy Word aright.” These words, and the spirit of these words, he taught his children.

John Hadden and his family neglected no means or opportunities of knowing more about the Bible, or of obtaining instruction. He did not say, as some do, “I can read, and I can pray; and so why should I go away from my own home and own fireside to listen to another man?” John Hadden was a real Christian, and therefore he was a humble Christian. The place of public worship was far off, and the road was rough; but John, with his wife and children, never failed when he was on shore, unless hindered by sickness, to go there on the Sunday to hear the Word of God read and explained, and to pray with other Christian people. When John and the boys were at sea, Mrs Hadden and the other children went, and she used to say she dearly loved to do so, because then she could pray with others to the good Lord, and say, “That it may please Thee to preserve all that travel by land or by water.” John often also said that when he was away on the ocean, he always felt happy as the hour of public service came round, because he knew that his wife and children, and other Christian friends, would be praying for him and his companions at sea.

Among the precepts which John Hadden found in his Bible was this: “Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath-day. Six days shalt thou labour, and do all that thou hast to do; but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God. In it thou shalt do no manner of work.” Now John Hadden was a plain man, and he understood things plainly. When, early in life, he first understood this commandment, he determined that he would keep it; and so, while others cast out their nets on Saturday night, as usual, John always kept his in. If he could, he ran into harbour, and worshipped God with his fellow-men on shore; if not, he and his sons and the rest of his crew united in prayer: he also read to them from the Holy Scriptures, and often besides from some religious book likely to feed their souls with spiritual food. John Hadden had acted in this way for years. The masters of other boats had tried in vain to make him give up this practice. They told him he would be ruined; that he had a large family to bring up; that it was foolish, and not required; that such commandments wore for shore-going people, and not for poor fishermen. But John’s answer was always the same: “I’ll tell you what, mates: God says, ‘Do no work on the Sabbath’—don’t fish, that means; and I’m very certain that what He says is right. So it is not right to fish more than six days in the week. What I tell you, mates, and what I tell my boys, is this: ‘Do right whatever comes of it.’”

Note 1. This plant is the round-headed rush, or Juncus conglomeratus of naturalists, and is cultivated with great care, especially on the banks of the sea, in Holland, to prevent the water from washing away the earth; for the roots of these rushes strike very deep in the ground, and mat together near the surface so as to form a hold on the loose soil. These rushes do not grow so strong in England as in the richer soil of Holland.

Note 2. Sailors call the side on which the wind strikes, the weather or windward side, and the opposite to it the lee side. A net is cast out to windward, and the vessel drops slowly down from it till it is all out, when she remains at the lee end. Sometimes the nets are left with only a buoy to mark their position, and the vessel goes to a distance to cast out others.

Chapter Two.

Ben’s Father and his Motto.

It would be well if all, of high or low degree, landsmen and sailors, gentle and simple, kept to old John Hadden’s rule. How much misery and suffering would be saved! how much remorse of conscience! how much grief and shame! How much better would Satan, that great foe of man, be kept at a distance! That is just the reason he whispers, whenever he can get an opening, “Do wrong that good may come of it,” or, “Do a little wrong, just a little, and no harm will come of it;” or again, “Commit a small sin; God will not see it, or if He does, God will not care for it.” That is just what Satan has been saying over and over again since he first tempted and deceived Eve in the garden of Paradise. He spoke then from envy, to drive our first parents out of an earthly paradise; he in like manner lies now to us, to hinder us from getting into the heavenly paradise, prepared for those who love and obey God. John Hadden knew this full well, and so he would allow no departure from that rule; he would have it stuck to closely. He was for ever saying to his sons, “Do right at all times, my lads; it is not your business to think of what will happen afterwards. God will take care of that; He will guide you better than you can guide yourselves. If you act as I say, no real evil will befall you. You may fancy that what happens is an evil just for the time; but, depend on it, what seems an evil will turn out for your good in the end.”

A stranger, visiting in the neighbourhood, once walked over to Sandhills. He had a talk with John Hadden, who happened to be on shore. He soon found that John was a Bible-reading man, and that he obeyed the law of the gospel.

“And so you have followed this plan of yours for some time, and have found it answer?” said the stranger.

“Yes, sir,” said John, “I have followed it since I was a young man, and now I am an old one. I never have fished on a Sunday, and I hope that I never shall. Look at me, sir. Am I more feeble, am I thinner, am I more sickly than my neighbours? am I less able to work?”

“No, indeed you are not,” answered the stranger; “you are the stoutest and one of the most able-bodied men I have seen in the place.”

“Am I poorer? is my cottage less comfortable? are my children worse educated? are they inferior in health, strength, or activity to the children of others in the hamlet?” asked John, warming with the subject.

“No, my friend,” answered the stranger; “your sons are the finest young fellows in the place, and the best brought up, as I hear from all sides, while your cottage is the neatest and most comfortable.”

“That it is; that’s what I say to my brother fishermen,” exclaimed John Hadden, warmly. “Now, sir, I will tell you more than this. Instead of being a poorer man for not fishing on a Sunday I know that I am a richer one, and I can prove it. God knows what is best for us; so in His love He gave us the Sabbath, that we might rest, and that our souls might turn to Him and be glad. While others have been toiling all the year round, day after day, wearing out their bodies, and dulling and saddening, so to speak, their souls, I have rested one day out of seven, and on that day my strength and my spirits have been renewed. I have not grown old so fast as they have. Then again, if I had been toiling and working for the bread which perisheth, and made my sons toil and work with me, how could I have fed my soul and their souls with that bread which will make us live for ever? Instead of being steady, honest, hard-working, God-fearing young men, a credit to me, and respected by all who know them, they would have been careless, idle, and vicious. Neighbours often say to me, ‘How is it, John Hadden, that your sons are good steady young men, and do as you tell them?’—then I say, ‘It is just this, because I bring them up in the fear and admonition of the Lord. The Bible tells me how to bring up my children, and I do it. If you brought up your children as the Bible tells you to do, your children would make you as happy as mine do me.’

“But, sir, I was speaking about fishing on a Sunday. Now look here, sir; there is another reason why I have an advantage over those who fish every day in the week: my nets will last longer than theirs, and at the end of a couple of years are worth one-third more. While their nets have always been wet,—for they have not had time to mend them properly,—I have had mine brought on shore on Saturday morning, spread out all day in the sun, mended in the evening, and left to dry all the next day. The wear and tear of the boats and the boats’ gear also have been saved. So you see that those who break God’s commandments for the sake of gain do not find it all profit. There is an old saying, sir, that ‘The devil’s wages slip through the fingers.’ Whose wages are those gained by working on the Sabbath but his? A man fancies that he has got them safe in the palm of his hand, and when he wants to spend them, they are gone. At the end of the year,—I have said it, and I know it,—by following God’s commandments, simply because He has commanded, I have been a richer man than those who disobeyed them; and I know surely that I have been a stronger, a more healthy, a happier, and a more contented one.

“Again, sir, look here; many say they can’t work on from the beginning to the end of the fishing season without drink: no more they can, maybe, but rest is better far than drink; and if they would take the Sabbath-day’s rest they might save the cost of the week’s drink, and that’s more by a long way than the Sabbath-day’s toil gives them. So, as I say, when we obey God we do the best thing for ourselves, even in this life; and that to my mind shows what a merciful and loving God He is. He does not want to make us suffer pain or grief, He wants to make us happy; and so all His laws are such that if we would obey them, we should be happy. It is because men do not obey them that they are unhappy. There, sir, that’s my belief. I’m an old man now; but I thought so when I was a young one, and every year since I have had good cause to think the same.”

“You speak nothing but the truth, my friend,” observed the gentleman; “I will tell others what you have said to me, and how you have acted, and I will try to persuade them to follow your example.”

“My example, sir!” said John Hadden gravely. “Say rather, sir, the same example I try to follow.”

“You are right, my friend,” said the gentleman, wringing the fisherman’s rough hand and walking thoughtfully away.

Some time after this, John Hadden was sitting with his spy-glass resting across his knees, at the top of the highest sand-hill near the village. A strong gale from the north-east, which would not let any of the fishing-boats put to sea, was blowing. It was at the time of the year when the larger fishing-vessels are laid up. John had more than once put his glass to his eye; he now kept it there, and made a crutch of his left arm to hold it up. While thus employed, he was joined by one of his sons.

“If he don’t take care he’ll be on the bank as sure as my name is John Hadden,” he cried out, pointing to a large ship which had stood in from the offing (that is, from the sea far off), and was trying to work to the northward. A slant of wind which would allow the stranger (see note 1) to lay well up along shore, had tempted him to stand in closer than he should have done. Old Hadden and his son watched the strange vessel for some time with great interest. Still he stood blindly on.

“There, I feared that it would be so!” exclaimed John; “and if help don’t go to them before high water, not a soul of all on board will escape.”

Too true: the fine ship lay fast, her broadside struck again and again by the heavy seas, which came rolling in from the eastward.

“Jem, we must go to her!” exclaimed John Hadden suddenly. “Call your brothers, lad; it won’t do to let these poor fellows perish for want of help.”

Scarcely two minutes passed after this, before John Hadden and his five sons—for Ben also went—were launching their yawl through the surf which broke on the sandy beach. A few of the people of the village nearest the water came running down to see the boat off, but John had not time to tell his wife and daughters of what he was going to do. He would fain have given them a parting kiss, but time was precious. He sent up a lad, though, to his home. “Tell them,” he said, “we are doing our duty; we shall be cared for.” Away through the foaming sea the brave men pulled their stout boat. The spray flew over her, and speedily wetted them through, but for that they cared nothing. The seas, however, sometimes broke on board, and little Ben was kept hard at work, baling out the water.

“She is well out at the end of the spit, lads,” observed old Hadden; “we may get close enough for them to heave a rope on board us, if she hangs together, and I don’t see that there is much doubt about her doing that.”

They pulled on for some time, without any one again speaking. “She will hang very well together,” observed John; “but, oh! more’s the pity, they seem to be lowering one of their boats, instead of waiting for our coming, as if they could reach the shore in her.” Such was indeed the case. A small boat was lowered, and several people were seen to leap into her. She shoved off, but a current, of which the strangers could not have known, swept the boat towards the breakers. In another instant she was rolled right over, and all in her must have perished. Still the Haddens, thinking that others might be left on board, pulled on lustily to give them help.

As they rowed out more to sea, they saw another boat making her way towards the wreck. She had come from a hamlet a short distance to the north of Sandhills, from which place the wreck had been seen as well as from the Haddens’ village. Though she had not left the shore till after the Haddens’ boat had put off, she had the wind more in her favour, so it seemed likely that she would reach the wreck as soon as they could. When more than one boat is launched to go to a wreck, there is always a rivalry among the boatmen of the coast to try who will be the first on board, and if anything had been wanting to make the young Haddens toil harder than they had been doing, this would have made them. Still, the gale blew so strong that they could scarcely make any way against the wind, and all they could do at times was to keep the boat with her head to the sea to prevent her from being swamped (or filled with water). Yet on they went. They believed that they might be able to save some of their fellow-creatures from death, and that thought was enough to make them run all risks.

The last squall had been stronger than any others. Soon after it had passed over, John Hadden took a steady look to windward. “My boys,” said he, “the gale is breaking. By the time we get up to the wreck, it will be calm enough to allow us to climb on board. It is to be hoped that her crew will stick by the vessel. No! what folly! they have launched another boat, and she will meet, I fear, with the fate of the first.” He was silent for some minutes, while he looked now and again towards the wreck. “I feared so!” he cried at last; “they are lost, every one of them; no man could swim through that boiling surf.”

Nearly another half-hour passed after this before the two boats got up to the wreck. The gale had by this time very much abated, and, the tide having turned, the sea had gone down. The boats pulled under the lee of the wrecked vessel, which held well together, and had her crew stayed on board, they might have been saved. Not a person was to be seen on deck. The fishermen shouted loudly; no one came. It seemed certain that all must have perished. Without help from the ship it was at first difficult to get on board, except at great risk. However, after waiting some time longer, the boats were able to run alongside, and the crews reached her deck. They searched the ship through; not a human being was found on board. A fire, however, was burning in the cabin grate, and before it sat a cat, quietly licking her paws. (A fact.) Instinct had guided her better than man’s sense, of which he is often so proud.

The Haddens, with the men of the other boat, began, without loss of time, to search through the ship. She was a foreigner. It was clear that those who had left her were in great fear, and had thought only of saving their lives. Many articles of value lay scattered about in the cabins. John Hadden and his sons were on deck; the rest were below.

“Hurrah!—a prize! a prize!” cried one of the men of the other boat. “A box of gold!”

“Hush!” cried one of his companions. “Don’t talk of it, man. If no one else sees it, we may have it all to ourselves.”

At that moment John Hadden entered the cabin. His eye fell on the box, as the men were trying to hide it; he looked at what was in it. “Friends, this property is not ours,” he remarked, in a calm, firm voice; “we shall get a fair reward if we succeed in saving it. I hope, if we stay by the ship, that we may get her off, at the top of the next flood, by lightening her a little. What say you? Will you stay by my lads and me, and do the job?”

The other men, however, had set their hearts on getting the box of gold. Have it they would, and they made all sorts of excuses to get away from the ship, that they might take it with them. John Hadden was a man who not only would not do wrong himself, but would stop others, if he could, from doing it.

“Mates,” he said, “I do not want to quarrel with you, or with any other men; but the goods on board this ship must remain just as we found them. I am sure that my own lads will bear me out in what I say: none of us will touch them.”

“Oh, we always have heard that you were a very strict man, Mr Hadden, and now we find it true enough!” replied one of the men, with a sneer.

“No,” said John Hadden quietly; “I only say, ‘Do right, whatever comes of it.’ If we take the goods on board this ship, we should be doing wrong. And others doing so, won’t make wrong right. That’s all.”

“Well, well; we don’t want to quarrel. We wished you to share; but if you won’t, you won’t, and neither will get it,” answered the other; “so, Mr Hadden, let’s say no more about it.”

John, honest and true himself, did not think that any trick was going to be played him. The other men joined him and his sons, with seeming goodwill, in getting out warps, and in heaving overboard some of the cargo. Thus they worked on till night stopped them. There was a promise of a fine night; and so, making fast their boats under the lee of the wreck, they prepared to spend the time on board till the return of day. Of course, they had to keep a watch on deck. The first watch was kept by the Haddens; the morning watch by the people of the other boat. When John Hadden and his sons awoke in the morning, and came on deck, the other boat was gone, and so was the box of gold, which had been left in the cabin.

Daylight returning, a white speck was seen away to the northward. John Hadden, as he looked through the glass, knew that it was the boat of those who had been with him. There were some sand-banks, and a narrow passage through them, by which a long distance might be saved. At certain tides this passage was dangerous, even in fine weather.

“The foolish fellows are making for the Gut!” exclaimed John Hadden. “I would not try to go through it for any sum.” Just then some clouds were seen driven across the sky by a squall; the wind struck the boat. “She’s lost! she’s lost!” cried John Hadden, in a tone of pity. Over went the boat; nor she, nor her crew, nor the box of gold were ever seen again.

The ship was soon got afloat, and was brought by John Hadden and his brave sons into harbour. They gained a large sum for saving the ship.

“I told you,” said John to his sons, “do right, whatever comes of it. This time, much good has come to us; so it generally will. If it does not, never mind; we don’t see the good—that’s all. God knows best what is best. Still do right.”

Note 1. When the name and character of a vessel met at sea are not known, it is spoken of by sailors as ‘a stranger’; of a stranger they say he, but a known vessel is named she.

Chapter Three.

A Ship in Distress.

As yet the sun seemed always to have shone on little Ben. He had a good fond mother to look after him at home, and a kind father who set him a good example, taught him well, fed him well, and never took him to sea in bad weather, or let him suffer any hardships which could be helped. Seldom could a merrier, happier fellow than Ben then was be found. Dark days, however, were coming for him, of which he little thought. Thankful, indeed, should we be that our ever-kind God does not allow us to know beforehand what we may be called on to suffer.

The summer passed away, the winter returned, and the large luggers being once more laid up in harbour, John Hadden and his sons went home to spend their Christmas. It was a very happy one. Nearly all the family were together; two sons had returned from sea, a daughter had come home for a visit from service, and many a pleasant evening they spent as they sat over the cottage fire, while the sailors recounted the adventures they had met with in their voyages to distant lands. The fishermen had also their tales to tell, and many an old story was recalled to mind and recounted by John and his eldest sons, or a neighbour who had stepped in to see them. John, too, would read to his family, not only on a Sunday evening, but on every evening in the week, when he was at home, from the Book of books.

“I can’t see why people should fancy, as many do, that they need read the Bible only on one day in the week. It was surely given us to be our guide not only for Sundays, but for every day. There is no business in life in which it won’t tell us how to act whenever we may have any doubts about the matter,” said John one evening, after he had been reading the Scriptures; and then he continued, “In every page the Bible says, ‘Do right, whatever comes of it,’ and that is the very thing we ought to be reminded of, day after day, for it is the very thing we are too apt to forget.”

John not only read the Bible, but he profited by what he read, and so did his children; and that is the reason why they were a happy, united, and prosperous family.

Some time after Christmas, John Hadden had gone out by himself on the sea-shore, with his constant companion, his spy-glass, under his arm. He walked up and down, and his mind dwelt on many of the scenes and events of his past life; he thought of the many dangers he had gone through, and of how often he had been mercifully preserved. “People do say that the life of a fisherman is a very dangerous one,” he thought to himself. “They are right. How many of those I have known have lost theirs! Not a year that I can call to mind but some friend or other has been drowned. Such may be my end. God is merciful; He knows what is best. He will not call me away, except for some good purpose.”

Continuing his walk, Hadden’s mind grew more and more serious, almost melancholy; yet it must not be said that his mind was one of a gloomy turn; no man was generally more cheerful. The day, however, had an effect on his spirits. The clouds gathered thickly in the sky, and hung low down; the wind moaned as it came across the dull, leaden-looking ocean, and found its way among the sand-hills, making the tall rushes bend before it. Sheets of cold mist came rolling in every now and then towards the land; and, though they swept by, they were quickly succeeded by others, till they grew denser and denser, and a regular heavy wetting mist settled down over the face of the land and the water.

John Hadden was about to turn his steps homeward, when one of his sons came to remind him that it was time to return home to tea. Just then a heavy squall burst on the land from the eastward, and the clouds and mist breaking away left a clear space all the way to the horizon.

“I’ll come, Bill, I’ll come, my boy,” he answered, lifting, however, his glass to his eye, to take another last look over the troubled waters before he went in for the evening. Just then he caught sight of a stranger in the offing, where, outside the sand-banks, a high sea was running. He looked earnestly through his glass for half a minute.

“There is a large ship,” he said to his son, “driving on towards the banks, and totally dismasted. Unless there is a pilot aboard who knows his way through the passage, he’ll be on the bank to a certainty, and then, with such a night as we shall have presently, Heaven have mercy on the unfortunate people! Even if the wreck should hang together till the morning, they will be washed overboard and be lost. Though we missed saving the people from the wreck last year, through their own folly, we must not be dispirited. Perhaps we may be able to save these. Bill, go and find your brothers, and tell them that there’s a ship will be on shore directly, and that we must do something to help. Say nothing, though, to your mother, boy.” Bill hastened away, and old John still watched the ship.

As he had foreseen, the stranger very soon drove on to a dangerous part of the sand-banks, and the sea before long was evidently making a clean breach over the deck. In a short time all the young Haddens, and several other men, came down on the beach, bringing old John’s rough-weather coat and boots, which he put on while they were getting ready to launch the boat. Little Ben came with his brothers.

Old John put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and looked earnestly into his face. “No, Ben, I’ll not take thee, my child, to-day,” said he; “it’s over-rough work we are going on; I couldn’t even tell thy mother of it; so go home, and take care of her.”

Little Ben pleaded hard to be taken, but he pleaded in vain. “No, lad, no, I cannot take you,” repeated the father. “Go home now, go home. It may be late before we return. Perhaps we shall be out all night, so mother will want you at home to keep her company. Read to her, lad, out of the Bible; and, I say, Ben, if thy father never comes back, remember that his last words to thee were—Trust to God. Do right, whatever comes of it.”

Old John Hadden then joined the young men and the rest of the boat’s crew, and their united strength soon launched her, with all her gear on board, into the water; and as they all leaped in, each man seizing an oar, they quickly had her through the surf, which had begun to roll in somewhat heavily. Little Ben stood on the top of a sand-hill, and watched them as they pulled away out to sea. His eye anxiously followed the boat as she grew less and less distinct, till she was lost to sight among the breaking seas, which leaped upwards around the sand-banks. For a time he could clearly see the wreck towards which they were directing their course. Then the shades of evening increasing, and a thick mass of mist gathering round her, she also was lost to sight.

Ben, as his father had desired him, went home, and having reported that he had seen the boat get well off, sat himself down by the side of his mother, who was working with her needle before the fire, and taking the big Bible on his knees, he began to read to her out of its sacred pages. His father’s mark was at the thirteenth chapter of Saint Luke’s Gospel, and he read: “There were present at that season some that told Him of the Galileans, whose blood Pilate had mingled with their sacrifices. And Jesus answering said unto them, Suppose ye that these Galileans were sinners above all the Galileans, because they suffered such things? I tell you, Nay: but, except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish. Or those eighteen, upon whom the tower in Siloam fell, and slew them, think ye that they were sinners above all men that dwelt in Jerusalem? I tell you, Nay: but, except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish.”

“Father was saying that to me the other day, mother,” remarked little Ben. “He told me that he had known many God-fearing men to lose their lives, and many bad ones live on and remain still in their wickedness.”

“Yes, my boy; God knows best when a servant of His has lived long enough. He calls us when He wants us,” replied Mrs Hadden; adding, “It matters little to a Christian when or how he is taken from earth. The great thing of all is to know that we are Christians, not in name only, but in truth. And to be a Christian is to believe on and love the dear Saviour, who has done so much for us; and so to be born again of God’s Holy Spirit, as the Lord Jesus Christ Himself has told us: ‘For, except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.’”

Ben read on to his mother till she told him that it was time for him to go to bed. He repeated his prayers, and then he went up and lay down in the room which he and his brothers usually occupied; but he was the only one there. Every now and then he awoke, expecting to hear them coming in; but he only heard the rain dashing against the lattice window, and the wind howling and whistling dismally. A heavy gale was blowing right on shore. Every now and then there was a flash of vivid lightning, and a loud crash of thunder rattling away across the sky. Ben tried again to go to sleep, but he could not. He was certain that his poor mother could not be sleeping. He crept down to her room, where a light was burning. Her head had not pressed her pillow; she was on her knees, with her face bent down to the bed, and her hands clasped together.

Noiselessly Ben stole back to his attic. “I can pray too, and join my prayers to mother’s,” he said to himself. He prayed for his father and brothers exposed in their open boat to that fierce storm near those terrific breakers, which rolled in over the sand-bank where the ship had struck. He fully understood all the dangers to which they were exposed. “God knows best what to do—God’s will be done,” he repeated as he rose from his knees.

Daylight came at last. Ben got up, and, slipping on his clothes, he ran out to the sand-hills, whence he could obtain a clear view over the sea. He well knew the spot where the ship had struck. She was not there, nor was there any sign of the boat. He could not bring himself to go back to his poor mother with this account, so he went down to the beach. The shore was strewed with bits of the wreck, showing the fearful character of the gale which had blown all night, and was still blowing.

Hour after hour passed by; but no boat neared the shore. His mother came to look for him, and with trembling voice called him in; yet she lingered, watching anxiously with haggard eyes the foaming ocean. At length night returned. Neighbours looked in, but they could give her no comfort. The boat might have run into port, but it was not likely. Sadly that second night passed away. The morning brought no gleam of hope. Mrs Hadden’s lot has been that of many fishermen’s and sailors’ wives.

Chapter Four.

A Sorrowful Home and a New Friend.

As day after day passed away, Mrs Hadden ceased to hope. Neither John Hadden nor any of his companions were ever again heard of. There could be no doubt that they had been lost in their gallant attempt to carry succour to their fellow-creatures on the wreck. Mrs Hadden was a widow and little Ben was fatherless.

“Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth,” repeated the bereaved woman over and over to herself. “Oh, may He in His mercy give me strength to bear the lot He has thought fit in His wisdom to prepare for me, and make it profitable to my soul.”

She had many trials to bear. Her husband and sons, those able to support her, were gone; and some time passed before she could gather strength to arouse herself to consider what she could do for the sustenance of little Ben and herself. He was willing and eager to work, though he could not hope to gain much as yet. He soon had also another besides his mother and himself to work for. One of his sisters at service fell ill, and had to come home and be nursed; and, poor girl, it made her feel worse to know that she was thus trespassing on her mother’s scanty means; though little Ben did his best to cheer her up, telling her that it was just a double pleasure to have two to work for besides himself, instead of only one.

He did his best certainly, though that was but little. His mother entreated him not to go out in the fishing-boats, for she dreaded (and that was but natural) that the same fate which had befallen his father and brothers might overtake him. He, however, bought, on credit, fish caught by others, and all the fishermen were ready to trust him. He carried them for sale to the houses of the neighbouring gentry and farmers. Sometimes, with his basket at his back, he got a lift in a cart to the nearest town, where, in the summer season, he was able to obtain a better price than he usually asked of his regular country customers. People who had once dealt with him were always ready to deal again. They found that they could without fail trust him. He could always tell the day, and almost the very hour, the fish he had to sell had been caught, and his customers found from experience that he never deceived them. At the first, when in a frank manner he told them the exact time the fish had been landed, some were inclined to laugh, and others to be angry, fancying that he was practising on their credulity; but the more generous soon saw, from the honest blush which rose on his cheeks when he assured them that he was simply saying what he knew to be the case, that he was really speaking the truth. He thus gained many friends, and even bargain-loving housekeepers ceased to try and beat him down. His price was always moderate, and the profit he made was, after all, but a small remuneration for the toil he went through.

To be up early, to be on his feet all day, and often unable to reach home till late in the evening, was now little Ben’s fate. He did not complain; far from it. He rejoiced that he was thus able to assist his widowed mother.

John Hadden had saved but little money. His boat and his nets composed the principal part of his worldly wealth, besides the cottage he lived in. The boat was gone; and the nets, without the hands which used them, could gain nothing. Mrs Hadden was therefore advised to sell them, with the portions of the boat-gear which had remained on shore. The times, however, were bad, she was told, and the things were sold very much under their real value. She was still thankful for what she received, and she resolved to live as frugally as possible, that her humble means might the longer hold out.

Her daughter was a heavy expense to her. Poor Susan grew worse and worse; yet she still lingered on, utterly helpless to look at, yet not helpless in reality, for she was supported by faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. She was perfectly happy, as far as she herself was concerned; her only regret being that she deprived her mother of part of the scanty means she so much required for herself. At length, full of hope and joy, she died. Little Ben wept bitterly for the loss of his sister: he had never for one moment thought of the money spent on her. The bereaved mother mourned more silently.

Mrs Hadden was yet to be further tried. A letter one day reached her from a stranger. It told her that her only surviving son, besides Ben, had been cast away in the far off Pacific Ocean, and, with many others, murdered or held captive by savages. The writer, Thomas Barlow, said that he and Ned were great friends, and that they had agreed, should any misfortune happen to either, the survivor should write home, and give an account of what had occurred. Barlow wrote, in fulfilment of his promise, addressing his letter to John Hadden: all the hope he could give was that Ned might have escaped with his life, as some white men had been known from time to time to be living among those savages; but the opinion was that all their shipmates had been murdered. The writer added that he, with six other men only of all the crew, had made their escape in the longboat of the wrecked vessel, and, after suffering great hardships, had been picked up at sea by a ship bound for Sydney, New South Wales.

“Poor Ned! poor Ned!” exclaimed little Ben, crying bitterly; “he must not be lost! I’ll go and look for him, mother. If he is alive, I’ll find him, and bring him back to you.”

“Oh no! no, Ben! don’t you go away from me,” cried the poor widow. “I should indeed be forlorn if I was to lose you. Yet, Ned! Ned! poor Ned! where can you be—among savages, or killed? You wouldn’t find him, Ben; they would only treat you in the same way, and I should lose you, Ben. It cannot be: oh, don’t—don’t think of it, Ben!” And the poor widow at length found some relief to her feelings in a flood of tears. It was seldom that she gave way in this manner; but the announcement of Ned’s too probable fate, and the thought of losing Ben, completely overcame her.

The idea, however, that he would go to sea and find his brother had entered little Ben’s head, and, moreover, that they together would bring back wealth sufficient to support their mother in comfort. That idea was not very easily driven away. Day after day it occurred to him. His difficulty was to persuade his mother to let him go. He did not understand as clearly as an older person might have done, that he could not go away without making her very unhappy. He argued that he should be away only a short time, and that then he should come back so rich, and be able to take such good care of her, that she would gain ample amends for the pain she might suffer by parting with him for a season. Poor fellow! he little knew the dangers and hardships he would have to encounter in a sailor’s life.

Ben’s mind was full of his plans, and they served at all events to beguile many a weary mile, as he trudged on through the country, contentedly as usual, selling his fish. One day, however, when walking along the streets of the town, he met with an accident. A horse, dragging a cart, took fright and was dashing along the road, near the sea, towards a group of little children whose nursemaids were standing chatting to each other, not thinking much about their young charges. The women, startled at hearing the horse coming, were so frightened that they knew not what to do. They snatched up one child after the other, running here and there, and leaving several of the little creatures, unconscious of their danger, in the very way of the maddened animal. Ben saw the peril in which the children were placed, and, throwing down his basket of fish, he sprang forward and caught the reins, which were hanging over the shafts. He had not strength to stop the horse, though he turned it aside, while he still hung on to the reins; he was at the same time dragged down, and the wheel passed over his side and one of his legs. The horse, thus turned from his course, dashed against some railings, and was stopped. The children were saved.

A gentleman looking out of a window saw the accident, and the gallant way in which little Ben had behaved. He rushed out of the house, took him in, placed him on a sofa, and sent for a surgeon. His leg was not broken, but some of his ribs were. The gentleman said that Ben should remain at his house till he was cured. He also at once sent off to Mrs Hadden to inform her of the accident, and to assure her that her son was well taken care of. Immediately she received the sad news, she set off to see Ben. She could not bear the thought of letting him remain with strangers, however kind they might prove.

It was almost midnight when she arrived. Ben’s friend received her kindly, and her heart was comforted when she found that her son was going on so well. The gentleman told her that he was Lieutenant Charlton, of the navy, and again assured her that he would take good care of the boy. Satisfied that Ben’s new friend would keep his word, she returned home the next day.

In less than six weeks Ben was almost himself again. Lieutenant Charlton nursed the poor boy as if he had been his own son, and showed how much pleased he was with him. Ben spoke frankly to him, told him of his past life, hopes, and wishes.

“Well, my boy, I will take you to sea with me when next I go, and that will be, I hope, before long,” said the lieutenant to him one day.

“I should like to go, sir, very much indeed, but mother says that she cannot part with me,” answered Ben.

“I will speak to your mother, and explain to her how seamen in the British navy are now treated,” said the lieutenant. “She, I daresay, believes that they are no more cared for than they used to be at one time; whereas, the truth is that they are better looked after than many people on shore, and certainly much better than the seamen in the merchant service.”

“It is not ill-treatment either she or I fear, sir,” said Ben. “I’d go anywhere with you, sir; but mother cannot bear the thought of parting with me—that’s the truth of it, sir.”

“I’ll speak to her about the matter, and perhaps she may see things in a different light,” said Lieutenant Charlton. “Perhaps I may be able to find a home for her while you are away, and then she will be content to let you go, knowing that you are well provided for.”

Ben thanked the lieutenant very much. He made up his mind, however, that, unless his mother was perfectly ready to let him go to sea, nothing should persuade him to quit her. He had not forgotten his father’s last words, “Do right, whatever comes of it.”

“The Bible says, ‘Honour thy father and thy mother,’” said Ben to himself. “I should not be honouring my mother if I was to disobey her wishes, even though I was to become an officer, and see all the world, and come back with my pockets full of gold. No, no! Lieutenant Charlton is very kind and very good—that I am sure of; but, poor dear mother, I’ll not leave her, unless she bids me, in God’s name, go and prosper.”

Ben was now sufficiently recovered to return home. He went back in a cart provided for him by the good lieutenant, who had also during his confinement not been unmindful of his mother. Ben found that some ladies had called on her, saying that they were the parents of the children who had been saved by Ben’s bravery and presence of mind, and they insisted, as the least they could do, on supplying all her wants during his absence. They also promised further aid when they had learned how they could best bestow it. Indeed, Mrs Hadden had been much better off of late than she had been for a long time before.

“I think, mother, that we should say, besides ‘Do right, whatever comes of it,’ ‘Whatever happens is for the best,’ even though it looks to us like a great misfortune. I thought that I was very unfortunate when I got knocked down and had my ribs broken, and yet you see how much good has come out of it. You have been well looked after, and I have gained more friends than I might otherwise have found during all my life.”

“Yes, Ben,” answered Mrs Hadden, “yes. God orders all for the best, there’s no doubt about that; but His ways are not our ways, and we cannot always see how that which happens is to work for our good as clearly as we now see how your broken ribs which you speak of have brought me many comforts I should not otherwise have enjoyed. Your father, Ben, would have said what I do; and I often think, now that he is in heaven enjoying perfect happiness, how he blesses God that he was born a poor humble fisherman, with the grace and the religious privileges he enjoyed, instead of some rich man, whose heart might have remained unchanged, or instead of one who might have put his faith in the Pope of Rome, or in that wicked impostor we were reading about, Mahomet. Ah, Ben, we often are not thankful enough for all the religious advantages we enjoy, and, above all, that we have so fully and freely the gospel placed before us.”

Chapter Five.

A Turn in Ben’s History.

Little Ben had now sufficiently recovered to follow his former business, for though not as strong as before his accident, he calculated on getting an occasional lift in a cart, so as to make his rounds with less difficulty. The first day he went down to the beach when the boats came in, he was welcomed with a friendly smile from all the fishermen. They had heard how he had saved the little children from being run over by the horse and cart. First one brought him a couple of fine fish, saying, “That’s for you, Ben. Don’t talk of payment this time.” Then another did the same thing, and another, and another, till his basket was so full that he could scarcely carry it. He thanked the kind fishermen all very much, and said that he was sure he did not deserve that from them; but they replied that they were better judges than he was of that matter, and that they only wished they could afford to fill his basket in the same manner every morning. This was very pleasant to Ben’s feelings, and he got so good a price for the fish, which were very fine, that he was ever afterwards able to pay ready money for all he bought.

Day after day Ben went his rounds; but, though he generally got a fair price for the fish he sold, he could scarcely gain sufficient to procure food and clothing for himself and his mother, and firing and lights, and to pay the taxes with which even they were charged. Sometimes he did not sell all the fish he had bought, and, as fish will not keep long, he and his mother had to eat them themselves, or to sell them to other poor people at a low rate. Then he wore out a good many pairs of shoes, as well as other clothes, as he had to be out in all weathers; for those who wanted a dish of fish for dinner would not have been satisfied had he waited till the next morning to bring it to them on account of a storm of rain or snow. Mrs Hadden had thought of taking to sell fish herself, to relieve Ben somewhat, but he urged her not to make the attempt. She was not strong, and, although a fisherman’s wife, had been unaccustomed to out-door work. She had been in service during her younger days as a nurse, where she enjoyed every comfort she could desire. When she married, though no man’s cottage was better kept than John Hadden’s, and no children were better cared for and brought up, she could not help him in the way the wives of most of the fishermen were expected to do. “But then,” as John remarked, when some of his friends warned him that he was a lout to marry a fine lady and a useless person, “she is a God-fearing, pious woman, and she’ll do her best in whatever I wish her to do.” So she did, and till the day of his death John never had reason to regret his choice.

“God will show us what ought to be done, and give the strength to do it, if I ought to go out and sell fish to obtain our daily food,” said Mrs Hadden, after she had one day been talking over the subject with Ben.

“Yes, mother, there is no doubt but that God will show us what ought to be done,” he answered. “But the minister was telling us on Sunday that God brings about what He wishes to take place through human means, and does not work what we call miracles; so I think that, if He hasn’t given you the strength of body to carry about a basket of fish through the country, He does not wish you so to employ yourself.”

The discussion was cut short by the appearance of Lieutenant Charlton, who had ridden up to the door of the cottage. Ben ran out to welcome him and to hold his horse, but he said, “No, we must get somebody else to take care of the animal while you and I have a talk with your mother over matters.” Ben easily found a lad to lead his kind friend’s horse up and down on the sand, and then he accompanied the lieutenant into the cottage.

“I have a great deal to say to you, Mrs Hadden, and so I hope that you will hear me patiently,” said the lieutenant, sitting down in the chair John Hadden used to occupy. “First, I must tell you that I am going away to sea. I have a mother who is a great invalid, and requires the constant attendance of a sensible, good-tempered Christian woman who can read to her, and talk and amuse her. I know no person so well qualified for the post as you are. My sister, who lives with her, thinks so likewise, and will be most thankful to have your assistance. In this way, if you will accept our offer, you yourself will be well provided for. Now, with regard to little Ben. Selling fish is a very respectable occupation, but not a very profitable one, I suspect, from what I can hear, and I think that your son is fitted for something better. To be sure, he may some day become a full-grown fishmonger, but that can only be some years hence; and, from what he has told me, I find that he has a strong wish to go to sea, though, unless you were comfortably provided for, nothing would tempt him to leave you. Now you see my plan: you shall take care of my mother, and I will take care of your son. What do you say to it?”

“That I am most grateful to you for your kindness, sir,” answered the widow in a trembling voice; “thus much I can say at once; but I am sure that you will excuse me for not giving a decided answer immediately. I should wish to lay the matter before God in prayer, and Ben and I will go over to-morrow morning to give you our reply, if you can kindly wait so long. I wish to do what is right; but ah, sir, it is a hard thing to have to part from my only boy, after having lost so many!”

“Though my time is short before I must join my ship, of which I am first lieutenant, and I am much hurried, I will gladly wait till to-morrow morning, that you may decide for the best,” answered the lieutenant. “I shall not be, I hope, less your friend, though you may differ in opinion with me and decline my offer.” The kind officer, however, before he took his departure, told Mrs Hadden, in case she should give Ben leave to accompany him, what preparations she should make for him, saying that all expenses would be borne by the friends who wished to serve her. He assured her that Ben would be well treated, and would probably find many good men on board ship, who would support him in doing right, though he would of course find many who would do their utmost to lead him astray; that, if he continued as he had begun, he would certainly be made a petty officer, and very likely, if he wished it, a warrant-officer, when he would be able to retire on a comfortable pension, and at all events, in case of being wounded, he would have Greenwich Hospital to fall back on.

Mrs Hadden and little Ben thought and talked and prayed over the subject after the lieutenant was gone, and the result was that his offer was accepted. Instead of leaping for joy, as Ben thought he should do if this conclusion were come to, he threw his arms round his mother’s neck, exclaiming, “Oh, mother, mother, how can I be so cruel and hard-hearted as to think of leaving you! I’ll stay with you, and work for you as before, if you wish it, indeed I will. I would rather stay—I shall be very happy at home with you.”

Mrs Hadden knew that these feelings were very natural, and, believing that it was to Ben’s advantage that he should go to sea with so kind an officer as Lieutenant Charlton, she would not allow her resolution to be shaken, though her mother’s heart was saying all the time, “Let him give it up, and stay at home with you.” Children often but little understand how much parents give up for what they, at all events, believe will benefit those children.

The lieutenant had desired Mrs Hadden to let him know as soon as she had decided, as, should Ben not go with him, he should take some other boy in his place. In spite of all she could do, tears blotted the paper as she wrote her humble thanks accepting his offer. The lieutenant remarked it, observing, “Poor woman! I suppose it must be a trial to her to part with her boy—I did not think much of that.”

“Indeed it must be, my son,” said Mrs Charlton, his mother, who overheard him: “I found it very hard to part with you—though I did so because I thought it was right.”

“You did, mother, I am sure, and providentially I fell into good hands, and have every reason to be thankful that I went to sea,” said the lieutenant.

“I trust that Mrs Hadden will hear little Ben say the same when he comes back from sea,” said Mrs Charlton.

“I pray that I may be able to do my duty towards the boy, and watch carefully over him,” said the lieutenant.

“Depend on it, God will aid you. He always does those who trust in Him and desire to serve Him,” answered Mrs Charlton. “Tell the boy also, should he at any time appear anxious about his mother, that I also will do my best to take care of her.”

Mrs Hadden had indeed reason to say, “Truly God careth for the fatherless and widows who put their trust in Him.”

Ben’s outfitting operations now went on briskly. Some kind ladies sent a piece of strong calico to make him some shirts, and from morning to night Mrs Hadden’s busy fingers were plying her needle till they were finished. Other friends supplied his different wants, and he was soon quite ready to accompany Lieutenant Charlton. The day to leave home came. The worst part of the business was parting from his mother; yet, great as was the pain, it was not so great as might have been expected. People when conscious of doing right are saved much grief and suffering; especially, if they trust in God, they know that He can and will deliver them out of all their troubles.

“I shall come back, mother, to you; I know I shall. God will take care of me; I will try and do right, and serve Him faithfully; and perhaps, mother, I may bring back Ned with me,” said Ben to his mother, who had taken up her abode with Mrs Charlton. These were his last words to her as he again and again embraced her, and then, tearing himself away, he ran after the lieutenant, who was walking rapidly down the street towards the inn from which the coach started that was to convey them to Portsmouth.

Ben felt as if he had reached a new world even as he travelled along the road, much more so when he entered London itself, where Mr Charlton went to the house of a relation. Ben was shown into the kitchen, and handed over to the care of the page. He found that, at the very outset of his career, he was to meet with temptation to do wrong. After the late dinner, the page came down with two rich-looking dishes untouched, and took them into a little room, where he had invited Ben to meet him.

“Be quick, let us eat them up,” he said, “all but a small part of each; the housekeeper will never find it out, and I can tell cook how much I heard people praising them.”

“No; unless the housekeeper or cook gives it to us, I will touch nothing,” answered Ben stoutly.

“Nonsense! wherever did you learn such stuff?” exclaimed the page in surprise. “Why, we think nothing of that sort of thing; what harm can come of it?”

“I don’t see that that has anything to do with the matter,” said Ben. “I’ve been taught always to do right, whatever comes of it; and ’tis doing very far from right to take what doesn’t belong to one; it is doing very wrong—it is stealing.”

“I never should have thought that,” said the page; “I wouldn’t steal sixpence from no one, that I wouldn’t! but just taking something out of a dish of good things that comes down from the parlour is altogether different.”

“Now I don’t see any difference at all,” said Ben, more earnestly than before; “the long and the short of the matter is, that it’s wrong, and we mustn’t do wrong even if we fancy good is to come out of it. Just the contrary: we must do right, whatever we think may come out of it. God says, ‘Do right.’ He’ll take care of the rest.”

The page did not utter another word, and Ben had the satisfaction of seeing him take the dishes into the housekeeper’s room. This was a great encouragement to him. “If I can persuade one person to do right in what he thinks a trifle, I may persuade others; and, at all events, I will go on, with God’s help, doing so whenever I have an opportunity,” said Ben to himself. “That is right, I know.”

The page was not at all the less friendly after this, but he treated Ben with much more respect, and Ben was very sorry to part with him. Nearly his last words to him were, “Never mind what you have been accustomed to think or to do, but just remember to do right at all times. Jesus Christ, who came on earth to save us, and to teach us how to live and act in the world, has left us an example that we should walk in His steps. And if we were always to ask ourselves what He would have done if He had been put in our place, and do accordingly, that will be the right thing for us.”

Ben spoke so naturally and so earnestly, that the page didn’t think it anything like canting; but he answered, “I’ll try and do what you say, Ben, and when you’re away at sea perhaps you’ll remember me, and ask God to show me what’s right. He’s more likely to listen to you than to me.”

“Oh no, no! don’t suppose that for a moment!” exclaimed Ben. “He’s ready to hear all who call upon Him faithfully. He’s very kind, and loving, and gentle. He waits to be gracious. We should never get better if we waited to get better of ourselves. We must go to Him just as we are, trusting in the Lord Jesus Christ to wash away our sins; that will do it—nothing else.”

Little Ben had an advantage over a very large number of people, educated and rich, as well as poor and humble. He had been all his life accustomed to read the Bible, and so he knew more about God and His will, and could talk more rightly about Him, than those who do not read God’s Word can possibly do. He went daily to the fountain, and kept his pitcher full of the water of life. They who seldom or never go, must have their pitchers empty.

Chapter Six.

Life on Shipboard.

Mr Charlton had been appointed as first lieutenant of the Ajax, a thirty-six gun frigate, fitting-out for the Pacific station. On his arrival at Portsmouth, he at once repaired on board, taking Ben with him. As they pulled up the harbour in a shore boat towards the frigate, which lay lashed alongside a hulk, Ben was astonished at the number of ships he saw, and the vast size of many of them. It seemed to him as if the wind could never affect such monstrous constructions, even to move them along through the water; and as to the sea tossing them about as it did the boats to which he was accustomed, that seemed impossible. Several of them carried a hundred huge iron guns, and others even a larger number. He saw many more on the stocks in the dockyard, and others moored up the harbour, and he thought to himself, “Now, if people of different nations would but live at peace with each other, and try to do each other all the good in the world they can, instead of as much harm as possible, and employ their time in building merchant vessels and other works for the advantage of their fellow-creatures, how very much better it would be!”—Many wise and good men think as did little Ben, and yet they have to acknowledge that, while nations continue wickedly ambitious, and jealous of each other’s wealth and power, it is the duty of governments to be armed and prepared to resist aggression.

Ben felt very much astonished, and almost frightened, when he found himself on board the frigate, at the din and bustle which was going forward, and the seeming confusion—the shrill whistle of the boatswain, and the hoarse shouting of his mates, as yards were swayed up, and coils of rope and stores of all sorts were hoisted on board. Ben could not understand one-half that he heard, so many strange expressions were used—indeed, there seemed to be a complete Babel of tongues, with, unhappily, much swearing and abuse. Ben thought that the work would have gone on much more satisfactorily without it. He observed, after a time, that which appeared confusion was in reality order. Each gang of men was working under a petty officer, who received his orders from superior officers, of whom there were three or four stationed in different parts of the ship; and they, again, were all under the command of the officer in charge. Each man attended only to his own business, and, let all the petty officers bawl as loud as they might, he was deaf to the voice of every one of them except to that of the officer placed over him. As Ben was left standing by himself alone, he had an opportunity of making observations on what was going forward. He would have naturally formed a very unfavourable opinion of a man-of-war, had he seen her only thus in all the hurry of fitting-out. He was beginning to think that he was forgotten, when a boy of about his own age, neatly dressed in white trousers, and shirt with a broad worked collar, came up to him, and said—

“The first lieutenant wants you: come with me.”

Ben was very glad to move.

“What’s your name?” asked the boy.

Ben told him.

“Mine is Tom Martin,” said his companion; “I’m the boatswain’s son. Mr Charlton says I’m to look after you, and tell you what you want to know. But you’ve been to sea before, haven’t you?”

“Only in fishing-boats,” answered Ben; “and I shall be much obliged to you for telling me what I ought to know.”

“As to that, you’ll soon pick it up; for you don’t look like one of those chaps who come aboard with the hay-seed still in their hair,” said Tom. “Here we are at the gun-room door.”

Mr Charlton’s voice and eye were as kind as ever, though he spoke in rather a stiffer manner than was his custom on shore. He told Ben that he had had his name entered on the ship’s books, and that the boatswain would look after him, and give him instruction with his own son; besides this, that he was to be one of the boys employed in attending on the gun-room officers, which was an advantage, as it would give him plenty to do, and some little pay besides.

“You may go forward now,” said Mr Charlton. “The gun-room steward will tell you what to do when he comes on board. And remember, Martin, I shall depend on you to show Hadden everything he ought to know, and all about the ship.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Tom, pulling a lock of his hair, as of course he held his hat in his hand. Then he gave Ben a nudge, to signify that he was to come away with him.

“You are a lucky chap to have the first lieutenant for your friend,” observed Tom, as they went forward.

“Yes, he’s a kind, good gentleman as ever lived,” answered Ben warmly.

“That may be; but what I mean is, if you keep wide awake, and try to win his favour, you’ll have a comfortable time of it, and get a good rating before the ship is paid off,” observed Tom.

Ben, resolved as he was to keep to his principles, and to be ready to own them on all fit occasions, looked at his companion, and said, “I know, Martin, there’s one thing I have to do, and that is, to do right whatever comes of it. If I do right, I need have no fear but that, in the long-run, I shall please the first lieutenant and all the officers; at any rate, I shall please God, and that’s of more consequence than anything else.”

“Oh, I see what sort of a chap you are!” observed Tom. “Well, don’t go and talk like that to others—they mayn’t take it as I do; for my part, I don’t mind it.” And Tom put on a very self-pleased, patronising air.

“I don’t see that I have said anything out of the way,” remarked Ben. “It stands to reason that to do right is the only way to please God, and that to please God is the wisest thing to do, as He gives us everything we have; and of course He will give more to those who try to please Him than to those who do not. There are many other reasons, but that is one, is it not?”

“Yes, I suppose so; but I haven’t thought much about such things,” said Tom.

“Then do think about them. I know that it is a good thing to do,” said Ben.

“I’ll try,” whispered Tom.

It must not be supposed that Ben and Tom often talked together like this at first. There was too much bustle going forward for anything of the sort; they, as well as everybody in the ship, were kept hard at work from sunrise to sunset, and they were both so sleepy at night, when they turned into their hammocks, that they instantly fell fast asleep.

Ben had thus an opportunity of observing the whole process of fitting-out a ship. First he saw the huge, heavy guns hoisted on board, by means of tackles, with as much ease as an angler draws a big fish out of the water; then they were mounted on their carriages, and secured along the sides. Tackles, he learned, are formed by reeving ropes several times backwards and forwards through blocks. Then the topmasts and yards were got on board, swayed up, and crossed. Next, stores of all sorts were brought alongside—anchors, and chain-cables, and coils of rope, and round shot, and sails, and canvas, and paint, and tools for the various departments, and muskets, and cutlasses, and pistols, and bullets. No powder, however, came; and Ben learned that that would not be brought on board till the ship was out at Spithead. This rule was made because of accidents which had occurred formerly, ships having been blown up in the harbour, and been not only themselves destroyed, but caused the destruction of others, and the lives of very many people. Ben, however, saw the place where it was to be kept—a room lined with iron, with two doors. Between the doors was a sort of anteroom, and the outer door had an iron grating in it. There were means of flooding the magazine, in case of the ship catching fire. Last of all, the provisions and water were got on board—casks of beef and pork, and flour, and groceries, and spirits; and there were candles, and clothing, and (more necessary than most other things) water came alongside in lighters, and was pumped up into large iron tanks at the bottom of the ship. These tanks were large enough to allow a person to get into them to clean them out. They were in the inside coated with lime, and Ben was told that the water was kept in them fresh and pure for years.

The tools and stores were under the charge of three different warrant-officers—the gunner, the boatswain, and the carpenter. The first had everything connected with the guns, the shot, and powder; the boatswain had charge of all the ropes, sails, anchors, and cables; and the last of all, the woodwork, and spars, and pumps.

The provisions and clothing were under charge of the purser, who was an officer of superior rank, living with the lieutenants and surgeon. There was another officer, called the master, who also ranked with the lieutenants. He had charge of the navigation of the ship.

When the ship was completely fitted out, a body of soldiers called marines, under the command of a lieutenant, came on board. There was also one cabin full of young gentlemen, called midshipmen, their ages varying from thirteen up to five or six-and-twenty; with them, however, were the captain’s and purser’s clerks, and master’s assistants, and assistant surgeons. They had two or three boys to attend on them. Ben was very glad that he was not selected for the duty, as the young gentlemen were frequently somewhat thoughtless in the way they treated the boys.

Above all the rest was the captain, who was answerable to no one on board; but he was bound by certain laws laid down for his guidance, and, if he broke any of them, would have to explain the reason to the Government at home, administered by the Board of Admiralty.

Ben soon understood that all these people could not live together in harmony, nor the ship be properly managed, without prompt and exact obedience to all laws and orders. The captain must obey the laws—the articles of war, as they are called—and the rules and regulations of the service, and all the officers and men the orders issued by those above them.

One of the last things done was to bend the sails, that is, to stretch them out on the yards; and the men were then exercised in furling them, which means, rolling them up; in again loosing them; and in reefing, that is, reducing their size by rolling up only a portion of each sail. At length, the ship being ready for sea, she sailed out to Spithead. As Ben, who was on the forecastle with Tom Martin, saw her gliding through the water for the first time, like a stately swan, he felt very proud of belonging to her, though he was nearly the youngest boy on board, and of the least consequence. “So I am,” he said to himself, recollecting this; “but still, though I am but small, I can do as well as I am able whatever I am set to do; that, at all events, will be doing right.” Ben thought rightly that no one is too young or too insignificant to do his best in whatever he is set to do, never mind what that doing may be.

The powder was received on board, and until it was stowed carefully away in the magazine, all lights were extinguished. If people were as careful to avoid sin and its consequences as sailors are to avoid blowing up their ship, how different would be the world from what it is! Yet how far more sad are the consequences of sin!

A few more stores and provisions came off; so did the captain. Blue Peter was hoisted (see note 1); all visitors were ordered out of the ship; despatches and letters for many distant places she was expected to visit were received; the anchor was hove up to the merry sound of the fife as the seamen tramped round and round the capstan, and, her canvas being spread to the wind, she glided majestically onward, her voyage now fairly commenced.

The wind was fair, and the frigate quickly ran down Channel, and took her departure from the Lizard, one of the south-western points of England. She had a wide extent of ocean before her to traverse, and many weeks would pass before land would be again sighted. Still, the master, with the aid of the compass, his sextant, and chronometer, was able to steer his course with as much certainty as if land had been all the time in sight.

Martin told Ben, jokingly, that the object of the sextant was to shoot the stars and the sun; but Ben found that it was to measure the height of the sun above the horizon, and the distance of certain stars from each other. The chronometer, he learned, was a large watch made to keep exact time, so that the time in London was known wherever the ship went. Ben saw another instrument, a reel with a long line and a triangular piece of board at the end of it. The line was divided into twelve or more parts; the end with the board attached was thrown overboard, and, as the line ran out, a seaman held up a little sand-glass shaped like an hour-glass. By it the number of knots or divisions run out were easily measured, and the number of miles the ship sailed over in one hour was ascertained, and the distance made good each day calculated. Ben looked at the compass with the greatest respect, and was much pleased when Mr Martin, the boatswain, could take him and Tom aft to explain its use to them, and to show them how the ship was steered. As they were not officers, they could not go when they liked to that part of the ship, only when they were sent to perform some piece of duty.

Ben seldom exchanged a word with Mr Charlton, who, however, never failed when he passed to give him a kind glance of the eye, to show him that he was not forgotten. This made him feel happy and contented. People of all ages feel thus when they know that a kind friend is looking after them. How much more, then, should Christians feel happy and contented when they know that their Father in heaven, the kindest of friends, and at the same time the most powerful, who never slumbers nor sleeps, is ever watching over them to guard them from all evil; and that if He allows what the world calls a misfortune to overtake them, it is for their real good.

Ben soon learned all about a ship, for, having been from his childhood on the water, things were not so strange to him as they are to a boy who had come from some inland place with, as Tom said, the hay-seed in his hair. He was as active and intelligent and daring as any of the boys in the ship, not only of his own size, but of those much bigger and older. Though also he had his duties in the gun-room to attend to, he learned to go aloft, and to furl and reef sails, and to knot and splice, and to perform many other tasks required of sailors. He made many friends, too, among the best men and the petty officers, for he was always obliging and ready to serve any one he could in a lawful way; but any one who had asked Ben to do what he knew to be wrong would have found him very far from obliging.

Day after day the frigate sailed on over a smooth ocean, it being scarcely necessary to alter a sail, but the crew were not idle; the ship had to be got into perfect order below, and there was much painting, and cleaning, and scrubbing; then the men were exercised in reefing and furling sails, and going through all the operations necessary to bring the ship to an anchor. Though no gale threatened, topgallant masts and their yards were sent down on deck, and everything was made snug, so that they might quickly make the proper preparations when one should come on. The men were also daily exercised at the guns. To each gun a particular crew was attached, who cast it loose, went through all the movements of loading and firing over and over again, and then once more secured it. Sometimes powder was fired, and, whenever there was a calm, an empty cask with a target on it was towed off some way from the ship, and shot were fired at it.

On several occasions, in the middle of the night perhaps, that dreadful sound of the fire-bell was heard, and then the men sprang into their clothes—each man going to his proper station; the fire-buckets were filled, the pumps manned, and all stood ready to obey the orders of their officers to meet the danger. “Very well, my men; you were quickly at your stations,” cried the captain. “Pipe down.” The men then returned to their hammocks. Really there was no fire, but they were summoned to their posts that, in case a fire should take place, they might be cool and collected, and know exactly what to do. This was very different from “calling wolf,” because a sailor must obey whatever signal is made to him or order given by his superior, without stopping to consider why it is issued. When the drum beats to quarters, he must fly to his station, though he knows perfectly well that no enemy is near.

One day Ben and Tom, with the gunner, the purser’s steward, and the sergeant of marines, were seated in the boatswain’s cabin to enjoy what he called a little social and religious conversation. All the party were above the average in intelligence. This was shown by their having risen from their original position. Various subjects had been discussed.

“To my mind, as I have often said, a ship is just like a little world,” observed Mr Martin, who had some clear notions on many matters. “Every man in it has his duty to do, and if he doesn’t do it, not only he, but others, suffer. It is not his business to be saying, Why am I to do this? Why am I to do that? It’s the law in the articles of war, or the rules and regulations of the service; that’s enough. If you join the service, you must obey those rules. It’s your business, though, to learn what they are. Now, that’s just the same when a man becomes a Christian. He mustn’t do what he would like to do according to the natural man; but he must learn Christ’s laws, and try and obey them. Just see how the men on board a man-of-war are practised and exercised in all sorts of ways to make them good seamen. Here they are, from morning till night, exercising at the guns, shortening sail, reefing topsails, drilling with the small-arms, mustering at divisions, going to quarters, and fifty other things; and though sometimes they don’t like the work, it’s all for their good and the good of the service, and to enable them to support the honour and glory of our country. Just in the same way, I’ve often thought, God manages us human creatures. We are sent into the world to fit us to become His subjects; we are exercised and practised in all sorts of ways, and, though we often think the way very hard, we may be sure that it is for our good, and, what is more, to fit us to support His honour and glory.”

“I never saw the matter in that light before,” observed Mr Thomson, the gunner. “I’ve often thought how there came to be so much pain and sorrow in the world, and how so many things go wrong in it.”

“Why, look ye here, Thomson, just for this cause, because men don’t obey God’s laws,” exclaimed Mr Martin. “Adam and Eve broke them first, and their children have been breaking them ever since. Sin did it all. What would become of us aboard here, if the ship, however well-built she might be, was badly fitted out at first, and if we all were constantly neglecting our duty and disobeying orders? Why, we should pretty soon run her ashore, or founder, or blow her up, or, if we met an enemy, have to haul down our flag.”

The sergeant and purser’s steward, who were both serious-minded men, though not much enlightened, agreed heartily with Mr Martin; and Ben learned many an important lesson from listening from time to time to their conversation.

Their example had also a very good effect on the ship’s company generally; there was far less swearing and quarrelling and bad conversation than in many ships; for even the best of men-of-war are very far from what they should be. In course of time three or four of the men met together regularly for prayer, reading the Scriptures, and mutual instruction; and by degrees others joined them. As they were very anxious to have a place where they could meet free from interruption, Mr Martin allowed them the use of his storeroom, which, though the spot was dark and close, they considered a great privilege. He also occasionally united with them, and came oftener and oftener, until he always was present unless prevented by his duty. Ben gladly accompanied him, and he also took Tom with him; who, however, did not appear to value the advantage, for he was generally found fast asleep in a corner at the end of the meeting.

Altogether the Ajax was a happy ship. On one important point the widow’s prayers for her son were heard, and Ben was kept out of the temptations and the influence of bad example to which poor sailor boys are so often exposed.

Note 1. A blue flag so called; it gives notice that the ship is about to sail.

Chapter Seven.

Among the Icebergs.

Ben found the weather growing hotter and hotter as the ship approached the line, which Mr Martin told him was not really a line, but only a circle supposed to be drawn round the widest part of the globe, and where the sun at noon appears directly overhead. Still no one was much the worse for the heat; and gradually, as the ship sailed farther south, the weather became cooler and cooler, till it was as cold as it is in the winter in England; and Ben learned that the frigate was approaching the southern pole. She was then to sail round—not the pole, but a vast headland called Cape Horn; and on the other side, that is to say, to the west of it, to enter the wide Pacific Ocean. Ben had shown so much intelligence, and had made himself so generally useful, that Mr Charlton had placed him in a watch, that he might learn to do his duty by night as well as by day.

Scarcely had the ship’s head been turned to the west than heavy weather came on. The seas rolled in vast watery heights one after the other in quick succession, so that no sooner had the frigate risen to the foaming summit of one high wave, than she sank down into the other, surrounded by dark, watery precipices, which looked as if they must break on board and overwhelm her. Ben, as he stood on the deck of the big ship of which he had become so proud, and watched the succession of the mountainous seas on every side, felt how insignificant she was, how helpless were all on board, unless trusting in the protection of God. Now she would slowly climb up the top of a huge sea; there she would remain, other seas following and seeming to chase the one on which she rode; then down again she would glide into the valley, once more to rise to the crest of another sea. If the spectacle was grand and awful in the daytime, much more so was it at night, when the ship went rushing on into darkness, no one knowing what she was to encounter ahead. The danger was not only imaginary, but real, for she was already in the latitude of icebergs, which, at that season of the year, float far away north from their original positions.

The captain had charged all on deck to keep a very sharp look-out, and Mr Charlton had said to Ben, “You have as bright a pair of eyes as anybody on board. Keep them wide open, and if you see anything like a glimmer of light through the darkness, and feel the cold greater than before, sing out sharply, there will be an iceberg ahead.”

Ben resolved to do as he was told, but he did not think it likely that a little fellow like himself could be of much use. He would naturally have been very much alarmed had he been by himself in such a position, but he saw every one round him cool and collected, and he therefore felt free from fear. The four hours of his watch had nearly expired. He had been all the time peering into the darkness, thinking more than once that he saw what he had been told to look out for. Mr Martin and three or four of the best men in the ship were on the forecastle with him, all likewise looking out. Suddenly he saw what appeared like a huge sheet shaken before him by invisible hands, and a chill struck his cheek. This was what he was to look for. He sang out lustily, “An iceberg ahead—right ahead!”

“Starboard the helm!” sang out a voice from aft; and at those words the sheets and traces were flattened aft, while every man on deck flew to his post. In another instant the stout ship would have been a helpless wreck, foundering under the base of a huge iceberg. There was no space to spare. Foaming, roaring seas were seen dashing against its sides as the toiling frigate ploughed her way past it, near enough, Mr Martin said, to heave a biscuit on it. Some minutes passed before any one breathed freely; the danger had been so great and terrible that it was difficult to believe that it had passed away.

“You deserve well of us, Ben; and, depend on it, the captain and Mr Charlton are not likely to overlook what you have done,” said Mr Martin. “Though I had my eyes wide open, I did not see the berg till some seconds after you had sung out; and in a touch-and-go matter, a few seconds makes all the difference whether a ship is saved or lost.”

There was great danger as the ship sailed on, with the seas on her side, of their breaking on board, and she was therefore once more kept away before the wind. The watch was called, and Ben turned in. All those now on deck kept their eyes very wide open, watching for another iceberg, which it was likely they might meet with. Ben in his hammock slept soundly; he had prayed, and commended himself and all with him to his heavenly Father’s protection. “If the ship should sink, I may awake and find myself with Him; but why should I fear? He will, I know, receive me graciously, and I shall meet my dear father and brothers with Him.” And with such thoughts the Christian sailor boy dropped asleep.

For several days the ship ran on, the captain hauling up gradually to the north as the weather moderated. Her course was then somewhat easterly, and after some time a report ran through the ship that land might any hour be seen on the starboard bow; that is to say, on the right side. It was said that, on such occasions, the person who first discovered land often received the reward of a sovereign, or half a sovereign; and when Ben heard this, he became very anxious to obtain it. He had been the first to see the iceberg, why should he not be the first to see land? He was afraid, however, that his chance was small, as he had his duties in the gun-room to attend to, and he could seldom get away long enough at a time to go to the masthead. Still he determined to try. One thing struck him as very wonderful, that, after sailing on so many weeks, and not having once seen land, the officer should be able to tell the exact spot at which they should arrive, and the time within a few hours.

The place for which the frigate was bound is called Valparaiso, in the republic of Chili. She was, after leaving it, to go in search of the admiral on the station, and then to proceed on her voyage across the Pacific Ocean. Mr Martin told Ben and Tom that the Pacific is full of groups of islands, some of them of considerable size, with lofty mountains on them; others composed of coral, many of them measuring not a mile from one end to the other, and raised but a few feet above the surface of the ocean.

“Ah, among so many, what chance shall I have of finding Ned?” sighed Ben.

“Why, as to chance, my boy, about as much chance as finding a needle in a bundle of hay,” answered Mr Martin. “But I thought, Ben, you knew better than to talk of chance. If your brother is alive,—and you shouldn’t count too much upon that,—if it’s God’s will that you should find him, you will; but, if not, though we should visit fifty islands,—and I daresay we shall see more than that number,—you won’t.”

“I know, I know. I don’t mean chance. Not a sparrow falls to the ground but God sees it; but I mean that, among so many islands, it is less likely that the frigate should visit the one where Ned may be.”

“As I said before, if God means you to find your brother, even though there were ten times as many islands as there are, and the ship was only to visit twenty of them, or ten, or five of them, or only one for that matter, you will find him. All you have to do is to trust in God that He’ll do what is best.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Ben. “Father always used to say, ‘Do right, whatever comes of it.’ God will take care that good will come out of it in the end.”

Chapter Eight.

Do Right, whatever comes of it.

“Land! land!” shouted little Ben, from the foretop-masthead; for he had been out of his hammock and aloft before break of day, that he might have the best opportunity of seeing land if it was to be seen. “Yes, yes, that must be the land; those are tops of mountains covered with snow, just what Mr Martin told me might be seen before sunrise. Land! land! away on the starboard bow!” he shouted more loudly.

The officer of the watch heard him, and was soon, with his telescope slung over his shoulder, ascending the rigging. Ben pointed out the direction in which he saw the snow-capped peaks.

“You have a sharp pair of eyes, boy Hadden,” observed the officer, who was looking through his glass; “those are the Andes or Cordilleras, sure enough, though seventy miles off at least—it may be many more than that.”

Ben thought that he must indeed have a sharp pair of eyes, if he could see an object seventy miles off; yet he found that the officer was correct. All the men aloft now saw the mountains, and very soon they could be perceived by those on deck. Shortly after the sun rose, however, thin and light mists ascended, and veiled them from view. Still the ship sailed on with a fair breeze, hour after hour, and no land appeared. Ben began to fancy that he must have been mistaken. He was somewhat surprised, therefore, when he was sent for into the captain’s cabin.

“I find that you were the first to see land this morning, boy Hadden,” said the captain in a kind tone. “There is no great merit in that, but after a long passage it might be of much consequence, and I wish to reward you. You, however, rendered me a far greater service when you discovered the iceberg rounding Cape Horn. I shall not forget that. In the meantime I present you with a sovereign, to show you that I approve of your conduct on that and other occasions.”

Ben, thanking the captain, left the cabin, highly pleased at the praise he had received, and very glad also to get the sovereign; not that he might spend it on himself, but that he might send it home to his mother; and he had some notion that he could do so by some means or other, but how, he could not tell. He would consult Mr Martin.

“Oh, it was to get that gold sovereign which made you so eager about going aloft of late,” observed Tom, who was somewhat jealous of his companion.

“Yes. I wanted it to send to my mother,” answered Ben quietly.

“But she can’t want it. I never send my mother anything, nor does father, that I know of,” exclaimed Tom. “Much better, Ben, to spend it like a man ashore. We could have rare fun with it, depend on that.”

“My mother is a widow, and that is one reason why she should want the money, though yours doesn’t,” said Ben. “Then, though I came to sea in the hope of finding Ned, I also came that I might get money to take care of mother in her old age; so I think it right to send her the first sovereign I have got, and I hope that it will be followed by many more.”

“You are always talking about doing right in this thing and that; but how do you know what is right?” exclaimed Tom, vexed at the idea that he should not benefit, as he thought he ought to do, by the gift his messmate had received.

“How can you ask that?” said Ben. “Haven’t we got the Bible to show us in the first place, and if we can’t make up our minds clearly on the matter from it, which, I allow, is possible, then cannot we pray to be guided aright? and does not God promise that He will hear our prayers, and send the Holy Spirit to guide us?”

“Yes, I know all that,” answered Tom, turning away. In truth, Tom ought to have known it as well as Ben, for his father had frequently told him the same; but, though he had heard, the words had passed from one ear out at the other: he had not taken them in.

Early in the day the master had stated the hour at which the coast-line of South America would be seen; for the mountains Ben had discovered are several miles inland, and are many thousand feet high—indeed, the range of the Andes is one of the highest in the world. It now appeared at the hour the master said it would, standing up rocky and broken, from the very margin of the ocean. As the frigate drew nearer, the land looked very dry and barren, and utterly unworthy of the name it bears.

“If you were to see it in winter, just after the rains are over, you would speak very differently of it,” observed Mr Martin, who had been there before. “Never judge of things, and, above all, of countries, at first sight. At the right time this country looks as green and fresh and beautiful a country as you need ever wish to see.”

In the afternoon the frigate anchored in the bay of Valparaiso, which is lined by lofty hills, underneath one of which, and climbing up the sides, the town is built.

Ben was very anxious to go on shore, that he might inquire among all the sailors he could meet if any of them had heard anything of his brother Ned. Mr Charlton knew this, and arranged that he might have the opportunity of carrying out his plans as far as possible. Whenever a boat left for the shore, Ben was therefore allowed to go in her. Soon after their arrival, a boat in which Ben went was sent from the frigate under command of a midshipman, who had some commission to perform in the town. On leaving the boat, the midshipman said, “Two of you will remain as boat-keepers; the rest may step on shore, but are not to stray out of sight of the boat. Remember, these are the captain’s orders.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” was the answer; but no sooner had the midshipman disappeared up the street, than the men all jumped on shore to look out for a grog-shop. Not one was to be seen, and on that account the place had been selected by the captain for the landing of the boat’s crew. In vain they searched.

“Now, Ben Hadden, here’s a job for you,” said the coxswain of the boat, when they had come back and sat down in rather a sulky mood. “Just you scud up the street, and bring us down a couple of bottles of arguardiente. You are certain to find some place where they sell it, and there’s five shillings for yourself. I know you want money to send to your mother; Tom told me so. Very right in you. Come, be sharp about it, there’s a good lad.”

“Thank you, Brown,” said Ben, not moving from his seat; “but you forget that Mr Manners said it was the captain’s orders no one should go out of sight of the boat. Even if you were to offer me five pounds for mother, I couldn’t go—”

“Oh, nonsense, boy!” answered Brown; “it isn’t the money you care about, I know, but do it just to oblige us.”

“No, no, Brown. I have been taught always to do right, whatever comes of it, and never to do wrong, even if it seems as if no harm would come of it,” said Ben firmly.

“All right, I daresay, boy; but surely there’s no harm in getting some grog in this hot weather,” argued Brown.

“It’s against orders, it’s against the regulations, it’s disobedience,” returned Ben. “We were ordered not to go out of sight of the boat, and unless we do the arguardiente cannot be got.”

“Oh, this is all shilly-shallying humbug!” exclaimed Brown angrily. “Come, a couple of you, with me, and we’ll have the liquor, and be back in a jiffy.”

“Remember, Brown, if you do, and I am asked, I’ll speak the truth, I’ll warn you,” said Ben undauntedly.

“And I’ll break your head, if you do!” exclaimed Brown, springing out of the boat, followed by two of the other men, while the rest soon scattered themselves about the quay, leaving Ben sitting in the boat. He, at all events, determined not to move, though the proper boat-keepers deserted their post. He sat on for some time, watching people passing on shore: blacks, and brown men, the aboriginal natives of the country, and white people descended from Spaniards, in their varied and picturesque costumes; and two or three processions passed, of priests, in white and purple dresses, and some in gold and scarlet, with banners of the Virgin Mary and saints, and crucifixes, and images, and bells tinkling, and men and boys chanting and swinging about incense, just as Ben had read used to be done in heathen days, but quite different to the custom of Protestant England. Some of the priests were going to visit the sick and dying, and others were on their way to attend funerals; indeed, there seemed to be a good deal of commotion on shore among the ecclesiastics. Ben could not, however, exactly tell what it all meant.

A considerable time thus passed, and he wished that his shipmates would return to the boat, lest Mr Manners should come down before them. The boat had begun to move about a good deal lately, and Ben, on looking round, discovered that a heavy sea was rolling into the harbour. Directly after this she struck with a loud noise against the stone pier. Ben sprang to his feet, and with the boat-hook did his best to fend off the boat, shouting at the same time to the crew to come to his assistance; but they were too much occupied with what was going forward on shore to listen to him. Still he continued to exert himself to the uttermost, for he saw that, if he did not do so, the boat would be dashed to pieces. Again and again he shouted, till he was almost worn out with his labours. He might at any moment have jumped on shore, and left the boat to her fate; but he never thought of doing so. While he was thus engaged, he heard his name called, and, looking up, he saw the good-natured face of Mr Manners, who was watching him from the quay above.

“Why, boy Hadden, how comes it that you are left in the boat alone?” he asked. “Where are the rest?”

“There, sir,” said Ben, pointing to where a few were to be seen.

The midshipman ran towards them, shouting out at the same time. They came, at length, very unwillingly.

“See, you have allowed the boat to be almost stove in!” exclaimed the generally quiet young midshipman. “Jump in, now, and keep her off. Where are the rest?”

The men, after getting into the boat, were silent for some time. The midshipman repeated the question.

“Just round the end of that street,” said one of the men. “Shall I go and call them, sir? What keeps them, I don’t know.”

“No,” answered the midshipman firmly. “We will pull off a short distance, and wait for them. If they do not come down immediately, I will go on board without them.”

The officer was just about to utter the words, “Give way!” when the missing men were seen hurrying down, with uneven steps, towards the quay. The boat put in, and took them on board. Their countenances were flushed, and their manner wild; but they did not venture to speak much. The midshipman saw that they were endeavouring to conceal something, as they took their seats. “Heave those bottles overboard!” he exclaimed suddenly, when they had got a little way from the quay.

The men hesitated. “Not till they are empty,” cried one. “Not till we have had what is in them,” exclaimed another, putting a bottle to his lips.

The midshipman, a spirited lad, sprang from his seat, and, passing the intervening men, with a boat-stretcher which he had seized dashed the bottle from the man’s lips ere a drop could have been drunk. This so exasperated the already tipsy sailor, that he flung himself on the young officer, and, seizing him in his arms, threw him overboard.

Ben, though not in time to prevent this, jumped from the boat, holding on by one of the tiller-ropes, and grasped his young officer by the collar. “Haul us in, mates!” he cried. “You won’t surely add murder to what that man has done!”

Even the worst men were somewhat sobered when they saw what had happened, and the other man who had the bottle to his lips stopped drinking; and, fearful of consequences to themselves, they began to haul the officer and Ben together on board.

“Quick! quick, mates! or it will be too late!” cried the coxswain, who had remained on the quay, though he had been guilty of letting the other men go.

A dark object was seen in the water. It darted towards them.

“A shark! a shark!” was the cry.

Ben quickly sprang into the boat; but barely was Mr Manners hauled on board than a flash of white appeared, a huge mouth opened and closed again with a loud snap, and a shark darted away, disappointed of its prey. Even the most drunken of the men were sobered, and the bottles of spirit they had procured at so much risk were thrown overboard. The midshipman quickly recovered.

“They are all gone, sir,” said the coxswain in a humble tone. “The men hope that you won’t say anything about what has happened.”

“I would gladly avoid doing so, so far as I am myself concerned, although, no thanks to Dick Nolan, I am a living man, instead of a dead one in the body of a shark; but discipline must be maintained. I should be neglecting my duty if I did not report those who disobeyed orders. I shall speak of you in no vindictive spirit, and it will not be my fault if the man who threw me into the water receives the punishment which is justly his due: that punishment would be nothing short of death—remember that, my men! I have been taught by a Book, which I wish that you all would read, to forgive my enemies and those who injure me; and therefore I will, for the sake of our loving Saviour, endeavour to save Nolan’s life.”

The men hung down their heads. This was a very different style of address from what they were accustomed to. No one expected it; even Ben, who had frequently been with Mr Manners, did not. The most hardened felt ashamed of themselves; they were certain that the young officer would not injure them if he could help it, but they also knew that he must report them.

At length the boat reached the ship, and Mr Manners went into the cabin to give an account of the mission on which he had been sent on shore. Ben felt very anxious for the boat’s crew; and the culprits, especially, felt very anxious for themselves. Ben forgot all about himself, and he did not suppose that he was likely to gain credit for the part he had acted. He was therefore very much surprised when he was sent for into the cabin.

“I find, Hadden, that you have behaved admirably on two occasions to-day, once in staying by the boat when the proper boat-keepers had left her, and preventing her from being stove in; and secondly, in jumping into the sea and saving Mr Manners when he fell overboard. I wish you to know how highly I approve of your conduct, and will consider how I can best reward you.”

Ben was highly pleased at hearing this. He kept pulling away at the front lock of his hair, and thanking the captain, till he was told that he might leave the cabin.

Seamen generally know what has taken place among each other, even when the officers do not. Tom soon heard all that had occurred, and told his father. It was reported the next day that the captain proposed flogging three of the men who had been on shore with Mr Manners. Then it was known that several of the boat’s crew were down with a severe fever, and it was reported that the captain knew that there was a fever on shore, and that therefore he had not given leave to the men to go as they had been accustomed to do. Nolan, who had thrown Mr Manners overboard, was the very worst of them. It was said that he was talking very frantically, and accusing himself of the deed. In this dreadful state he continued raving for two days, when he was silent from exhaustion, and died. The captain, hoping to prevent the spread of the fever among the crew, put to sea. Many more, however, were taken ill, of whom several died, and were buried at sea.

One day, Mr Martin called Ben and Tom into his cabin. “Now, boys, I just want to point out to you what you must remember to the end of your days; that is, the terrible effects of disobedience. Those poor fellows whose corpses we have lowered overboard, I daresay, thought that they were doing no great harm when they ran off to the grog-shop. They knew, of course, that they were disobeying the orders of Mr Manners, the midshipman in command of the boat; but they said to themselves, ‘Oh, he is only a midshipman, no harm can come of it. We shall be back before he is, and he need know nothing about the matter.’ They forgot that the midshipman was acting under the orders of the captain, and the captain under those of the Government of our country, and that Governments and authorities were instituted by God for the well-being and happiness of the community. They thought that they were committing a little sin, but they were in reality guilty of a great crime. See the result. One of them nearly committed murder, and if he had lived, and the captain had been informed of what he had done, he would have been hung. I know all about it, though the crew think I don’t. Then they catch the fever, bring it aboard, some of them lose their own lives, and they risk the lives of all the ship’s company. Just in the same way people go on in the world. God has given us orders what we are to do, and what we are not to do. How do we act? We neglect to do what He has commanded us to do, and do the very things He has told us not to do, saying all the time to ourselves, ‘It is only a little sin, it is only a slight disobedience; so slight, God won’t notice it; no harm can come of it.’ That is one of Satan’s most cunning and most successful devices for destroying the souls of men. He tried it with Adam and Eve, and has tried it on all their descendants ever since, and will try it as long as he ‘goes about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.’ Oh, boys, remember that ‘not a sparrow falls to the ground’ but God sees it, and that He therefore knows all that you do; and that, though a sin may appear a trifle in your sight, it is not a trifle in God’s sight, for He abhors all sin. ‘He cannot look on iniquity.’”

Tom looked very grave when his father spoke, and felt very serious. Ben clearly understood and remembered the important lesson given him, and prayed silently that he might always make use of it when, temptation should come in his way. He was very happy, and he knew it, in being in a ship with such good men as Mr Charlton and Mr Martin, to whom he now found that he might add Mr Manners. These men, though only a few among many, had a great effect on the mass, and helped to leaven in some degree the whole ship’s company. Ben himself produced a good effect not only on Tom, but among the other boys of the ship, and even with many of the men, though he was not aware of it, and would not have talked about it if he had been.

In consequence of the fever, the frigate did not go back to Valparaiso, but stood away to the northward, looking in at other ports along the coast where any British merchantmen were to be found. It is thus England protects her commerce, by showing the inhabitants of the various ports in the world to which her merchants trade, that she has the power to punish those who may venture to ill-treat them; her consuls and any other authorities are supported; and any seamen or other British subjects who misbehave themselves on board English ships can be brought to punishment. If British subjects break the laws of the country in which they are residing, they are left to be punished according to those laws. It is, however, the duty of the consul, supported by the authority of the captain of a man-of-war, to see that they are not punished except justly, according to those laws.

Callao, the port of Lima, the capital of Peru, was the last place on the west of America at which the frigate touched. She anchored in a large bay, guarded by forts, and opposite the modern town of Callao, which stands near the beach. Upwards of a hundred years ago a fearful earthquake occurred, which shook Lima to the ground; and a huge wave rolling in towards the shore at the same time, overwhelmed the old town of Callao, and destroyed the greater part, if not the whole, of the inhabitants.

Peru was taken by the Spaniards three hundred years ago from the native Indians, who lived happily under their own princes and chiefs. The latter were treated with the greatest cruelty and injustice by their conquerors, and compelled to work in the silver and copper mines which exist along the whole range of the Andes. The Spaniards were, in their turn, dispossessed of the government of the country by the descendants of the early settlers, who were assisted by the natives and the people descended from natives and Spaniard. Unhappily, the Roman Catholic religion is established throughout the whole of Chili and Peru, for the history of the two countries is nearly the same; and the people have the characteristics which are to be found wherever that religion prevails. The great mass are ignorant and superstitious; their priests, of whom there are great numbers, grossly impose on their credulity.

The mines, as from the first, are worked by the natives, who are, however, from their delicate constitutions, so unfitted for that sort of labour that they have rapidly decreased in numbers. The consequence is, that many of the mines have been closed for want of hands to work them.

While the Ajax lay at Callao, Captain Bertram heard that, shortly before, an expedition of a dozen or more vessels had been fitted out to entrap and carry off the natives of the various islands of the Pacific, for the purpose of making them work in the mines of Peru. What mattered it to these wretches whether the islanders they proposed to enslave were Christians and civilised, or cannibal savages? They would have preferred the former as more likely to be docile under the treatment to which they proposed to subject them. At first Captain Bertram would scarcely believe that people professing to be civilised and Christians could be guilty of an act of such atrocious barbarity. He remembered, however, who these Chilians are; that in their dispositions and education they differ in no way from Spaniards, and that the Spanish have been to the last the most active agents in the African slave-trade. Those who know the high state of civilisation of which the natives of Eastern Polynesia are capable, and the remarkable fitness of their minds for receiving the truths of the gospel, will naturally feel unmitigated horror at the thought of their being made the victims of so abominable a scheme. This was especially the feeling of Mr Charlton when he heard the account, and he resolved to use every exertion to capture the slavers, and to bring their crews to justice.

Chapter Nine.

Adventures among the Islands.

The Ajax had remained at Callao in order that Captain Bertram might obtain more information respecting the slaving expedition of which he had received notice. All he could learn, however, was that a dozen or more vessels had sailed, fully armed, with stores for a long cruise, and a larger quantity of rice and other provisions than could be required by their crews. Where they had gone no one could tell. Probably the islands they were to attack were left to the choice of their commanders.

On putting to sea, the Ajax steered to the westward. As the frigate approached the numerous groups of islands which lay in her course, it became necessary to keep a very bright look-out, by day as well as by night. The first group consisted of low coral islands, which rise but a few feet above the water.

Ben was anxious to make himself useful as before, and was continually at the masthead, when his watch was over, looking out for land. One day, when he was as usual aloft, turning his eyes round in every direction, he saw right ahead what seemed to be a grove of trees rising directly out of the water. He reported what he saw. Sail was immediately shortened, and the lead hove, and, as the ship sailed on, the lead was again frequently hove.

“It is the Minerva coral island,” Ben heard the captain observe to Mr Charlton, after he and the master had been looking over the chart.

As the ship rose and fell with the swell of the ocean, the trees were now seen and now again lost sight of alternately for some time; this had a very curious effect. As the frigate drew near, a white sandy beach was seen, and, higher up, a belt of land of a light clay colour, on which grew a few shrubs not more than fifteen feet high, above which towered the pandanus, cocoa-nut, and palms. The whole island was about ten miles long, and a mile and a half wide, the centre part being occupied by a lagoon, or lake, of smooth deeply blue water, thus leaving a belt of land not more than six hundred feet across. This lagoon had no opening or entrance to it, but Ben heard that the lagoons of most of the coral islands have a communication with the sea, so that boats and canoes can enter. Outside the island, at some little distance, rose a second or outer reef, over which the sea flowed at high water. This served in heavy gales, when the waves rolled in furious to break their force, and to protect the shore over which they might otherwise have swept, carrying away the trees and shrubs which made it a fit habitation for man.

Mr Martin gave Ben and Tom an account of the way these coral islands are formed. “Coral, you will understands is made by very small sea insects, who form it for their habitation,” he observed. “God has given them the instinct to build in certain ways and places, just, as if they knew what they were about, and that they were building up an island fit to be inhabited by human beings. They seem to choose the tops of rocks from one hundred to two hundred fathoms below the surface, for the foundation of their structure. They have toiled on for ages, placing storey upon storey, till the surface has been reached, when they have been compelled to cease; for out of the water, whence they draw their materials—their bricks and mortar, so to speak—they can do nothing. The outer edge breaks the force of the sea, but not altogether. Enough strength is exerted during storms to tear off the outer edge of the coral, and to throw it on the top of the wall. Seaweed and driftwood and dead fish are next thrown up on it, which, when they decay, form soil. Birds next come and rest on the island, and further enrich the soil. They bring seeds of grass and small shrubs at first, and afterwards of larger trees, which take root and spring up, and in their turn, when they decay, form more earth to nourish a larger species of trees, such as the tall palms, and cocoa-nut, and pandanus, which we have seen growing on them. The sandy beach is formed of the broken coral and shells, ground small by the constant action of the waves. I have heard that the lagoons are often very deep, so that the island is exactly like a circular wall built up from the bottom of the sea, or rather from a rock far down in it.”

Mr Martin promised the boys that he would tell them more about other islands which they were likely to visit another time. He had also with him some most interesting accounts of the progress which the missionaries had made among the heathen in those seas, which he promised also to give them.

People were seen on the shore, though no habitations were visible, and Captain Bertram wished to communicate with them. While the frigate was hove to, to leeward of the island, two boats were sent on shore under Mr Charlton’s command. Ben went in one of them. A native of Tahiti, called Tatai, had been shipped at Callao to act as interpreter, as without one very little intercourse could have been held with the natives. Ben had told him all about Ned, and how he hoped to find him on one of the islands they expected to visit Tatai said that he must not be too sanguine, as it was very like looking for a pearl in a bed of oysters, though there were great numbers of white men scattered about among the islands, and even living among the most savage natives. He promised, however, to make inquiries, and to help on his object as far as he had the power.

The boats had to coast along for some time before an entrance through the reef could be found. The sea dashed against the reef, and, curling over, fell back in a shower of spray. A boat striking it would have been instantly overwhelmed or dashed to pieces. The passage between the two walls of water which thus rose up on either side of the entrance was very narrow. It seemed indeed that the boats could not pass through without the oars touching the rocks. Mr Charlton, however, considered that the passage was practicable, so also did Tatai. Mr Charlton led, and as his boat was cautiously feeling its way, a smooth roller majestically approached the shore. “Give way, lads,” he cried. The boat glided on, the water broke with a thundering roar on the reef; but the boat, like an arrow, had shot through and was floating safely within the reef. The other boat immediately followed.

The natives from the shore had been watching these proceedings, and now gathered in considerable numbers on the beach. They were all armed with spears, and showed an evident dislike to holding intercourse with the white people. They nourished their spears, pointed them towards the boats, and made significant gestures for the intruders to depart. Still, as it was important to speak to the poor savages, Mr Charlton pulled towards a ledge of rocks which ran out from the shore, and with a basket full of presents, landed, accompanied by Tatai. The people ran towards him, threatening with their spears as before. He advanced as if to meet them, put down the presents, and then retreated. An old man, who wore a short petticoat of leaves fastened round his waist, and a pandanus leaf hung from his neck as a sign that he was a chief, was in front. He stopped, picked up the handkerchiefs, knives, and trinkets which formed the offering made to him, and, having handed them to his followers, rushed on, gesticulating furiously, towards the English officer. Tatai shouted out that the visitors came as friends, but the only reply he got was, “Go away, go away! we do not want you,” spoken in the native tongue.

This was not encouraging. Mr Charlton, however, was not to be defeated. Pulling off to a little distance from the shore, he consulted with Tatai. “If we land without arms and offer them food, that will show that we wish to be friends,” he said. Tatai agreed to this, and offered to accompany the lieutenant, provided the boat kept near enough to render them assistance if required.

Again the boat pulled in, and Mr Charlton told Ben that he might land with him, as the savages would see by a boy being of the party that no treachery could be intended. Again the boat touched the beach, at a spot where she could easily be shoved off, and, having deposited his sword and pistols and rifle in the boat, Mr Charlton with his two companions proceeded towards a group of natives who had been watching their proceedings. The natives, instead of coming towards them, seemed to be holding a consultation together. Mr Charlton and his companions, seeing this, sat down, and, taking the provisions out of the basket Ben carried, commenced eating. After a short time, placing the food on a flat rock, and retiring to a little distance, they made signs to the natives to come and eat.

The natives now without hesitation came down, led by their old chief, who took the lion’s share of the food, which he seemed to enjoy very much. When the old man had finished eating, Tatai addressed him. He no longer said, “go away,” but listened attentively. The interpreter told him that the English had come to his island as friends; that their only object was to do him good; that they had heard that certain wicked people in vessels had visited some of the islands in their seas, and carried off the natives to make slaves of them; and that, as the English did not like having people made slaves, they were seeking for those bad men to punish them.

The old chief listened attentively to all that was said, and then made a long speech, which Tatai translated. He remarked that everything he had heard was very good; that two suspicious-looking vessels had appeared off the coast not long before; that several boat-loads of armed men had attempted to land; but that, a gale springing up at that moment, they could not effect their purpose, and that the vessels were compelled to bear away.

Mr Charlton, on this, showed the British flag, and told them that, while they behaved well, under that flag they would ever find protection.

The old chief seemed clearly to comprehend what was said. A new light had burst on him. “How is it that your friends are so great and powerful, while I am so poor and miserable?” he asked of Tatai.

“Because my friends worship the great and powerful God, who has given them a Book which makes those who study it wise, while you worship your wretched gods, who are no gods, and cannot help you or make you wise, or do you any good,” answered the interpreter promptly.

“Then I should like to learn about your God,” said the old chief.

Tatai, in reply, promised that he would try and send some one who would teach them more about the white man’s God, and what He desired them to do, and teach them how to pray to Him.

Mr Charlton was much pleased with what Tatai had said, and promised that he would also try to have either a native or English missionary sent to them. He then made more presents to the old chief, made further inquiries about the vessels of the supposed man-stealers, and, after a friendly farewell to the old chief and his companions, pulled back to the ship.

Thus a visit which threatened to prove disastrous, by judicious management gave promise of being productive of great good to the islanders.

After this, the Ajax visited several other islands, searching for the man-stealers. Some were inhabited, others had the remains of huts, altars, and temples, and had been deserted; and on others no signs of human beings could be discovered.

Chapter Ten.

Tells about Mission Work.

Mr Martin had, as it may be remembered, promised to give Ben and his son an account of the introduction of Christianity among the islands of the Pacific. One day, during a calm, when the ship floated idly on the ocean, her sails scarcely even flapping against the masts, Tom, on going below, declared that it was too hot to read or think or sleep, and that he did not know what he should do with himself.

“It is not too hot to prevent you from listening though, Master Tom,” said his father, who did not like to see any one idle from any excuse. “Call Ben Hadden, and I’ll tell you and him something which will interest you, or ought to do so, at all events.”

Ben soon came, and the boatswain told him and Tom to sit down just outside his cabin, where there was more air than inside.

“Now listen, youngsters; I’m not going to throw my breath away on unwilling ears,” he began.

“I am listening, sir,” said Ben.

“So am I, father,” said Tom, “but I can’t promise to keep awake if the yarn is a long one.”

“Don’t let me catch you with more than one eye shut at a time, or I’ll be down on you,” answered the boatswain. “As I was saying, now listen. You’ve heard of Captain Cook, the great navigator, who sailed over and across these seas in every direction, and found out many islands not before known to civilised men. His business was to try and discover new lands, and to do any good he could to the inhabitants, by leaving them seeds and plants and animals; but there was nothing in his directions that I know of about teaching them religion. There would not have been time for him to do much, even if he had had any such instructions, unless he had carried out missionaries with him; but in those days missionaries to heathen lands were not so much as thought of in England. You have heard how Cook was killed by the savages of the Sandwich Islands, who have now become the most civilised of all the people of these seas. The descriptions he and his companions gave of the islanders made some Christian people at home think that, if missionaries were sent to them, they might be persuaded to become Christians. The London Missionary Society had just been formed—that was as far back as 1797. The first of their many noble enterprises was to send out twenty-nine missionaries in the ship Duff, commanded by Captain Wilson. The greater number settled at Tahiti, where they were well received by the natives; while others went to Tongatabu, and two of them attempted to commence a mission at Saint Christina, one of the Marquesas. The latter mission was, however, soon afterwards abandoned, and has never since been resumed; and unhappily, as the French have taken possession of the group, there is not much probability of an English Protestant mission being established there, whatever the French Protestants may do.

“At Tahiti many years passed before any fruits of the missionaries’ labours were perceived, not indeed till 1813, when some praying natives were discovered, and a church was formed. From that time, however, Christianity spread rapidly, and the converted natives were eager to go forth themselves as missionaries, not only to neighbouring islands, such as the Paumotre, the Austral, and Hervey groups, but to Raratonga and Samoa, and, still farther, to the New Hebrides, Loyalty Islands, and New Caledonia and Penryn Islands.

“The climate of those islands in the Western Pacific, near the equator, is nearly as hurtful to the constitutions of the inhabitants of the eastern part of that ocean as to Europeans, and very many native missionaries have fallen martyrs in the cause of the gospel. In some instances the English missionaries were the first to land, and afterwards to employ native agency; in others, the natives were first sent to a heathen island, and the more highly-educated white men followed, to complete the work commenced by their dark-skinned brethren. In many instances the missionaries had long to wait before they saw the fruit of their labours; in others, the natives at once gladly accepted the glorious tidings of salvation. In very few have missions been ultimately abandoned in consequence of the hostility of the natives in the Eastern Pacific; the Marquesas is the chief exception. In the Western Pacific the natives have been much more hostile to the missionaries. This has arisen in consequence of the treatment they have often received from the crews of whale-ships, and from sandal-wood traders. These men have been known to carry off natives from one island, to make them cut sandal-wood on another inhabited by their mortal foes, and after their task has been accomplished the traders have left the poor wretches there to be butchered, and often eaten, by their enemies, to save themselves the trouble of taking them back and paying them their stipulated reward.

“The history of the establishment of Christianity on many of these islands is very interesting. The way in which it was introduced into Raratonga, the largest of the Hervey group, is so in particular. Some natives of that island had been carried away in a whale-ship, and left at Aitutaki. Among them was the niece of the principal chief of the island. At Aitutaki, the great missionary Williams saw them, and, accompanied by them, after a long search, discovered their island. This was in 1823. The unfriendly reception he met with from the savage natives, however, made it impossible for him to remain. Had it not been, indeed, for the exertions of Tapaeru, the niece of the chief, who had been carried away, the native teachers who went on shore would have been murdered. They returned on board; but Papehia, one of their number, as the ship was about to sail away, volunteered to return. Tying a book containing a part of the Scriptures in a handkerchief on his head, and clothed in a shirt and trousers only, this true servant of Christ swam back, full of faith, to the rocks, on which stood several of the savages, brandishing their spears. His heart did not falter; he swam on bravely. He had true faith. He followed your rule, Ben; he was determined to do right, whatever was to come of it. He knew that it was right to carry the gospel to these poor savages; he would succeed, or perish in the attempt. Tapaeru from the first protected him, and obtained for him the support of her relations. This enabled him to speak openly to the people, who soon became eager to listen to the wonderful things he had to narrate. Still, he had much opposition to contend with. Tinomana, a powerful chief, was the first man of influence to give up his idols.

“Another native teacher afterwards joined Papehia; and in two years and a half, under the superintendence of these two native teachers,—themselves born heathens, and brought up in the darkness of idolatry, till called into the marvellous light of the gospel,—the whole of the population of that large island became professedly Christian. It was here that, soon after this, Mr Williams built his vessel, the Messenger of Peace, in which he sailed over so large a part of the Pacific. There are now numerous churches, schools, and a training college, from which many native missionaries have gone forth to preach the gospel in far distant islands.

“The conversion of the inhabitants of the Sandwich Islands was still more extraordinary. From the time that Captain Cook was killed on their shores, they had been looked on as among the most savage of the people of the Pacific. The Sandwich Islands, the largest of which is Hawaii, were ruled by a chief of great talent, who had made himself king of the whole group, and was called Tamehameha the First. He had entreated Captain Vancouver, who visited his territories in 1793, to send him Christian missionaries. No attention, however, was paid to this request. His son Rihoriho, who became king in 1820, seeing the utter folly of the religion of his ancestors, without being even urged to do so by foreigners, of his own accord threw off the gods of his people, burnt the idols and their temples, and upset the priesthood, and the whole system connected with it. In this extraordinary proceeding he was supported by the high priest himself, who acknowledged, when appealed to, that the gods they had hitherto worshipped were of no power, and that there was but one God in heaven, the same whom the white men worshipped.

“It was at this juncture that a band of missionaries arrived from the United States, sent out by the American Board of Missions. They were cordially welcomed by the king, most of his chiefs, and the people. Schools were established, churches built, and in a few years the whole of the people became nominally Christians, many of them really so; and civilisation advanced with rapid strides. Among no people, probably, has it made so much progress in so short a time. Still, I believe that among the Society Islands, at Raratonga, and other islands of the Hervey group, true Christianity more extensively prevails.

“The people of Savage Island, who were said to be among the fiercest and most barbarous of the natives of Polynesia, were converted much in the same way as those of Raratonga, and they are now simple-minded Christians, earnest, quiet, and well-behaved.

“In the large island of Tongatabu, and its adjacent islands, great disappointment was encountered by the first missionaries, who were ultimately driven away. In 1820, the Wesleyan Missionary Society sent missionaries there, and by their means the king, George, and the whole population have professed Christianity. The two societies together have laboured in the beautiful islands of Samoa, to the north; and there also Christianity has been generally established.

“Wonderful, also, is the change which has been brought about in a few years in Fiji, a large and beautiful group of islands lying to the west of Tonga. The inhabitants are nearly black, and a very fine and intelligent race of men; but they were even more addicted to cannibalism than the New Zealanders, and their customs were of the most revolting and cruel description. Thackombau, the greatest chief among them, was also a fierce cannibal. Fully aware of the character of the people, a band of Wesleyan missionaries landed on their shores, and by great perseverance have succeeded in bringing over a large number of the population to a knowledge of the truth, including the king himself and all his family; while the practice of cannibalism is almost, if not completely, extirpated.

“The numerous groups of islands to the north of New Zealand are known as Melanesia. The Presbyterian and London Missionary Societies have for a considerable time been at work in some of these islands. It was on one of them (Erromanga) that Williams met his death, and that Mr Murray and some native missionaries were murdered, while many have died of fever. They have, however, not laboured in vain, and the inhabitants of more than one island have abandoned idol-worship. To these groups, also, the Church of England, established in New Zealand, has turned its attention, under the direction of the Bishop of New Zealand, who made several voyages among them. Bishop Pattison, with the title of Bishop of Melanesia, has been especially appointed to superintend the work of evangelisation connected with them. A vessel called the Southern Cross makes a cruise twice a year among them. In the spring, she collects young men from all the islands and carries them to New Zealand, where they receive instruction in a college established for that purpose. As they can no more stand the cold climate of New Zealand in the winter than Europeans can stand the heat of their summer, in the autumn the Southern Cross carries them back to their own islands, where they instruct their countrymen in the religious knowledge and the arts they have learned during their absence. The French have sent Roman Catholic missionaries to several of these groups. They have taken possession of Tahiti; and have established colonies there, on the coast of New Guinea, and in the Marquesas. At Tahiti, the English Protestant missionaries were for a time prohibited from preaching, and compelled to leave the island. The greater number of the people, supported by the queen, remained firm to their Protestant principles; and at length a French Evangelical Society sent out Protestant pastors, and the people have now perfect religious liberty, though they remain subject to France.

“Notwithstanding the large number of islands in which Christianity has been firmly established, it is calculated that there are two hundred and fifty inhabited islands still sunk in the darkness of idolatry and savageism, so that there remains a very large amount of work to be done. There, I have given you a short account of missionary work in the Pacific. Another day I will get a chart, and show you the places I have spoken about. I will then tell you more respecting them. You will like especially to hear of Savage Island, or Niué, which I understand we are to visit, to inquire about some natives who, it is reported, have been carried away by the Chilian slavers.”

Ben thanked Mr Martin very much for the information he had given him and Tom, and begged that he would give them a further account of Savage Island, as he had kindly offered to do.

Chapter Eleven.

More Explorations and Adventures.

Shortly after the events mentioned in a former chapter, the Ajax came in sight of a cluster of mountains, rising, it seemed, directly out of the sea, to the height of four thousand feet. It was the island of Raratonga, of which Mr Martin had told Ben. It is surrounded by a curious barrier-reef of solid block coral, thirty-five miles in circumference, and from a quarter of a mile to half a mile broad. At high water it is completely covered to a depth of four or six feet, but at low water it is almost bare. This vast reef prevents the sea from breaking against the island. Outside the reef there is no anchorage ground, as no cable could fathom the depth. Inside, the water is smooth and beautifully clear, but no ship of any size can pass through the reef. There are several passages for canoes and boats, and one for a vessel of forty-five tons. This is, however, a very great advantage to the inhabitants in a social point of view, as it prevents the establishment of a seaport town in their island, while, at the same time, they can enjoy intercourse with the rest of the world. This was the very island of which Mr Williams had heard, and which he so long looked for before he found it. Here the missionary Papehia landed alone, trusting in Jehovah, among its then savage inhabitants. It was here the great missionary Williams spent many months, and built single-handed the schooner—the Messenger of Peace mentioned before—in which he crossed over so many thousand miles of the Pacific Ocean, to carry the glad tidings of great joy to many of the numerous islands scattered over it. It was here that a fierce chief, Tinomana, became a humble, lowly-minded Christian, and died strong in the faith. This is the island, the inhabitants of which were among the fiercest of all the isles of the Pacific, and are now among the most consistent and truest Christians. It has sent out more missionaries than any other to convert the heathen of the isles of the Pacific. It contains a training college for missionaries, with numerous churches and schools. The houses of the inhabitants are well-built, neat, and clean; and it is hardly too much to say that, in the same space, and among an equal number of people living together in any part of the world, a larger proportion of true and consistent Christians will not be found.

As soon as the frigate hove to, near the land, several canoes came off to welcome the well-known flag. The natives were decently dressed in shirts and trousers, with straw hats; and their manner was particularly quiet and at the same time cheerful. They offered to bring off any provisions which might be required; but the captain wished himself to go on shore, and said that he could then purchase what he wanted. Two whalers were at the time standing off and on the land, while their boats were on shore. Ben was glad to find that three boats from the frigate were going on shore, to one of which he belonged. A native pilot in his boat led the way, the captain’s gig following; but, as the wind was light and the tide high, there was no difficulty in passing through the barrier, and, once inside, the boats were in smooth water.

The officer on landing was met by a respectable-looking native, who announced himself as the salesman of the station, putting out his right hand, and saying, “Ria-ora-na!” (Blessings on you.) The officers were then conducted to the market-house, where there were stores of bananas, yams, pumpkins, potatoes, cocoa-nuts, fowls, and various other articles. The purser of the frigate then stated the quantity of provisions he required. The salesman informed him of the current price, a calculation was made, the money was paid, and the salesman undertook to engage native boats, in which everything was taken off in excellent condition.

The captain first visited the mission establishment. It consisted of a centre building, and a great number of small houses. These were the residences of the married students; every single student had a room to himself. Nearly two hundred students have been educated at the college. A very important part of the establishment is the printing-press, which supplies with a number of valuable works, not only Raratonga, but numerous other islands of the Pacific where the dialect of the inhabitants is understood. The students also consist, not only of natives of the Hervey Islands, but young men from far distant places. In each village there are schools and churches and native pastors. Children also are brought from other islands to the chief school, under the English missionary, to receive instruction. Thus from this once savage country the true light now shines forth over a wide circle of the Pacific—that light brought to those shores by the once heathen Papehia!

When the boats got back to the frigate, Ben found that the captain of one of the whalers, the Grand Turk, was on board. Captain Judson—that was his name—was well-known to Mr Martin, who had once sailed with him. He was waiting to see Captain Bertram, to prefer some request or other. He was evidently a rough style of man, and was complaining much of the way he had been treated the day before, which was Sunday.

“Two boats were sent on shore, but none of the people were to be seen,” said Captain Judson. “There were a number of neat, whitewashed houses in rows, some way from the beach, and near them three larger buildings. One had a tower. After waiting for some time, people came streaming out of the door of the building with the tower, all neatly dressed in cottons or native cloths.

“‘Why, they look just as if they were coming out of church,’ said one of my men, who had never been out in these parts before, and thought all the people were savages and cannibals. After some time, a white gentleman appeared in a black dress. ‘And there comes the parson, I do declare!’ he added.

“The first mate, who had charge of the party, on this went up to the gentleman, and told him what we had come for.

“‘I am very glad to hear it,’ said the gentleman. ‘I have no doubt that to-morrow morning the people will bring you all you require.’

“‘To-morrow won’t do—we want the things to-day; we must be off again this evening,’ said the mate, in an angry tone, for of course he was vexed.

“‘I will tell the people what you say; but they have been taught to remember the Sabbath-day to keep it holy, and I do not think that they will supply you, unless you are starving, or have scurvy for want of vegetables, and then I am certain that they will give you all you require,’ answered the missionary, who then spoke to several of the people; and a young native came forward, and in very good English told the mate that he was the interpreter, and would be glad to attend him. The mate thought that he could manage him, and was very much surprised to find that no trading could be allowed that day.

“‘But our people may go on shore and amuse themselves?’ said the mate.

“‘No,’ answered the young native. ‘Too often the crews of whalers have come on shore, and have set a bad example to our people, who think a great deal about white men. We allow no strangers to wander about our island on the Sabbath.’

“‘Then your people will come off to us, as they do at other islands!’ said the mate.

“‘No, no, no,’ answered the young native, with a grave look. ‘Such things were, but they were very bad; we have learned better now.’

“On hearing this, the mate came away, abusing the missionaries for having taught the natives such things. It is fair to say, however, that, as he was leaving the beach to come on board, a number of natives appeared with baskets of cooked vegetables and fruits, enough for the dinner of the whole crew. All the families near had given up some from their own store. I was in a hurry to be off, and sent on shore in the evening, offering to pay double for what we wanted; but the people were still obstinate.

“‘To-morrow morning we will trade gladly,’ was the answer.

“From every cottage came the sound of prayer, or voices singing hymns or psalms. Certainly these people, little better than savages as they are, do keep the Sunday very strictly. I never saw it kept like that elsewhere. Some people who care about those things might say that they put us to shame.

“The next morning, when we stood in at daybreak, the vessel was soon surrounded by canoes, full of all the provisions we wanted; and we were told that, if we required, men would be ready to help us fill our water-casks. Still, I don’t like to be put out as we have been, and I shall go when next we want fresh provisions to one of the islands where things are carried on in the old-fashioned way.”

Captain Judson had come on board to get some lime-juice, the best thing to prevent scurvy. He said that he had bought a good supply of what was called lime-juice; but, when the surgeon examined it, which he did when, in spite of the men using it, the scurvy appeared among them, he found that it was some common acid, of no use whatever. How horribly wicked were the manufacturers who could thus, in their greed for grain, knowingly destroy the health and lives of seamen who depended on their useless mixtures for preserving them from one of the most terrible maladies to which those who make long voyages are subject! Whether or not the owners of the Grand Turk had paid less for this mixture than they would have done for good lime-juice is difficult to say; but it might certainly have cost the whole crew their lives, and it certainly cost them the loss of some hundreds of pounds while the ship was sailing away to procure vegetables, with a third of her crew on the sick-list, instead of catching whales.

Captain Judson obtained the lime-juice for which he had come; indeed, the Ajax had brought out a quantity on purpose to supply ships which might require it. He then took his departure, and, whatever he might have thought, the rest of the crew continued to grumble greatly at not having been allowed to go on shore and amuse themselves, as they called it, and expressed a hope that it was the last missionary island they should touch at in their voyage.

The captain of the other whaler afterwards came on board. He was a wiser man than Captain Judson. He said that he made a point of visiting those islands where missionaries were established, as he was certain that he could then trust the people, whereas among the heathen islands he lived always in dread of having his boats’ crews cut off, as had happened to many others to his knowledge.

On leaving Raratonga, the Ajax bore away for Savage Island, or Niué. Captain Cook describes the inhabitants as among the most savage of those he encountered. As his boat drew near to the shore, they rushed down towards him with the ferocity of wild boars to drive him away. In consequence of the behaviour of the natives, he gave it the name of Savage Island. Subsequent visitors, for many years after that, fully confirmed the account he gave of the people.

The Ajax came off the island about five days after leaving Raratonga. The two islands are about of an equal size, but in other respects are very unlike each other, as the highest part of Savage Island is not more than a hundred feet above the level of the sea. Instead of the savages Captain Cook encountered, and those who, as late as 1846, would have been on the coast, several canoes, with well-dressed, quiet-looking natives, came off to the ship. They all wore sad countenances, for they had indeed a tale of woe to tell. Captain Bertram inquired what had happened to them.

“Sad, sad,” answered the interpreter. “Early one morning a strange ship appeared off the coast. We thought nothing of that, as many have come and gone and brought missionaries to us, and others have called for vegetables and other produce, for which they have paid. This one had no flag to tell us whence she came, or what was her object in coming. As soon as we had finished our usual morning prayer, several canoes put off with fruits and vegetables to take to the strangers, and to learn what else they required. Among those who went off were some of our leading men, the lawmakers and law-enforcers of our island. There were thirty or more church members, a deacon, and many candidates, most of them among our most promising young men. They were at once welcomed on board, and treated with great attention. Suddenly the white crew rushed in among them with clubs, knocked down all on deck, and then they fired their guns at those attempting to escape in their canoes. Several of the people in them were shot or drowned when the canoes were destroyed. The people in most of the canoes were so astonished that they did not even attempt to escape. Instantly they were ordered on board the strange ship, which continued firing at the retreating canoes. Three only of these got away, and one of them conveyed the corpse of Simeon, a church member, shot through the head. The stranger, finding that no other canoes would go off from this part of our island, sailed away, with our fathers and brothers, and our other Christian friends, on board. Our hearts were bowed down with grief; but we prayed earnestly that we might forgive our enemies, and that God, in His great mercy, would change their hearts. (A fact.) We would not curse them, we would not pray that God would wreak His vengeance on their heads; for are we not told that, as we forgive our enemies, so alone can we ask God to forgive us?”

The slaver, it appeared, had sailed along the coast, the natives being decoyed on board wherever met with, and then she had gone off to other islands to pursue the same nefarious system. Captain Bertram went on shore to make further inquiries. He found that all the inhabitants had professed Christianity, and that, though not so advanced as the natives of Raratonga, who have been so much longer tinder instruction, they were making fair progress in Christian, as well as in secular, knowledge and civilisation. As no time was to be lost, the Ajax again sailed in pursuit of the slaver. She first stood across to Samoa, in the direction of which the slaver had been seen to steer. She looked in at several of the ports of that fine group of islands, and here also gained information of the transactions of the slavers, for several had appeared, and succeeded in kidnapping many natives. It was supposed that some of these slave-ships had sailed to the north-east, purposing to visit the groups of islands lying on either side of the equator. Many islands were touched at, and inquiries made. A sharp look-out too was kept, for all were eager, from the captain to the youngest boy on board, to catch the miscreants who were outraging all laws, human and divine, in thus carrying off the innocent natives into slavery.

Chapter Twelve.

The Frigate in Danger.

One day, a sail was sighted, becalmed. The frigate carried the breeze up to her. At first it was hoped that she was a slaver. She proved, however, to be a whaler, the Grand Turk, whose captain had come on board the Ajax off Raratonga. As Captain Bertram wished to make inquiries of Captain Judson respecting the slavers, he invited him on board. The captain of the whaler seemed very much out of spirits. Before he went away, Mr Martin had a long talk with him, and inquired what was the matter.

“Why, Martin, I am afraid that I have been a very sinful and foolish man,” he answered. “You shall hear what has occurred. You know how I used to abuse the missionaries, and say that they spoilt all the people they got among, and that I would never visit another missionary island if I could help it. Wishing to get more vegetables, we made for an island known to be heathen. We anchored in a sheltered bay, where I knew that the people would give us all we wanted for a mere song. We had soon plenty of natives on board, men and women. They danced and sang, and drank as much rum as our men would give them. I need not describe the scenes which took place. I must confess, what I now see to be the truth, that we have no business to call ourselves Christians, or civilised people, while we allow such things to occur. Yet they were not worse than have been carried on at many islands, ever since our whalers came to these seas.

“The next day a quantity of provisions were brought down to the beach, and, thinking the people so inclined to be friendly, I let a number of our men go on shore. I was in my cabin when I heard a shot. I ran on deck, and saw our men running towards the boats. Now and then they stopped and fired at a large band of natives, who were following them with clubs and spears. Another body of natives were rushing down on one side to try and cut off our men, and great numbers of others were launching canoes in all directions. I had very little hope that our men would escape, but to help them I had an anchor and cable carried out astern, by hauling on which we brought our broadside to bear on the boats. Our guns were then fired at the second party of natives of which I have spoken. This stopped them, or the whole of our men would have been cut off. We could not go to their assistance, as we had to remain on board to defend the ship from the canoes, which were now coming towards her. Two of our men had been killed before our eyes; the greater number were shoving off the boats. They had just got them afloat, when the savages, gaining courage, charged them. Two more of our poor fellows were knocked on the head. The rest jumped into the boats and pulled off from the beach. They had no time to fire. The canoes made chase after them. All we could do was to fire at the canoes with our big guns and muskets as they came on, hotly chasing the boats till they got alongside. The men climbed up the sides by the ropes we hove to them. We had barely time to hoist in the boats when the savages in vast numbers came round us, uttering the most fearful shrieks and cries. While some of my men kept them off with lances, and by firing down on them, others hove up the anchor and went aloft to loose sails. There was fortunately a fresh breeze off shore; our topsails filled, and we stood out of the bay, while the savages kept close round us, hoping, no doubt, that we should strike on a reef and become their easy prey. We had to fly here and there to keep them from gaining the deck, for as soon as one was driven back another took his place. Not till we were well outside the reef did they give up the attempt to take the ship. Not only had we lost the four men killed on the beach, but two others had been cut off in the boats, and several of those who got on board were badly wounded. I suspect that the savages had from the first intended to take the ship, for I could not make out that our men had given them any special cause of quarrel. I was thankful when we were well free of them, and I must confess to you, Martin, that you were right when you advised me to visit a Christian island instead of a heathen one. I cannot get over the loss of those poor fellows. It has been a severe lesson to me, and I am, I believe, a wiser man.”

“I am very sorry for the loss of your people, Mr Judson, and yet God will rule the event for your good if you continue to see it in the light you now do,” observed Mr Martin. “The example which our so-called Christian seamen have set to the natives of these islands has been fearful. Their behaviour has created one of the chief difficulties to the progress of the gospel with which the missionaries have had to contend. It is, humanly speaking, surprising that they have made any progress at all. Were it not indeed that God’s hand has been in the work through the agency of the Holy Spirit, it is impossible that they could have succeeded.”

Captain Judson did not, perhaps, clearly comprehend the meaning of all Mr Martin said; but he thanked him cordially for his remarks, and returned on board his ship with several religious and other books for his crew, and among them a Bible, which he confessed that he had not before got on board.

“What!” exclaimed Ben, when he heard this from Mr Martin; “a ship go to sea without a Bible! How can the people get on? how can they do their duty? I am afraid they must forget to say their prayers.”

“You are right, Ben,” observed Mr Martin; “there are very many ships that go to sea without Bibles, and the crews very often forget their duty to God and man. In my younger days, indeed, there were very few which took Bibles, and the exception was to find one. A praying, Bible-reading captain and ship’s company was a thing almost unknown.”

Ben, who had carefully preserved his Bible, prized it sincerely, and read it every day, was surprised to hear this. There were a good many men also on board the Ajax who had Bibles, and read them frequently. Sometimes some of the other boys had laughed at Ben when they found him reading his Bible, but he did not mind them, and went on reading steadily as before.

The account of the cruel way in which the natives had been kidnapped by the Peruvian slavers made everybody on board the Ajax eager to catch some of them. Night and day bright eyes were ever on the watch in different parts of the ship. This was especially necessary in those seas, where rocks and reefs abound; and though they are far better known than in Lord Anson’s days, yet there are many parts but imperfectly explored.

Wherever the ship touched, Ben made his usual anxious inquiries for Ned. He, as before, frequently heard of Englishmen living with the savages; but they did not answer to the description of his brother. Still he had hopes that he should find him. Ben remembered his father’s advice, and acted up to it: “Do right, whatever comes of it.” By so doing he had gained the favour of his captain and all the officers of the ship. Everybody said, “Ben Hadden is a trustworthy fellow; whatever he undertakes to do he does with all his heart, as well as he possibly can.”

Ben had consequently plenty to do; but then he reaped the reward of his doing. Sailors are often paid in a glass of grog for any work they do, and they are satisfied; but it was generally known that Ben had a widowed mother, to whom he wished to send home money; and therefore Ben was always paid in coin, and no one grudged it to him, knowing how well it would be employed.

A sailor’s life is often a very rough one; but when people are thrown together for a cruise of four years, as were the crew of the Ajax, provided always they have a good captain and judicious officers, they wonderfully rub the rough edges off each other, and a kind and brotherly feeling springs up among them, which often lasts to the end of their lives. Such was the feeling which existed among the officers and ship’s company of the Ajax. The officers treated the men with kindness and consideration, and the men obeyed their officers with alacrity.

Hitherto, the Pacific appeared deserving of the name bestowed on it. For many months the Ajax had experienced only fine weather. Undoubtedly, gales had blown, and heavy rains had fallen, during that period; but the ship had sailed across to the west, while they occurred on the eastern part; and afterwards, when she went back towards the American coast, the rains fell and the gales blew on the west. This was, however, not always to be so. One morning, when Ben went on deck to keep his watch, he found the sails hanging down against the masts, and the sea without the slightest ripple to break its mirror-like surface. Every now and then, however, it seemed slowly to rise like the bosom of some huge monster breathing in its sleep, and a smooth low wave heaved up under the ship’s keel, and glided slowly away, to be followed at long intervals by other waves of the same character. As they passed, the ship rolled from side to side, or pitched gently into the water, and the sails, hitherto so motionless, flapped loudly against the masts with a sound like that of musketry. The heat was very great; the seamen, overcome by it, went about their various duties with much less than their usual alacrity. The smoke curled slowly up from the galley-funnel, wreathing itself in festoons about the fore-rigging, where it hung, unable, it seemed, to rise higher. Eight bells struck in the forenoon watch, the boatswain’s whistle piped to dinner, and the mess-men were seen lazily moving along the deck, with their kids, to the galley-fire, to receive their portions of dinner from the black cook, who, with face shining doubly from the heat which none but a black cook or a German sugar-baker could have endured, was busily employed in serving it out to them. The smell of the good boiled beef or pork—very different from what our sailors once had—seemed to give them appetites, for they hastened back with the smoking viands to their mess-tables slung from the deck above. Here the men sat in rows, with their brightly-polished mess utensils before them, and soon gave proof that the heat had had no serious effect on their health.

It is usual to send all the men below at dinner-time, except those absolutely required to steer and look out, unless the weather is bad, and it is probable that any sudden change may be required to be made in the sails. Most of the officers on this occasion were on deck, slowly walking up and down in the shadow of the sails. Ben and Tom were at their mess-table, laughing and talking and enjoying themselves as boys do in an ordinarily happy ship.

“This is jolly!” observed Tom. “I like a calm, there’s so little to do; and it’s fair that the sails should have a holiday now and then. They must get tired of sending us along, month after month, as they have to do.”

“I do not think they get much rest, after all, even now,” said Ben. “Listen how they are flapping against the masts! If they had to do much of that sort of thing, they would soon wear themselves out. What a loud noise they make!”

“Oh yes; but that is only now and then, you see, just to show us that they have not gone to sleep as the wind has done, and are ready for use when we want them,” remarked Tom, who had always a ready answer for any observation made by Ben; too ready sometimes, for he thus turned aside many a piece of good advice which his friend gave him. “At all events, the ship can’t be getting into any mischief while she is floating all alone out here, away from the land,” he added. “If I was the captain, I would turn in and go to sleep till the wind begins to blow again.”

Tom did not know how little sleep the captain of a large ship, with the lives of some hundred men confided to him, ventures to take.

Captain Bertram was on deck, walking with Mr Charlton. He stopped, and earnestly looked towards the north-east His keen eye had detected a peculiar colour in the water extending across the horizon in that direction. He pointed it out to Mr Charlton. “What does it seem to you like!” he asked.

“A coral reef, sir. If so, we have been drifting towards it; I should otherwise have seen it in the morning,” answered the first lieutenant. “I will, however, go aloft, and make sure what it is.”

In spite of the intense heat, Mr Charlton climbed up to the masthead. He carefully scanned the horizon in every direction, and then speedily returned on deck.

“We are nearer to the reef than I had supposed, sir,” he said. “We may keep the boats ahead, and somewhat hinder the ship driving so rapidly towards it; but it is evident that a strong current sets in that direction. Had it been at night, we should have struck before we could have seen it.”

“Pipe the hands on deck, then, Mr Charlton,” answered the captain calmly. “If towing is to serve us, there is no time to be lost.”

Mr Martin was sent for, and his shrill whistle soon brought the whole of the crew tumbling up from below, the landsmen and idlers only remaining to stow away the mess things.

The boats were soon lowered and manned, and sent ahead. The hot sun shone down on the men in the boats as they toiled away to keep the ship’s head off the reef. It seemed, however, that they rowed to little purpose; for the undulations appeared at shorter intervals, and seemed to send the frigate towards the threatening rocks, on which a surf, not at first perceived, now began to break, forming a white streak across the horizon.

The sails were brailed up, but not furled, in order that they might again be at once set, should a breeze spring up to fill them.

Mr Charlton stood on the forecastle, directing the boats how to pull. Every now and then he cast an anxious eye astern towards the breakers, which continued to rise higher and higher. A cast of the deep-sea lead was taken, but no bottom was found. To anchor was, therefore, impossible. Everybody on board saw the fearful danger in which the frigate was placed. One thing only, it seemed, could save her—a breeze from the direction towards which she was drifting. All eyes, not otherwise employed, were glancing anxiously round the horizon, looking out for the wished-for breeze. Ben and Tom were as active as usual. They remained on board, as only the strongest men were sent into the boats; it was trying even for men. They continued rowing, and, encouraged by their officers, as hard as they had ever before rowed. Suddenly, without a moment’s warning, the captain ordered them to return on board.

“Hoist in the boats!” he shouted. “Be smart now, my lads!”

As the boats were being hoisted in, the spoon-drift began to fly across the surface of the hitherto calm ocean, hissing along like sand on the desert. The hitherto smooth undulations now quickly broke up into small waves, increasing rapidly in size and length, with crests of foam crowning their summits.

Directly the boats were secured, the captain shouted, “Hands shorten sail!” The men with alacrity sprang into the rigging and lay out on the yard. The three topsails were closely reefed; all the other square sails were furled. There was a gravity in the look of the captain and officers which, showed that they considered the position in which the ship was placed very dangerous.

Dark clouds now came rushing across the sky, increasing in numbers and density. Even before the men were off the yards, the hurricane struck the frigate. Over she heeled to it, till it seemed as if she would not rise again; but the spars were sound, the ropes good. Gradually she again righted, and, though still heeling over very much, answered her helm, and tore furiously through the foaming and loudly-roaring seas. The captain stood at the binnacle, now anxiously casting his eye along the reef, now at the sails, then at the compass in the binnacle, and once more giving a glance to windward. The ship’s company were at their stations ready to obey any order that their officers might issue. Four of the best men were at the wheel, others were on the look-out forward. Not a word was spoken. The wind increased rather than lessened after it first broke on the frigate. Had it been a point more from the eastward, it would have driven her to speedy destruction. As it was, it enabled her to lie a course parallel to the reef; but, notwithstanding this, the leeway she made, caused by the heavy sea and the fury of the gale, continued to drive her towards it, and the most experienced even now dreaded that she would be unable to weather the reef.

The hurricane blew fiercer and fiercer. The frigate heeled over till her lee ports were buried in the foaming, hissing caldron of boiling waters through which she forced her way. It was with difficulty the people could keep their feet. The captain climbed up into the weather mizzen rigging, and there he stood holding on to a shroud, conning the ship, as calm to all appearance as if he had been beating up Plymouth Sound. The men at the helm kept their eyes alternately on him and on the sails, ready to obey the slightest sign he might make. Although the topsails were close reefed, they seemed to bend the spars and masts as they tugged and strained to be free; Mr Martin, the boatswain, kept his eye anxiously on them. Now was the time to prove whether the spars were sound, and, if they were sound, whether the rigging had been properly set up, and if that also was sound throughout. A ship, like a human being, is best tried in adversity; it is not in smooth seas and with gentle breezes that her qualities can be proved, any more than the nature of a man can be ascertained if all goes smoothly and easily with him. Therefore, let no one venture to put confidence in himself, till he has been tossed about by the storms of life, and by that time he will have learned that he is weak and frail under all circumstances, unless sustained by the power of the Holy Spirit, who is alone able to keep him from falling. Ben and Tom had crept up to near where Mr Martin was standing. He saw them exchanging looks with each other.

“There’ll be a watery grave for all on board if the spars go,” observed Mr Gimblet. “Still, it’s a satisfaction to believe that they are as sound sticks as ever grew.”

“It’s just providential that we set up our rigging only t’other day. If this gale had caught us with it as it was before that time, we might have cried good-bye to our spars, sound as they are,” said Mr Martin. “Even now, I wish that the wind would come a point or two more on our quarter; we make great leeway, there’s no doubt about that.”

Ben and Tom overheard these remarks of the two warrant-officers. Ben fully understood the danger the ship was in, and that before an hour or so was over he and all on board might be in a watery grave; for he saw how impossible it would be for the stoutest ship to hold together if she once struck on the reef to leeward, the fearful character of which had now become more distinct than ever. The sea broke against it with terrific force, rising high up in a wall of water, and then fell curling back on the side from which it came. Not the strongest swimmer could exist for a minute among those breakers. Far away ahead it seemed to extend in one long unbroken line.

The hearts of many on board began to sink; not with unmanly fear, but life was sweet; they had many loved ones in their far distant homes, and they could not but see that long before the frigate could reach the distant point she must drift on the reef. By the loss of one of her sails she would be sent there within a very few minutes. Ben and Tom, young as they were, could not fail clearly to comprehend their danger. Ben did not tremble; he did not give way to tears, or to any weak fears, but he turned his heart to God. To Him the young lad prayed that He would protect his mother: he tried to think of what he had done wrong, that he might earnestly repent; and then he threw himself on the love and mercy of Jesus. “On Thee, O Lord Jesus, on Thee, in Thee I trust,” he kept saying. All this time, however, his attention was awake; his eyes were open, and his ears ready to receive any order that might be given. Such is the state of mind, such the way in which many a Christian sailor has met death.

On, on, flew the frigate. It was indeed a time of intense anxiety to all on board. The officers were collected near the captain. A short consultation was held. Some of the men thought that they were going to put the ship about, under the belief that she would lie up taller on the other tack. Should she miss stays, however, and of that there was the greatest danger, her almost instant destruction would be the consequence. No; the captain would not make the attempt. He would trust to a change of wind. Should it come ahead, then there would be time enough to go about; if not, it would be best to stand on. They were in God’s hands, not their own. Mr Charlton and the second lieutenant were seen going aloft, with their telescopes at their backs. Eagerly they scanned the line of breakers. It seemed sometimes as if no human being could hold on up there on the mast, with the hurricane raging so furiously around. The evening was drawing on. Should darkness be down on them before they were clear of the reef, what hope of escape could they have? The eyes of the crew were now directed to their two officers aloft. Their lives seemed to depend on the result of their investigations. At length they were seen to be descending. All watched them eagerly as they reached the deck. Their countenances, it was thought, wore a more cheerful aspect than before. The wind had not lessened, nor was there the slightest indication of a change. The men, as has been said, were at their stations, and no one moved. There they would be found to the last, till the ship should strike. There, too, should all Christian men be found when the last final shaking of the world takes place; there should they be when death overtakes them—doing their duty in that station of life to which God has called them.

Still the men, as they stood, could hold communication with each other, and it soon became known that Mr Charlton had seen an opening some way ahead, through which he believed the ship would pass. To corroborate the truth of this report, he and the master were seen again ascending the rigging. The eyes of both the officers were fixed ahead, or rather over the port-bow. All were now again silent, looking at the captain, and ready to spring at a moment to obey the orders he might give; the second lieutenant and Mr Martin were forward. Mr Charlton made a signal to the captain.

“Up with the helm!—square away the yards!” he shouted.

The order was rapidly executed, and the frigate’s head turned towards the dreaded reef; but between the walls of foam an opening of clear water was seen, amply wide to allow her to pass. Almost in an instant, it seemed, she was flying by the danger on an even keel, the breakers sending the spray in heavy showers over her decks. The after-sails were furled: on she flew steadily before the gale. Night came on. There might be other reefs ahead; but the captain and his officers and crew had done all that men could do, and they put their trust in God, who had already brought them safely through so many dangers, that He would protect them.

Chapter Thirteen.

Ben is Shipwrecked.

The gale drove the Ajax considerably out of her intended course, and it was some time before she could again haul up to the eastward. It was not without a providential purpose that she was driven in that direction. Three days passed by after the gale had gone down, and just as she had sighted a small island, said to be uninhabited, the look-out at the masthead hailed the deck: “A sail on the lee-bow—five miles away!” he shouted.

Several of the officers went at once aloft, to have a look at the stranger. She was not a large vessel, that was certain; she might be one of the slavers. She must be overhauled at all events; all sail was accordingly made on the frigate. The stranger seemed not to have much wind where she lay; the frigate therefore came rapidly up with her. She was soon seen to be a schooner, and pronounced to have a Spanish look about her. The frigate brought the breeze along with her, and as soon as the schooner felt it, she too made all sail, close-hauled, with an evident intention of escaping. This left little doubt of her character. She was a fast-looking craft, but the Ajax was also noted for her speed, and few on board doubted that the schooner would be overtaken. Everybody was eager to come up with her. What a satisfaction it would be to release the poor savage islanders, and many others of whom they had heard!

The schooner made every effort to escape, and, at last, kept away, finding how fast her pursuer was on a wind, and endeavoured to run back towards the island, her crew probably expecting to be able to escape among the reefs which surrounded it. Fortunately, the island having been well surveyed, a good chart of it existed on board. Captain Bertram was able to stand close in after her without fear. The Ajax came quickly up after the schooner before the wind.

“Try her with a shot, Mr Charlton,” said the captain; “but fire high, to injure no one on board.”

Mr Sponge, the gunner, with alacrity fired one of the bow chasers. The shot was admirably aimed, and the schooner’s maintopmast fell over her side. The frigate’s crew uttered a shout of satisfaction.

The slaver, for so she was, did not wait for another, but instantly hauled down her flag. It was that of Chili. The schooner was forthwith hove up in the wind. This done, two boats were seen to leave her side. Captain Bertram, on this, hove the frigate to, and ordered two boats to be manned and to bring the fugitives back, while two others pulled on board the schooner. Ben was in one of the latter, with the interpreter. The crew gave way with a will, for they were eager to get on board. No one was to be seen on deck as they climbed up the sides, but Tatai’s hail was at once answered by shouts from below. The hatches were quickly knocked off, and a number of men and women came rushing up, showing, by evident signs, their joy at being liberated. Their first impulse, however, was to fall down on their knees on the deck, and return thanks to Jehovah for having freed them from the barbarians by whom they had been captured. They knew, from having several times before seen the British flag, that they would be kindly treated. They described through Tatai, in pathetic language, the way that they had been treated after having been captured. They had been ordered not to pray aloud, or to sing, and, when off the farther end of this island, to their grief they heard the voices of several of their countrymen, who had come on board. In vain they shouted to warn them. Some at length heard them, and endeavoured to escape. Many sprang overboard into the sea in the hope of swimming on shore, when the inhuman wretches fired on them and killed several; others were knocked down, and, being recaptured, were forced below to join their poor countrymen. This treatment was more than even the patient islanders could stand. By violent efforts, with the aid of a piece of timber they found below, they forced off the hatch and rushed on deck. Some of them threw themselves into the water in the hopes of swimming on shore, though now far from it. At length, the slaver sailed away from the spot, with her cargo of victims to be offered up at the shrine of Mammon; or, in other words, to be destroyed in the silver mines of Peru. Even then, did these till lately savages curse their oppressors? No; even as they sailed away, torn from home and country, wives and children, to die in a foreign land—when they all knelt down at the usual hour to offer up prayer and praise to the God of love and mercy, who had brought them out of darkness into His marvellous light, they did not omit to pray for their cruel oppressors, that their hearts might be converted, and that they might turn to their Maker and live.

Meantime, the boats of the frigate which had gone in chase of the slaver’s overtook them, and brought them on board the Ajax. Their guilt was so evident, that Captain Bertram had no doubt about the propriety of detaining them as prisoners. It was necessary, therefore, to send a prize crew to take charge of the schooner. She was called the Andorina (the Swallow). Mr Owen, the third lieutenant of the frigate, was directed to take charge of the prize, to land the natives at the islands from which they had been taken, and then to follow the frigate to Callao. Mr Manners was to go as his mate. Ben and Tom hoped that they would be among those chosen to form her crew, as boys would certainly be required. Ben wished it, because he should thus be able to make more inquiries for Ned at the places they might touch at, and he made bold to tell his wish to Mr Martin, who suggested it to Mr Charlton. The two boys were therefore delighted when their names were called out to go on board the prize. They quickly mustered with the rest of the prize crew, with their bags ready. The captain addressed them kindly before they left the frigate, urged them to maintain discipline, to obey Mr Owen and Mr Manners, and hoped that he should have a good report of them all when they rejoined the frigate. All arrangements being made, the frigate stood to the eastward with the slaver’s crew on board, while the schooner made sail for Samoa, Tonga, and Savage Islands.

The new crew of the schooner had a long voyage before them, but they were in good spirits; they had an abundance of provisions, having been well supplied by the frigate, in addition to what the schooner had before, and they were engaged in a just and humane cause.

It was pleasant to observe the gentle, kind manners of the liberated natives. They were courteous and polite to each other, and they seemed evidently anxious to conform to all the rules and regulations formed for their management. One of them, who had lived some time in the house of a missionary, spoke a little English, and he was thus able to act as interpreter.

Although the crew of the slaver had taken away and thrown overboard one or two Bibles and some other small books, which had been found in the girdles of the captives, they were very far from being deprived of all spiritual comfort, for they could nearly all repeat large portions of the Scripture by heart, many of them entire chapters. They would happily pass many hours of each day repeating these to each other, singing hymns, and offering up prayers. Two or three among them, who were elders of their respective churches, also occasionally addressed and exhorted the rest; indeed, it was a pity that their language was not understood by the white men, who might undoubtedly have learned many an important truth from them. Mr Manners, who was, as has been said, a very sincere Christian, took great interest in their proceedings, and got the young native who spoke English, and who was called Marco, to explain what was said. Ben frequently stood by and listened, and then began to pick up a knowledge of the language.

Thus several days passed by very pleasantly on board the schooner. It has been remarked that this world is a very good and beautiful world, but it is the people who live in it that are bad. In this case the schooner was a very ordinary vessel, and had till lately been filled with very bad people, and a great deal of misery and suffering had existed on board her. Now she was manned with God-fearing and religious people, and so her whole character was changed, and prayers and songs of praise ascended daily from her decks.

The weather, however, was far from satisfactory. The stormy season had set in, and rains and gales of wind might be expected. Mr Owen proved himself a good and careful officer, and, assisted by Mr Manners, was constantly on the watch for the dangers which might befall them. The wind had hitherto been light and contrary, and the schooner had made but little progress. The weather now again became threatening, and caused considerably anxiety to the young officers. It was evident from the look of the sky, and the sudden way in which the sea got up, that another gale was coming on; not so violent, perhaps, as the former, but still requiring every possible preparation to be made for it. The boats and spars, and everything on deck, were doubly secured; the hatches and skylights were fastened down; the topmasts were struck; the lighter sails furled, and storm sails set; and in a short time the schooner was in a state to encounter the expected gale. It came on more gradually than the former one: at first in heavy squalls, and then more and more violently. The sea got up at the same time, and the vessel heeled over to the furious blast Mr Owen and Mr Manners consulted together what course to steer: the schooner could just lie her proper course, and on that course there were no dangers which could not be seen in time, and avoided, as far as they knew. On the other hand, should the gale increase still more, as there was every prospect of its doing, it would be necessary to put her before the wind, as it would be dangerous, if not indeed impossible, to keep her close-hauled as she then was. Should she run for any distance before the gale, she would be carried into a part of the ocean studded thickly with islets. Once among the archipelago, it might be impossible to avoid being dashed on the rock-bound shore of one of them. Here, then, was sufficient cause for anxiety to the young officers. As long as possible, the schooner was kept on a wind, plunging through the seas. Their only other resource was to heave-to; but there was danger in that where neither spars nor rigging could be trusted. The seas came breaking over her bows, and sweeping her decks. Another huge billow, larger and more foam-covered than any of its predecessors, was seen ahead. “Up with the helm, lower the peak, ease away the main-sheet, square away the maintopsail!” cried Mr Owen, with rapid utterance. The crew quickly obeyed his orders. The effect of these orders was to take the pressure off the after-part of the vessel, and round her head flew from the wind and the coming sea. It struck her, however, and from the way it swept along her side, tearing away part of her bulwarks, and doing other damage as it came on board, it was evident that it would have caused far greater disaster had her bow encountered its full force. On she now flew before the hurricane, for such it was rather than a common gale. There was no choice now as to heaving-to. The officers scanned the chart with anxious eyes. They saw, with regret they could scarcely conceal, that, unless the gale should cease, no skill of theirs could save the schooner from destruction, or unless, guided by an unseen Power, she should thread her way amid the labyrinth of islets and reefs ahead of her. Night was coming on. There was no moon. The dark clouds shut out all light from the stars.

On flew the schooner. The unfortunate islanders were invited to come on deck, that, should the vessel strike suddenly, they might have some chance of escaping by swimming on shore. The danger was explained to them through Marco. “We are in the hands of Jehovah,” was the answer. “He will do with us what He sees best.”

Through the pitchy darkness the vessel rushed on. More than once the quick ears of the seamen detected, they thought, the well-known sound of breakers; but each time the sound died away to leeward: the vessel must have passed at a distance from them. Hour after hour thus passed by. How all on board longed for daylight! Yet daylight would only enable them to see the threatening danger, scarcely to avoid it.

Once more the sound of breakers was heard. This time it was ahead. In vain, with straining eyeballs, the seamen looked into the darkness to discover, if they could, whether the breakers were on the starboard or port bow. All held their breath. The stoutest hearts might then have quailed. The foretopsail was alone set; to have lowered that would have caused the vessel to be pooped, and so more speedily to have sealed her fate. On she flew to destruction. The dreaded crash came. She quivered from stem to stern. Both the masts went by the board, carrying several of the seamen with them, as well as the young commander. Another sea came hissing on astern, threatening to dash the vessel to pieces; but no! it lifted her up, and bore her on its summit far along over the reef.

Mr Manners found himself at that awful moment in command of the schooner. He ordered the well to be sounded. It was not necessary; for the water, it was soon evident, was rushing in through numerous large rents made by the sharp coral. Still the vessel drove on, now among rocks, now in clear water. She was, however, rapidly filling. “Out boats!” was the cry. Fortunately these had escaped injury. Again, however, the schooner was exposed to the fury of the sea, which came sweeping round through a passage in the reef.

At that moment a sudden panic seized the crew. Ben felt himself grasped by the arm, and dragged into one of the boats which had just been lowered. Five men only were in her. Either intentionally or by accident, the painter was let go, and the boat drifted rapidly away from the sinking vessel. The men searched for the oars, which they supposed to be in the boat; only one was to be found. To return to the schooner was therefore impossible. Their only prospect of safety was to get the boat before the wind with the oar. This was done, and farther and farther away she drifted from the vessel.

The men said but little. They regretted being driven away from the schooner without receiving more on board; and Ben heard, with sorrow, that there was but little chance of any of their shipmates being saved. Their own prospects also were gloomy enough. They had no water, no provisions, on board, and one oar alone to guide the boat. One of the most dreadful fates which seamen have sometimes to endure seemed in store for them—to be out on the wide ocean, exposed to the heat of the sun by day and chills by night, without a drop of water to cool their burning thirst. The poor fellows knew too well that this might be their lot; but still they were thankful that they had hitherto escaped the destruction which had overtaken so many of their shipmates.

Two or three of the men at a time were employed in baling out the boat, while one steered as well as he could before the seas. Again the sound of breakers was heard: it was right ahead. “It is all up with us!” cried one of the men. “God be merciful to us!” cried another. Scarcely had they spoken, when the boat was lifted on the foaming summit of a sea, the crest of which nearly filled her with water, and down she came with a crash on the rocks, which dashed her to pieces. Ben clung to one of the fragments. The despairing shrieks of his shipmates sounded in his ears, and he felt himself borne onward into smoother water. He clung tightly to the shattered plank, and thought that he saw trees rising before him. It was not fancy. The dawn had broken, and he was drifting along the shore. He could swim well, and felt sure that he could reach it. A few vigorous strokes, and his feet touched the firm sand. He waded up, and sank exhausted on the dry ground.

The sun was shining brightly on his head before the shipwrecked lad awoke. He sat up, and, as he recovered his senses, he looked round, hoping to see his companions; but no one was visible. He rose to his feet, and shouted out their names. No reply came to him. He ran along the beach, calling to them; and then discovered that he was on a small island. His voice could, he fancied, have reached from one end to the other. With a sad heart, he found that he was alone—the only human being, as far as he knew, saved from the wreck.

Chapter Fourteen.

On a Desert Island.

Poor Ben was very melancholy at the feeling that he was alone on that desert island; still, he was thankful that his own life had been preserved. “God surely would not have taken me out of the sea to let me die here by inches of hunger and thirst,” he said to himself. “I will trust in God, as I have always done.” As he said this, he put his hand in the bosom of his shirt. There was safe the little Testament which his mother had given him, and which he had been reading before the gale sprang up. He spread it out open on the sand, that the leaves might dry. “He has spared me this; He has other good things in store for me,” he whispered to himself. He also spread out his clothes, which very quickly dried.

Ben had lost his cap, so, while his Testament and clothes were drying, he sat down and began making another out of some broad leaves which grew close at hand. While thus employed, and thinking over what he should do, he recollected that he had not prayed, nor thanked God for preserving him; so, having put on his clothes, he knelt down in the thin shadow of a tall palm, and prayed as he had never prayed before. After doing this, he felt greatly supported; yet his condition was indeed a forlorn one. He rose from his knees, and looked around. He felt thirsty, but not very hungry—sufficiently so, however, to remind him that he must look out for food. He was not aware of the difficulties of procuring it, so that his mind was not troubled on that score. His first idea was to survey the island, so as to learn to a certainty whether any of his shipmates might have been cast on it. He found a piece of timber on the sand, which served him for a walking-stick, and, supported by it, he set off to walk round the island.

He first climbed up to the top of a rock near him, from which, between the trees, he could look across the island, and he thought that it could be little more than half a mile wide. How long it was he could not so well judge. He walked on and on, looking about for signs of fresh-water, for he knew that he must not drink that of the sea. He could find none. He became more and more thirsty; his tongue was parched, and his throat dry: still he would not give up. He dragged his weary feet along, helped by his stick. Some rocky mounds, scarcely to be called hills, appeared in the distance, and he hoped that water might be found near them. This gave him fresh strength to drag himself along. The mounds were not so high even as he had fancied, and were much nearer. Again he was disappointed. He paced round and round them; all was stony and dry.

Ben was very nearly giving way to despair, when he espied, scarcely fifty yards off, a group of tall trees with large round fruit hanging from them. At once he knew them to be cocoa-nuts, and he went on, eager to quench his thirst with the pure milk they contained. Yet, weak as he was, how could he climb up to the top of those trees? He had often seen the natives do it with a band round their waists. If he were strong, he might do it in the same way, could he but find the band; but, in his weak state, that was impossible. Again he was doomed to disappointment, he feared, and was about to pursue his exploring tour, when he saw, not far off, a nut on the ground. He ran eagerly and picked it up. It had been blown off during the recent gale. After stripping off the husk, he soon broke in the end; and, though he spilt a little, there was sufficient milk in it to quench his now burning thirst. He then more slowly ate pieces of the fruit, which he cut out with his knife. Here was one means of supporting life, and Ben’s elastic spirits again rose. At his age the thoughts of the future did not press heavily on him. He had, too, ‘a conscience void of offence towards God’: not that he did not feel and know himself to be a sinner; but he felt himself to be a pardoned one, as a sincere believer in Christ. That was the secret of his light-heartedness. Still he had a longing for pure water. He knew, too, that he could the better cook any fish he might obtain if he could find it. How was he to light a fire, however? Just before the gale came on, the cook had sent him below to get his tin-box of matches, and after the cook had taken one out, Ben had put it into his pocket. There it was, and, the lid fitting tightly down, the matches were uninjured. “I must cherish them carefully, however,” he thought; “when they are gone, I shall be unable to light a fire.” He looked about and found several other cocoa-nuts, which he collected, and piled up where he could again find them.

Much refreshed, Ben continued his walk. At last he saw the end of the island. For a quarter of a mile or more it was low and barren, hard rock washed apparently by the sea; so he turned round and went back by the other shore. The island was, altogether, nearly two miles long; but there were not many cocoa-nut trees on it,—nor much soil indeed, which was the reason probably that it was not inhabited. He might now exclaim, though sadly, “I am monarch of all I survey;” but he would rather have been the meanest subject of a small kingdom, with civilised companions, than a king and all alone on that nearly barren reef. Still he had no fear of starving; shell-fish he saw on the rocks in abundance. During the calm, too, some of the natives had been fishing over the side of the vessel, and he also had got some hooks and a long line. These he had put into his pockets. He might, he hoped, find some roots, and thus be able to vary his diet. As the sun rose, the horizon became very clear, and he thought that he could distinguish land in one direction; it was at all events a long way off, and it was so faint that it might be only a cloud just rising above the horizon. He should be able to judge better after watching it for a day or two.

As Ben walked on, his eye was continually roving about for signs of water. How gladly would he have welcomed the sight of even a little mossy pool, or some moisture in the crevice of a rock! He did not despair. He had hitherto only explored the shore; water might rise in the interior, and be lost in the sand before it reached the beach. “One thing I ought to have before night,” he said,—for he had got into the way of talking aloud,—“that is, shelter. I must build myself a hut;” and so he set to work. There were canes, and bushes, and broad leaves of the pandanus and other trees in abundance. He did not require a very spacious mansion; still he wanted one high enough to sit in. He worked on till he was tired and hungry. He had left his cocoa-nuts some way off, and had to go for them. He brought as many as he could carry back to his hut. Knocking a hole in the end of one of them, and carefully scraping out the fruit after he had drunk the milk, he waded into the water, and cut some mussels off the rocks. His cocoa-nut he filled with salt-water. Coming back, he lighted a fire in a hole a little way from his hut. Would he put his cocoa-nut on it? No; he was too wise for that; but he made some stones red-hot, and kept tumbling them into the water till the mussels were sufficiently cooked. Others he toasted before the fire, but he liked the boiled ones best. He thus made a tolerably substantial meal. To keep in his fire, he built up a wall of stones round it, and put on a quantity of green sticks, which would burn slowly, hoping in that way to save the expenditure of another match.

“I will finish my hut, and then I will go and have another hunt for water,” he said to himself, as he began working again. He had placed his hut against a tree, with the opening turned away from the wind. There were plenty of dry leaves about, which he collected for his bed. He did not require furniture; that he would make by and by. While hunting in his pockets for the matches, he found a number of thin flat seeds. He recollected having saved them from a fruit of the gourd species, which had been used on board the schooner. He carefully dried them and put them by, remembering that such things grow very rapidly. “There will be no harm sowing them; if I do not use them, others will. I am thankful I found them,” he thought. Once more he set out to look for water. The exertion he had gone through, and the heat, made the milk of the cocoa-nut insufficient for quenching his thirst. The ground was rough; but he eagerly clambered over it, backwards and forwards, hoping thus to find a spring if one existed. The sun was sinking low, when he thought that the trees and shrubs, in a hollow he saw some way before him, looked greener and more luxuriant than those in other places. “Water makes leaves and grass green,” he said to himself; “I hope so, for I don’t think that I could live many more hours without water, not through another day in this hot sun. Oh dear! oh dear! how very, very thirsty I am! What would I give if there should be water there, even though I should only get one good drink of it! Ay, but I shall want it another day—for many days, or months, perhaps, as long as I live on this island. I don’t think that God will have put only a little there. If there is any, there will be a good supply for me, more than this cocoa-nut full, I am certain.” He had brought a cocoa-nut shell with him to fill with water, that he might take some back to his hut.

Ben almost shouted for joy when he found a spring of pure water bubbling up from under a big rock. It ran a little way between rocks, and then lost itself in a sandy bed. He scooped a hole in the ground, into which he put his cocoa-nut shell, which quickly filled with water. How sweet and pure it tasted! He felt that he could never take enough. At last, however, his thirst was quenched, so he filled his cocoa-nut shell, and directed his steps to the sea-shore; but he had not gone far before he was tempted to put the shell to his lips. He soon drained it, and then he went back for more. His great fear was that he should not again find the spring. He marked the spot with the greatest care, and noted each tree and mound as he took his way towards the beach. Night was coming on, as it does in those latitudes, very rapidly; and Ben had to hurry on for fear of not finding his hut, and at the same time to be very cautious not to spill the water out of his cocoa-nut. Oh that people would be as eager for the Water of Life, as little Ben was for the spring in that desert island, and would be tempted to return to it again and again to drink afresh of its pure source! Ben was thankful when he saw the glow from his fire, which continued smouldering gently. Without it he might have passed his hut. He could not manage by its light to read more than a few verses from his Testament; but even those few gave him comfort and hope. With a heart truly grateful for the mercies bestowed on him, he knelt down and offered up his simple prayer to God. The last thing he did was to make up his fire afresh, and then he crept into his hut and in a few moments was fast asleep.

The sun had risen before Ben awoke. He felt that he had a great deal to do. He could not tell how long he might have to remain on the island. It might be not only for months, but for years. Much depended on his own sense and energy whether he would retain his health, or indeed life itself. He began the day with prayer and reading the Testament. He knew that that was the best way at all events to save himself from turning into a savage. He then made his breakfast off cocoa-nut and shell-fish. “I must catch some fish, however,” he said to himself, as he finished the last clam; “this food will not do to live on always. I may find some roots and berries, and perhaps turtles’ eggs. I heard some wild-fowl cry last evening; I may find their eggs too, and trap them or some other birds, or get a turtle itself. The first thing I’ll now do is to carry my hut nearer to the water, instead of having to bring the water all this way to the hut. That won’t take long. I can carry the whole of it in two journeys, and quickly put it up. I must take the fire after it. That will keep in for many hours, I see, with the help of this rotten wood. If I go working on in these clothes, I shall soon wear them out. I must see what I can do to make others out of the bark of the paper-mulberry, as the natives do; I thought I saw some of those trees yesterday. I daresay I shall not succeed at first, but there is nothing like trying. There is a piece of open ground near the spring which will just do for the gourd-seeds. I’ll sow them therein forthwith. The fruit is very wholesome, I know; and the dried gourds will furnish me with basins and pots and pans in abundance.”

Ben put all his plans into execution in a methodical, regular way. He became, indeed, perfectly happy, and almost contented with his lot, except when he thought of his mother and Ned—poor Ned, still undiscovered, living among savages, or on a desert island, like himself. His own fate made him hope more than ever that Ned had escaped.

Now and then the course of his plans was interrupted by something else which occurred to him to do. One idea was to erect a beacon at each end of the island, to attract the attention of those on board any passing vessel. He had nothing of which to make a flag, so a flagstaff would have been of no use. It then struck him that a cross would be more remarkable than anything else, and he devoted a part of each day to the work. It was a very heavy task. He chose a tree towards the end of the island, where he proposed erecting the first cross. He had only a stout pocket-knife, but he could employ fire, and that only required constant watching. A large sharp stone helped him. When he had thus felled the tree, he had to cut off the branches, and to drag it to the end of the island. With great labour he partly burned, and partly cut, a deep notch, into which he fixed the cross-beam, securing it with wedges. He had observed a cleft in the rock: in this he placed the butt-end, and gradually raised it with far more ease than he could otherwise have done. Some large stones placed round it kept it secure. The other cross was erected much in the same manner.

His fishing was very successful, and he was soon able to catch an ample supply for his daily food. He found, too, some roots which were perfectly wholesome. When cultivated by the natives, they formed one of their chief articles of food. He was not disappointed in finding, after a time, some turtles’ and sea-fowls’ eggs; indeed, he had an abundance of nutritious food, gained, however, by his own exertions and perseverance. It might have been possible for a person to have died of starvation on the island, simply on account of not looking for the means of subsistence which it afforded. Ben not only collected for present use, but preserved what he could for the future, knowing that at certain seasons the turtle and wild-fowl would cease to lay eggs, that the fish might leave the coast, or that stormy weather might prevent his catching them; that the cocoa-nuts would dry up, as might the roots, and that the wild-fowl might become more wary. He was thus never idle, from morning till night; and though, of course, he thought very often of home and Ned, and of how he should get away, yet he never was unhappy or out of spirits. He was as fond as ever of saying, “Do right, whatever comes of it, and trust in God.”

Chapter Fifteen.

Escape: and the End of Ben’s History.

Ben had recollected the day of the week on which, he was cast on the island. By means of a stick which he notched regularly, a plan he had often heard of being adopted under similar circumstances, he kept an exact note of the days as they passed. Sunday he made a day of rest. It was not, however, a day of weariness. He read much more than usual of his Testament, and, recollecting the way the natives had repeated portions of it, he set to work to commit some of its chapters to memory.

This he found a delightful occupation. When doing so, he spent many hours walking up and down on the smooth sea sand, with shoeless feet, looking out every now and then on the blue ocean, and thinking what a beautiful world it is we inhabit, and how grievous that man should mar it by his evil temper and wicked deeds. Then he would occasionally sing all the hymns he knew at the top of his voice, from very joyfulness of heart. In the week-days, when at work, he would repeat over what he had learned on the Sundays. Thus five months, by his calculation, passed away.

One Monday forenoon, as he was going out to the end of a reef to fish, on looking in the direction where he had frequently seen what he supposed to be land, he saw an object moving over the water. It was not white, like the sail of a vessel. It must, then, be the mat-sail of a large double canoe. Thinking no more of his fishing, he ran up to the highest rocky hill in the neighbourhood to watch its progress. It was drawing nearer the island, and yet apparently not steering directly for it, rather, as it were, to pass at some distance.

“I wonder what sort of people are on board,” he thought. “Perhaps savages—cannibals. Then it will be much better if they do not come here. If they are Christian natives, then I shall be very glad to go with them, as they of course are on their way to some civilised island where ships are likely to call.”

The wind was light, the canoe moved slowly, and Ben’s anxiety increased. At last it seemed clear that the canoe would not come nearer to the island. He heaved a deep sigh, and sat silent and sad for some time. Then he recollected that he was going to fish. He got up, and again worked his way towards the end of the reef. He cast in his line, and had hooked a fish, when, just as he landed it, on looking up for an instant, he saw the canoe gliding towards the island. It was steering for the point on which stood the cross, there could be no doubt about that. He watched it eagerly, anxious to ascertain who was on board. If they were savages, should he hide himself, and trust to their going away again? “Yet even if they are savages, they will not hurt me,” he said to himself. “They will see at once that I cannot do them any harm. I will run and meet them, and welcome them. That will be the best way, I am sure. I will take a branch in my hand, and wave it as the natives do, to show that I wish to be friendly with them.”

Saying this, Ben drew up the fish he had hooked,—a fine large one,—retreated along the reef over the rocks, cut a branch, and ran along the beach as fast as his legs could carry him towards Cross Point. He got there before the canoe, for the wind was light. He could see a number of people on it as it drew nearer. Were they savages? They were all clothed. Yes, and some of them were dressed as English sailors. There was a glitter of gold-lace on the coat of one of them. In the bow stood a young sailor lad. Gradually the faces began to grow distinct. How his heart leaped with joy! There were Tom Martin and Mr Manners, and several of the prize crew he had long thought in their ocean graves, and there were also a good number of the natives, busy in lowering the huge mat-sail of the canoe. They were the very men who had been on board the schooner.

Ben was at first almost beside himself with delight. He waved his hands and shouted wildly; then he ran down and showed them the best place for bringing the canoe to shore. The natives cried out to him, but neither Tom Martin nor any of the English seamen seemed to know him. “I wonder what that little savage wants,” he heard Tom say to one of the men. “He looks to me as if he was out of his senses.”

“No, I am not, Tom Martin, I can assure you,” cried Ben, running up to him and putting out his hand; “only very, very glad to see you again, and to find that you are all alive.”

“Well, indeed, I am also glad to find you were not drowned, Ben,” answered Tom, wringing his shipmate’s hand till it seemed as if he would wring it off. “I felt certain that you were drowned, and was very sorry for you, that I was!”

“He speaks truth, Ben,” observed Jem Stokes, a seaman who had always stood Tom’s friend. “The lad took so ill when he thought that you were lost, that we thought he would have slipped his cable altogether; but Mr Manners spoke to him, as he did to all of us, and told him that if you had left this world you had gone to a better.”

Jem’s remarks were cut short by Mr Manners, who had now come on shore. Ben was not aware, till he observed the surprised look with which his officer regarded him, of the odd figure he cut. He then recollected that he wore a suit of his own home-made clothes: a hat of leaves, in shape between an extinguisher and an umbrella; a cape of mulberry-tree cloth, and a kilt of the same, reaching down to his knees. With shoes he had learned to dispense, that he might have a good pair to go away in. He had worn them, however, on Sunday mornings, when he had put them on, with the rest of his best suit. Ben explained to Mr Manners why he was dressed in that curious fashion, and the young officer highly approved of his reasons, and complimented him on his ingenuity in their manufacture.

The whole party then collected round him while he gave a brief account of the way he had been preserved, and how he had managed to subsist during his sojourn on the island. He, in return, was informed how his friends had escaped. The schooner, from having no cargo in her, did not sink as soon as was expected, but drove on to another reef, where she stuck fast. The gale falling soon after, those on board had time to construct a raft, on which, with the aid of one of the boats, they reached an island which they had seen five or six miles off. They were able to save a small quantity of provisions; but the larger portion, being under water, could not be got at. The island was of considerable size, and, thanks to the knowledge possessed by the natives, they had not experienced much difficulty in procuring food. The schooner soon broke up, so that very little more was got out of her, and only a few articles of value were washed ashore. Mr Manners at once proposed building a vessel; but the carpenter’s mate, who had come in the schooner as carpenter, had been lost when the vessel went on the rocks, and none of the other men knew anything of ship-building. The natives, on hearing the wish of the English officer, offered to construct a large double canoe, three or four professional canoe-builders being among them. They were far more ingenious than the civilised Englishmen. Their tools they made out of stones, and flints, and shells; the fibre of trees served them instead of nails; their sails were made out of dried grass. It was a work, however, of great labour; night and day they toiled at it. At length, aided by the Englishmen, it was completed. They had preserved and stored all the food they could collect and spare for their voyage; but their great difficulty was to carry enough water. The water on the island was bad, and they had not sufficient receptacles for it. Still, they hoped to reach some island where they might replenish their stock; but that was very uncertain.

“Indeed, the possibility—or, I may say, the probability—of our running short of water is the greatest cause of anxiety I have for our dangerous voyage. If that was over, I should have fewer cares on my mind,” observed Mr Manners.

“Then, sir, I think that I can certainly relieve you of that care,” answered Ben. “There is a spring of excellent water in the middle of the island, and near it I planted, on the second day of my arrival, some gourd-seeds. The plants grew up very fast, and the fruit has now become of great size, and is perfectly ripe. Each of them would, I should think, when dried, hold a large quantity of water; and I am sure that the pulp is very good and wholesome, for I have felt much better since I lived on it. Besides, I have already dried a number of the outsides, so that we may judge how they hold water.”

“That is indeed providential, Ben,” observed Mr Manners. “God, I believe, never allows anything to be done without an object; and it seems very clear that you were thrown on this island, not only that your own life might be saved, but that you might be the means of preserving all our lives. Had it not been for you, we should not have known that there exists water on the island; and we certainly should not have had the means of carrying it away. Let us at once examine the gourds, that we may see what can be done.”

Mr Manners now called Marco, and begged him to set off at once with Ben, and examine the gourds, with a few of the other natives, while the rest dispersed on the island to collect roots, cocoa-nuts, and, indeed, any other food that they could find.

Ben could not help feeling proud at the commendation which Mr Manners bestowed on his hut and its internal arrangements; still more so on his plantation of gourds. The little seeds which he had brought to shore in his jacket-pocket had now become large plants, producing gourds twice the size of a man’s head. As he had wisely planted them at a distance from each other, they had all grown to their full size. Marco selected thirty, at least, each of which would hold several quarts of water; while their pulp was a welcome addition to the food of those who had been for so long living on the produce of the sea, and roots, and cocoa-nuts.

Three days were spent in drying the gourds and in filling them, and in replenishing the other receptacles on board the canoe with the pure water from Ben’s fountain. One or two defects in the canoe were also made good, and a considerable addition to their supply of provisions was taken on board.

Ben took a last look at the hut he had so long inhabited, and the garden he had cultivated with so much care, with a feeling almost of regret, knowing that he was to part from them for ever. Before leaving them, however, he planted a number of ripe seeds, and repaired his hut, in case any other person might be cast on shore on the island. The crosses were also repaired.

“We had not intended landing on the island till we saw them,” observed Mr Manners. “When our eyes caught sight of them, we knew that some Christian person must be, or must have been, on the island; and, though eager to proceed on our voyage, we at once resolved to touch at the place. I pray that, before long, the time may come for the cross to be erected on every island throughout the wide Pacific, not as the symbol of nominal Christianity, of a religion of forms and ceremonies, but as the sign of a true and living faith, of a spiritual worship acceptable to God.”

The last remarks, though spoken aloud, were made by Mr Manners rather to himself than to those near him.

All preparations having been made, the whole party, with Ben Hadden, embarked on board the canoe. She was paddled out into the open sea, the wind was fair, the sail was hoisted, and Ben soon saw his island home sink beneath the horizon.

The difficulties in the navigation of the voyage just commenced were very great. Mr Manners had saved only a boat’s compass; he had no quadrant and no chart. He calculated that they were about sixteen hundred miles at least from Samoa, for which group he shaped his course. They expected to meet with several islands on the way, but though the inhabitants of some of them had been converted to Christianity, those of others were still sunk in heathen darkness and barbarism. It would be necessary for them, therefore, to be very careful on which they landed. In the one case, they would be sure of a friendly reception; in the other they would be attacked, and probably murdered, if not on their guard. Ben hoped that at all events they might touch at several islands, that he might have more opportunities of making inquiries about Ned. He found that strict discipline was maintained on board the canoe. All on board were divided into watches, taking regularly their turns of duty. Morning and evening there were prayers, led by Mr Manners in English and by Marco in his own language. The day was begun by all joining in a hymn, then the Scriptures were read and commented on by the respective readers. Ben was very glad to find that Tom took a great interest in their services, and spoke on religious subjects in a tone that he had never before done.

“Why, you see, Ben,” said Tom, “on that awful night of the wreck I thought that we were all going to be drowned, and when, after all, we got on shore, I felt how merciful and kind God had been to save such a wicked fellow as I was, instead of you, who was so much more fit to go to Him. I was still very sorry for you, for your mother’s sake, and I knew father would be very sorry when he heard of it. I do not suppose that those thoughts would have lasted very long; I am afraid not: but then, Mr Manners spoke to me so kindly, that I felt what an ungrateful wretch I should be if I didn’t give my heart to so good and merciful a God; and from that day to this I have been trying to do so. It is not very easy, even among the few of our poor fellows remaining; but Mr Manners says that I must pray for grace, and not trust to my own strength, and that then, if I am sincere and not a hypocrite to myself, that I should have every confidence of being supported and protected. It is that thought, Ben, which gives me so much comfort. Otherwise I should be very unhappy, and not at all sure that I should not be a castaway after all.”

“That is just the same thought that has made me always happy,” remarked Ben. “I know that God never casts out any who go to Him through Christ, and trust to Him completely, and not to themselves, while they try to love and serve Him as much as they can, though that is very little after all I can’t tell you, though, Tom, how glad I am to hear you speak so, and I am sure that your father will be still more glad, if we ever find the ship again, which I hope we may do.”

“That’s the very thing I am afraid of,” said Tom. “I shall be very glad indeed to see my father again; but when I get back among the other boys, and into old ways again, I shall be apt to do just as before, and to talk nonsense and play all my old tricks. I say, Ben, if we ever do get back, you must help me! Won’t you, there’s a good fellow?”

Of course Ben promised Tom that he would help him as much as he could, though he reminded him also that he must depend on himself in one sense, though not on his own strength, for that effectual strength he could alone obtain through the aid of the Holy Spirit.

The wind was light, and the sea calm, and the canoe glided smoothly over the water. She was of a curious construction, being in reality two canoes connected by a very strong platform. The mast was a triangle, which supported a mat-sail spread on a long yard. The vessel had not to go about; but, as the stem and stern were alike, she sailed equally well both ways. At each end there were long oars, which served as rudders; but in calms she was impelled by paddles, and could thus also be moved at a considerable rate. Nobody on board was idle. In calm weather every one was employed in paddling or steering. Mr Manners took his turn with the rest. If there was a sea,—that is to say, if it was rough,—Ben and Tom, with the assistance of two or three others, had enough to do to bale out the water. A constant look-out was also necessary, to avoid any reefs or low islands in their course. Ben was very happy. He had been so long without talking, that it was a satisfaction to him once more to use his tongue, though still greater to hear other people talk, especially Mr Manners and Tom, when they spoke on subjects in which he was interested. As for his own tongue, when once set going, he found no little difficulty in again stopping it.

The weather continued so calm, that it was impossible to say to what extent the voyage might be prolonged: it was necessary, therefore, to use the greatest economy in the consumption of water and their scanty supply of provisions. A small allowance of food and water was served out to each person three times a day; but no one grumbled, for all saw the necessity of the arrangement.

Six days had passed by since the canoe had left Ben Hadden’s island, as Mr Manners called it, when land was sighted ahead, or rather, the trees which grew on it, for their tops were first seen. It was an island extending for three or four miles across the horizon. No one on board knew anything about the island, but they hoped that they might there obtain a fresh supply of water and provisions, and, should it be inhabited by Christians, that they might gain some information as to their direct course for Samoa. Accordingly they steered for an opening which appeared in the barrier-reef. On getting through it, other rocks were seen ahead, and Mr Manners was afraid, should he stand on, of injuring the canoe. The sail was lowered, and they were about to paddle off again in order to search for a safe landing-place, when a man was seen on the shore beckoning them. First he pointed to the right hand, by which they knew that they were to sail in that direction; then he beckoned directly to himself, afterwards to the left, and so on. By following his directions, they reached the beach in safety. He was a wild-looking person dressed in a leaf hat, something like the one Ben had made for himself, with a seaman’s tattered jacket, and a kilt of native cloth. His feet and legs were bare, his hair was long, and hung down over his shoulders, while in his hand he carried a heavy club, which he grasped tightly, as if he considered it likely to prove a friend in need. Notwithstanding his wild appearance, it was easy to perceive by the colour of his skin, sunburnt as it was, that he was not a native. He seemed very much surprised at seeing white men on board the canoe, for he did not appear to have discovered that till they were on the point of landing. He did not, however, address them, but spoke to the natives in a language which they understood. Marco inquired of him whether there were other inhabitants on the island, and whether they were Christians. He said that there were a great many; that they were not Lota, that is Christians, but that they were a very good sort of people. They had sent him on to the end of the reef to pilot in the canoe, he said, and they themselves would soon come to welcome the strangers. He had scarcely spoken before a large number of wild, nearly naked savages came out from among the trees. They were armed with spears and clubs, had long matted hair like a black thatch over their heads, and were altogether a very forbidding, unattractive set of beings. Still, from what they said to Marco and the other natives, and by their actions, they appeared to be friendlily disposed towards their visitors. It was near evening, and they signified that, if the visitors would remain overnight, they would the next day bring all the provisions required, and plenty of calabashes of pure water, which they stated was to be obtained in the middle of the island. Mr Manners thanked them, and said that he would remain till the next day. The natives then invited them to come and sleep on shore; but this Mr Manners declined, as he preferred sleeping on board the canoe. To allow more room on board, he said that he would not object to some of his people building huts of boughs for themselves on the beach, but urged them on no account to go to a distance from it. The natives, however, to show their good intentions, brought down to the beach a supply of taro and other roots and fruits, likewise as much fresh-water as their visitors would require. They seemed, as Mr Manners thought, rather disappointed that no one would accompany them away from the shore. They stood by while the provisions were being cooked, rather astonished at the proceeding; still greater was their surprise when the natives sung a hymn and offered up a prayer before they began to eat. What it could all mean of course they could not tell, but they probably had an idea that it was some sort of incantation, for they were seen to draw back for some distance, and not till the hymn was finished did they return, when they stood looking on as before.

Ben and Tom, with two of the English seamen, were allowed to go on shore that they might draw the white man, if possible, into conversation, if he could speak English. He had hitherto kept aloof from the strangers, and even stood behind his native companions while the hymn was being sung. When the natives had finished singing, Ben stood up and said the short grace which his father had been accustomed to repeat before meals. The white man, who at that time was standing a little way apart from his companions while Ben was speaking, drew nearer to him, and seemed to be listening attentively.

“I say, old fellow, come and have something to eat,” said one of the seamen, holding out a bit of taro at the end of his knife.

The white man looked wistfully towards the strangers; then he cast a glance at the scowling, savage-looking natives who were watching him, and, shaking his head, again drew farther back from them. There he sat without speaking, and each time either Ben or Tom, or the other two seamen, addressed him, he shook his head, as if either he did not understand, or, at all events, did not wish to hold any communication with them.

While the party who purposed sleeping on the shore were putting up their huts, and collecting leaves for their beds, the natives and the white man, as before, stood watching them, but made no offer of assistance. The Christian visitors again sang a hymn, as the sun set and darkness came on. Then commending themselves to the protection of Heaven, they crept into their huts, and lay down to sleep. Ben and his shipmates, finding that the natives and their white associate had gone away, soon after followed their example; one of the seamen promising to sleep with one eye open, so as to be on the watch, though it was the opinion of all that the natives were a quiet sort of people, who would do them no harm. There was no moon; but the sky was clear, and the bright stars which glittered forth from it in countless numbers, in that pure atmosphere, afforded sufficient light to enable objects to be visible at a little distance.

Ben had slept for some time, he fancied, when he was awakened by feeling a hand placed on his arm.

“Hist, youngster! don’t lie sleeping there,” whispered a voice in his ear. “Rouse up the other Englishmen. Get on board the canoe, and be off, or you’ll all be murdered. Never mind the natives with you. If you wake them up, there’ll be a noise, and the people of the place will be down on them. Don’t speak above a whisper, whatever you do. The people are not far off, and I found it a hard job to steal away.”

Ben at once comprehended that some danger was threatened. He sat up, and saw the stranger white man standing over him.

“Leave our Christian friends! No, we will never do that,” he answered. “I will go and arouse them, while you can awake my shipmates; and, whoever you are, you must come with us.”

“Well, well, I’ll do as you wish,” answered the white man; “only be sharp, and tell the people to creep along over the ground, so as not to be seen at a distance. We must climb into the canoe, and shove off without any noise, or they will be down on us before we can get clear of the reefs.”

Without wasting more time on words, Ben crept off to where Marco was sleeping; he had fortunately noted the place. Awaking him, he told him of the warning he had received, and Marco quickly aroused the rest of his party.

It was with difficulty that the seamen could be prevented from speaking when called; in a couple of minutes, however, the whole party were creeping down towards the canoe, which lay afloat alongside some rocks running into the water. They were all quickly on board, followed by the young Englishman—for such it was supposed the white man was, by his language.

“Shove off, sir!” he whispered to Mr Manners, who had only then been aroused. “No time to lose. I will go to the helm.”

The advice was instantly followed; the warps were cast off, the paddles got out, and the canoe began slowly to glide out from among the rocks. Scarcely, however, had she begun to move than loud shouts were heard, and large numbers of the savage natives were seen rushing down from among the trees to the beach. When they found that the canoe had moved from the rocks, they yelled and shouted more fiercely than ever.

“Give way, lads! give way!” cried the stranger; “there is a narrow place where they may catch us if we are not smart.”

Neither the English seamen nor the natives required any urging, but paddled away as hard as they could. They saw the savages indeed, their figures standing out against the sky, as they hurried along over the rocks, shouting, and leaping, and brandishing their spears. Before the canoe had got far, a shower of spears and darts fell among the party on board; but, thrown from a distance, not much injury was done, and they were only stimulated to increased exertion. Alone, they could not, in the dark, have found their way out through the passage in the reefs; the young man, however, seemed confident that he knew the right course to steer. Not a word was spoken; each man paddled as hard as he could. Gradually the rocks were left behind, and the last passage between the reefs was seen; beyond was the open sea. The shouts and shrieks of the savages became fainter and fainter. They either had not had time to launch their canoes, or were afraid to attack the large double canoe in them. In a short time Mr Manners and his companions were in safety.

Once more a course was steered for Samoa. All were thankful for their narrow and providential escape, and did not fail to express their gratitude to the young Englishman who had been the means of preserving their lives. He, however, seemed unwilling to talk on the subject.

“Nothing particular, sir, to thank me for,” he answered. “Less said about it the better, according to my notion.”

It was fortunate that they had economised their small stock of water and provisions, as they had been unable to replenish them at the island from which they had just escaped. It was necessary to be even still more careful than before, because it might be some time before they could reach any other island where they could obtain what they required.

Most of the English seamen were loud in their threats of vengeance against the savages, for their treacherous conduct.

“If we ever reach the old Ajax, we would like to get her to go back and blow the fellows to pieces,” said one.

“No, no; that is not the way to treat them,” observed Marco, when he understood what was said. “The way to treat them will be to send a missionary to teach them better things. With God’s aid, that will we do as soon as we reach our own island, or can let our brethren at Raratonga know of their condition.”

“Yes, you do speak like a real Christian, Marco,” answered the seaman who had thoughtlessly made the proposal. “That’s the right way, to be sure: I didn’t mean that I would really wish to kill the poor savages, for of course they don’t know better.”

The next morning the wind was fair, the sea smooth, and the canoe glided swiftly over the waters. The work of the day was commenced, as usual, with a hymn and a prayer, and then the Scriptures were read. The young stranger stood aloof, disinclined, as it seemed, to join in the service. At length, Mr Manners invited him to join in the prayer he was about to offer up with his own men in English.

“Thank ye, sir,” answered the stranger, giving the usual seaman’s pull at his hair, when addressing an officer. “It’s so long since I have prayed, that I have forgotten how.”

“That is a sad thing, my lad,” answered Mr Manners, “the sooner, then, you begin the better. Did you ever learn how to read your Bible?”

“Once, sir, long ago; but I have forgotten all about that too, I am afraid,” answered the stranger. “For better than three years I haven’t spoken a word of English. I don’t think I could read, even if I was to try ever so much.”

“We will see about that after we have had prayers,” said Mr Manners in a kind tone. “There is a lad here who never, I believe, misses reading the Bible every day of his life, if he can avoid it. He will help me to teach you; won’t you, Ben?”

“Yes, sir, very gladly,” said Ben Hadden, who was appealed to.

After prayers, and when Mr Manners had offered up thanks for the preservation of himself and his companions from the hands of the treacherous savages, Ben brought out his well-worn Testament, which was somewhat the worse for the wetting it had got in salt-water, and, at a sign from Mr Manners, he went up to the stranger, and offered to read to him. Mr Manners told him to select the parable of the Prodigal Son, and several other portions of Scripture likely to interest a person whose mind had long been dormant to spiritual matters. The young man was evidently very much interested. Suddenly he interrupted Ben by remarking—

“That’s just such a book as I once had. I remember it well. My father gave it to me just before I went to sea. I lost it, though, and have never looked into another since.”

“My father gave this to me, and I’ve kept it carefully ever since. I wouldn’t lose it for worlds,” said Ben. “Look here: he wrote my name in it with his own hand. See: ‘Benjamin Hadden’—though I was always called in our parts, Little Ben Hadden.”

“You Ben Hadden!” exclaimed the stranger in a husky voice. “Did you ever hear speak of your brother Ned?”

“Yes indeed,” cried Ben eagerly; “I came out to these parts to look for him. Can you tell me anything about him?”

“Well, I should think so,” answered the stranger in the same husky voice as before; “though, to be sure, I cannot tell you much in his favour. What should you say if I was to tell you that I am Ned Hadden?”

“You my brother Ned!” exclaimed Ben, in a half-disappointed and doubting tone of voice. “You wouldn’t deceive me, surely. I have long and long wished to find him. But are you indeed my brother Ned? Oh, tell me! tell me!”

“Yes, I am Ned Hadden—or was, there is no doubt about that; but I have become such a savage sort of chap, that I don’t know very well what I am now.”

Ben seized Ned’s hand, and burst into tears. His brother was so different from what he had expected to find him—so rough and savage-looking almost, and ignorant; yet he was thankful that he had found him. Afterwards, when he thought the matter over, he saw that he had still greater reason to be thankful that he had found him, for Ned’s own sake: the more savage and ignorant he was, the more important that he should be instructed in the truths of the gospel. From that moment forward that was Ben’s daily, hourly task. He wished the voyage to be prolonged, that he might have his brother more to himself, to read to him, and teach him the Truth. Mr Manners took great pleasure in helping him in his pious task, and it was easy to see that Ned profited greatly by their instruction. His first inquiries had been for his family. He was much affected by hearing of the death of his father and brothers. That very event seemed to soften his heart, and make him willing to listen attentively to what Mr Manners and Ben said to him. He confessed that, when the canoe was seen approaching the island, he had consented to assist the natives in decoying her in, with the intention of destroying all on board; but that, on hearing the hymn sung, and, more than all, on listening to Ben’s grace, the words of which sounded familiar to his ears, recollecting his early principles, he resolved to save the visitors, whom he also knew to be his countrymen.

All this came out but slowly, as his mind expanded under the instruction he was receiving. He had been so long among savages and heathens that he had imbibed many of their notions and principles; instead of improving them, he had nearly sunk to their level. Such has unhappily been the case with numerous European and American sailors, who have either been wrecked or have deserted their ships, and have lived long among the once savage inhabitants of the islands of the Pacific. Many of them have proved, by their evil influence and example, sad hindrances to the efforts of the missionaries in spreading among the natives the truths of the gospel.

For several days the canoe glided slowly on. Though strongly built, her form was not equal to those constructed by the Tonga islanders, noted for their speed among the surrounding groups of islands.

Mr Manners had begun to grow very anxious with regard to their provisions and water. Before he could hope to reach their final destination, it would be absolutely necessary to touch at some island where they might replenish their stock, both of one and the other. The weather, too, had shown signs of changing; and the sea, hitherto so calm, began to tumble and toss the canoe about in a way which strained her greatly, and made it necessary for a number of those on board to be continually baling. As the sea increased more and more, it was necessary to do this night and day without ceasing. All on board were accordingly looking out anxiously for some island where they might find shelter till the stormy weather was over.

For two days the wind had been increasing, and when night came on it was already blowing a heavy gale. The sail was lowered, and the canoe drove before it, kept by the rudder and paddles from broaching to. The night became very dark; on drove the canoe; breakers were heard not far off, and most of those on board believed that their last hour was come.

Presently the canoe was among the breakers, and the sea swept over her deck. Her crew with difficulty held on. In another moment she struck, and it seemed certain that she would be dashed to atoms. Still she floated, and the water became less broken. She drove on; her bow struck violently on a sandy beach, and tall trees rose before the eyes of those on board. They rushed forward, and as the wave receded they scrambled upwards till they reached the dry sand. How could they tell, though, that they were not to meet with the fate from which they had a few days before escaped? The lives of all were mercifully preserved, but it seemed too likely that their canoe had suffered some material injury from the blows she had received. A few, not without risk, ventured again on board, and succeeded in landing most of their scanty supply of provisions and water. A fire was then, after some time, lighted, round which they collected to dry their drenched garments.

They were all too anxious to sleep. Soon after daybreak, some persons were seen approaching in the distance. “Good news, my friends,” exclaimed Marco, who was watching them; “they wear the dress of Christians; they are clothed and in their right mind.” A party of natives now came up, and cordially welcomed the shipwrecked strangers. Some hurried back to bring water and provisions, others examined the canoe, which it was pretty evident was not in a condition again to go to sea. Marco found that he could very easily understand them; so could also Ned Hadden. They said that they had themselves been scarcely a year before untaught savages, but that a large ship came to their shores, and that those in her treated them kindly, and that a missionary was sent who had taught them the new way; that they found it very good, and that their great wish was to act in accordance with the precepts of Christianity. The missionary, who had come from Raratonga, was living not far off, and would soon be with them. Mr Manners, on hearing this account, and calculating the position of the island, had little doubt that this was the island visited by the Ajax, the natives of which had at first given so hostile a reception to those who had landed on their shores, but had finally been won over by kindness. This opinion was confirmed when the missionary, a very intelligent Tahitian, arrived. He said that the people had welcomed him from the first, and that all of them, young and old, seemed anxious to learn the Truth.

Mr Manners was satisfied from all he saw and heard that a genuine change had taken place among the people. He found that, though tolerably industrious, and improving in that respect also, they did not produce as yet much more food than they required for their own support. He was therefore unwilling to remain longer among them than was necessary. All his efforts, however, to get the canoe repaired were useless, as some of her principal beams were broken, and it became necessary to pull her to pieces and to rebuild her. He hoped, however, that, before that could be done, the island would be visited by the missionary vessel, which would either carry him and his people off, or through which he might inform Captain Bertram where he was. In the meantime, that they might not be a burden to the inhabitants, he advised Marco to offer the services of his people to assist in cultivating the ground, while he and his seamen set to work to erect more comfortable huts than any which he had seen on the island. Marco did not refuse to labour with his hands, but he was also actively employed in assisting the missionary in preaching to and teaching the people. In this he was helped by several of his companions. Schools, both for adults and children, were also formed, and visible progress was made.

Three months fled rapidly by, when one day a native came running up to Mr Manners’ hut, to tell him that a vessel was approaching the island. He at once went, accompanied by most of his men, to the highest spot in the neighbourhood, whence he could have a good look-out over the sea. His heart leaped for joy, for the ship, there could be little doubt of it, was the Ajax herself. The seamen one and all were agreed that she was their own ship. She hove to, a boat came on shore, and Mr Martin and his crew were cordially welcomed by their shipmates. The loss of the schooner, in consequence of her non-arrival, had been supposed probable, and the Ajax was now on a cruise to ascertain her fate, and to rescue any of the survivors of those who had been on board. After doing this, she was to return to Callao, where the admiral in the Pacific then was.

It is not necessary to describe the reception Mr Manners and his people met with on board their ship. Mr Martin was thankful to get back his son, and more so when he discovered the great change which had taken place in him. Ned was at once rated on the books of the Ajax as one of her crew. He had greatly improved since he had been discovered, and, with Ben constantly at his side, assisted also by Mr Manners, he continued to progress in Christian knowledge, as well as to improve in conduct and manners. Captain Bertram offered to receive Marco and his fellow-islanders on board. Two begged to remain where they were; the rest accepted his offer, Marco begging that he, with two others who had volunteered to accompany him, might be landed on the island on which Ned Hadden had so long resided. This Captain Bertram undertook to do, hoping that the appearance of a ship-of-war might awe the natives, and induce them to treat the missionaries with due respect. This plan was carried out, and Ned, who went on shore first, succeeded in extracting a promise from their chief that he would protect them. After landing the natives at their respective islands, the Ajax returned to Callao. There she remained till her term of service had expired, and she once more made sail for Old England. Amply was Ben Hadden repaid for all the dangers he had gone through when he was able to present his long-lost brother Ned to their widowed mother, not only rescued from the power of the savages, but from the dominion of sin and Satan.

And now there is not much more to tell about Ben Hadden. The experience he had had of a seafaring life confirmed his original desire to be a sailor; and the favour he had won, by his good conduct, in the regards of the captain and officers of the Ajax, was of great advantage to him, and led to his promotion in the service. When last we heard of him, Ben was what is called a warrant-officer, on board an admiral’s ship—that admiral being his first patron and captain.

As long as his mother lived, Ben had the happiness of doing very much for her comfort, and also in assisting his older brother Ned in obtaining a good situation on shore; for he had had enough of the sea and savages, he said. So Mrs Hadden, though she remembered with a feeling of sadness the loss of her husband and other sons, yet felt and thankfully acknowledged that her God and Saviour had been very good to her in sparing those two—Ned and Ben; both of whom heartily adopted, and lived according to, their father’s favourite motto:

“Do Right, whatever comes of it;

And Trust in God.”

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Captain Cook"

Chapter One.

Captain Cook—His Life, Voyages, and Discoveries.

Early Training.

Among all those Englishmen who, from a humble origin, have risen to an honourable position, Captain James Cook is especially worthy of record. His parents were of the peasant class—his father having commenced life as a farm-labourer, and his mother being a cottager’s daughter. Probably, however, they were both superior to others of the same station, as the husband, in process of time, became farm-bailiff to his employer—a Mr Thomas Skottowe. This was about the year 1730, and the farm of which he had the management was called Airy-Holme, near Ayton, in Yorkshire. Not far from this place, at the village of Marton, near Stockton-upon-Tees; his son James was born, on October 27, 1728. James was one of nine children, all of whom he survived, with the exception of a sister who married a fisherman at Redcar.

The father of this family spent the latter years of his life with his daughter at Redcar, and was supposed to have been about eighty-five years old at the time of his death; so that he must have had the satisfaction of seeing his son rising in his profession, though probably he little thought of that son as establishing a fame which would be handed down in history.

James Cook does not appear to have enjoyed any peculiar educational advantages, but owed his subsequent advancement chiefly to his own intelligence, perseverance, and diligence. He first went to a village school, and was afterwards sent, at the expense of Mr Skottowe, to an ordinary commercial school, kept by a Mr Pullen. He continued there four years, and was then apprenticed to Mr William Sanderson, a grocer and haberdasher at the fishing town of Straiths, ten miles from Whitby. It may be supposed that the occupation in which he was engaged was not suited to his taste. The sea was constantly before his eyes, and the desire to seek his fortune on it sprang up within him, and grew stronger and stronger, till in about a year after he went to Straiths he obtained a release from his engagement with Mr Sanderson, and apprenticed himself to Messrs Walker and Company, shipowners of Whitby. He went to sea for the first time when he was about eighteen, on board one of their vessels—the Truelove collier, (Note 1) of four hundred and fifty tons burden, trading between Newcastle and London. The lad soon showed that he was well fitted for his new profession, and in 1748, not two years after he had commenced it, we find him especially directed to assist in fitting for sea the Three Brothers, a new ship of six hundred tons. While he served on board this ship she was hired by Government as a transport; and on her being paid off she was employed in the Norway trade.

After making several voyages in the Three Brothers up the Baltic, young Cook was promoted to the rank of mate on board the Friendship. He had by this time gained the goodwill of his employers; and had made several other friends on shore, who, before long, were enabled to render him essential service. He was now known as a thorough seamen; indeed, from the moment he went on board ship, he had steadily applied his mind to acquiring a knowledge of his profession. Still he served on as mate of the Friendship till the breaking out of the war between England and France in 1756, when he made up his mind to push his fortunes in the Royal Navy. He knew that at all events there was a great probability of his being pressed into the service, and he had good reason to hope that he might be placed ere long on the quarter-deck, since many young men at that time had been who went to sea, as he had done, before the mast. He accordingly volunteered, and entered as an able seaman on board the Eagle, of sixty guns, then commanded by Captain Hamer, but shortly afterwards by Captain Palliser, who became the well-known Sir Hugh Palliser—Cook’s warm and constant friend.

As soon as the young sailor’s Yorkshire friends heard that he had entered on board a man-of-war, they exerted themselves on his behalf, and a letter of introduction was procured from Mr Osbaldeston, Member for the county, to his captain, who, having already remarked the intelligence and assiduity Cook exhibited in all his professional duties, was the more ready to give him a helping hand.

Considering how best he could assist the young man, who had served too short a time in the Navy to obtain a commission, Captain Palliser advised that a master’s warrant should be procured for him—this being a position for which, both from age and experience, he was well fitted. (Note 2.) This was done; and on May 10, 1759, James Cook was appointed to the Grampus, sloop of war, and was now in a fair way of gaining the object of his ambition. He had, however, to undergo a trial of patience at the first outset of his career; for the former master returning, his appointment was cancelled. His friends were not idle, and four days after this he was made master of the Garland; but on going to join her he found that she had already sailed for her destination. On the following day, May 15, he was appointed to the Mercury, on the point of sailing for the North American station to join the fleet under Sir Charles Saunders, which, in conjunction with the army under General Wolfe, was engaged in the siege of Quebec. The termination of that contest gained for Great Britain one of her finest provinces. To this success Cook contributed in his particular department; and it is remarkable that he should have been in various ways instrumental in giving to his country the three finest provinces she possesses—Canada, the Australian settlements, and New Zealand.

James Cook was now about thirty-two years of age, and although the position in life he had filled for the previous twelve years was not one (especially in those days) conducive to refinement of manners, he appears from the first to have conducted himself with propriety and credit. He had already shown his superiority as a seaman. He was now to exhibit his talents in the more scientific part of his profession, in which officers in the Navy were in those days greatly deficient.

It was necessary to take the soundings in the channel of the Saint Lawrence, between the Isle of Orleans and the north shore, directly in front of the French fortified camp of Montmorency and Beauport, in order to enable the admiral to place his ships so as to oppose the enemy’s batteries, and to cover the projected landing of the British army under Wolfe, and a general attack on their camp. Captain Palliser, who now commanded the Shrewsbury, a seventy-four gun ship, recommended Cook for this difficult and dangerous service. He was engaged on it for many consecutive nights, it being a work which could not be performed in the daytime. At length his proceedings were discovered by the French, who laid a plan to catch him. They concealed in a wood near the water a number of Indians with their canoes. As the Mercury’s barge, in which Cook was making the survey, passed, the canoes darted out on him and gave chase. His only chance of escape was to run for it. He pushed for the Isle of Orleans with a whole host of yelling savages paddling at full speed after him. On they came, every moment gaining on his boat. The English hospital, where there was a guard, was before him; towards this he steered, the bows of the Indian canoes almost touching the barge’s stern; a few strokes more, and the Indians would have grappled him. He sprang from his seat over the bow of his boat, followed by his crew, just as the enemy leaped in overwhelming numbers over the quarters. They carried off the barge in triumph, but Cook and his comrades escaped; and he succeeded, in spite of all difficulties, in furnishing the admiral with a correct and complete draft of the channel and soundings. This was the more extraordinary, as Sir Hugh Palliser afterwards expressed his belief that before this time Cook had scarcely ever used a pencil, and knew nothing of drawing; and it is one of many proofs that the ardent seaman not only threw his soul into the duties of his profession, but that this determination enabled him quickly to master every subject to which he applied his mind.

While his ship remained in the Saint Lawrence, Cook, at the desire of the admiral, made an accurate survey of the more difficult parts of that river below Quebec. So complete and perfect was the chart which he executed, and which, with his sailing directions, was afterwards published, that until a late period no other was thought necessary. So little were the English acquainted with the navigation of the river before this, that when, early in the season, the fleet under Rear-Admiral Darell arrived at its mouth, some difficulty was expected in getting up it. Fortunately, when off the island of Caudec, the inhabitants, mistaking the English ships for their own fleet, sent off their best pilots. These were of course detained, and proved of great use in taking the English fleet up the river.

After the conquest of Canada had been accomplished, Admiral Saunders despatched the larger ships to England, following himself in the Somerset, and leaving the command of the fleet in North America to Captain Lord Colvill, who had his commodore’s flag flying on board the Northumberland. To this ship Cook was appointed as master, by warrant from his lordship, on September 22, 1739. The squadron wintered at Halifax. Cook employed the leisure which the winter afforded him in acquiring that knowledge which especially fitted him for the service in which he was thereafter to be engaged. At Halifax he first read Euclid, and began to study astronomy and other branches of science, in which, considering the few books to which he had access, and the want of assistance from others, he made wonderful progress. In the following year, 1760, a lieutenant’s commission was presented to him as a reward for his services.

In 1762 the Northumberland was engaged in the recapture of Newfoundland. The activity which Cook displayed in surveying its harbour and heights attracted the attention of Captain Graves, the acting governor, and commander of the Antelope. Captain Graves, on becoming farther acquainted with Cook, formed a high opinion of his abilities, while he admired the energy and perseverance he exhibited in surveying the neighbouring coasts and harbours.

At the end of the year Cook went to England, and on December 21 he married, at Barking, in Essex, Miss Elizabeth Batts, a young lady of respectable family, to whom he had some time before been engaged. As she died in 1835, at the age of ninety-three, she must at the time of her marriage have been twenty years old. Her husband was tenderly attached to her, but his married life, like that of most sailors, had long and frequent interruptions. She bore him six children, three of whom died in their infancy.

Soon after Cook’s marriage, peace with France and Spain was concluded. On this Captain Graves was again appointed Governor of Newfoundland. As the island was of great importance to England, he obtained from the Government, with some difficulty, an establishment for the survey of its coasts, and offered the direction of it to Cook, who, notwithstanding his recent marriage, accepted the offer. In the following year, 1764, Sir Hugh Palliser being appointed Governor of Newfoundland and Labrador, Cook was made Marine Surveyor of the Province, the Grenville schooner being placed under his command. The charts made by Cook enlightened the Government as to the value of Newfoundland, and induced them, when drawing up articles of peace with France, to insist on arrangements which secured to Great Britain the advantages which its coasts afford. Not content, however, with merely surveying the shore, Cook penetrated into the interior of the country, and discovered several lakes hitherto unknown.

On August 5 an eclipse of the sun occurred, an observation of which was taken by Cook from one of the Burgeo Islands, near the south-west end of Newfoundland. The paper that he wrote on it was published in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society. This fact alone proves that he must already have become a good mathematician and astronomer. The last time he went to Newfoundland as marine surveyor was in 1767.

We have now briefly traced the career of James Cook from his childhood to the period when he had established his character as an able seaman, a scientific navigator, and a good officer. He was soon to have an opportunity of proving to his country and to the world in general the very high degree in which he possessed these qualities, and which enabled him to accomplish an undertaking which has proved of inestimable benefit to millions of the human race. By his means, discovery was made of fertile lands of vast extent, previously trodden only by the feet of wandering savages; and numberless tribes, sunk in the grossest idolatry and human degradation, were made known to the Christian world. And Christians, roused at length to a sense of their responsibility, began to devise means, under the blessing of God, for teaching these, their ignorant brethren of the human family, the knowledge of the only true God, and the way of eternal life.

Note 1. In the biographies of Cook the name of the vessel in which he first went to sea is given as the Freelove—evidently a misprint. I have never known a vessel of that name, whereas the Truelove is a favourite name.

Note 2. Masters in the Navy were in those days appointed by warrant, and were very generally taken direct from the merchant service without going through any preparatory grade, as at present. They are now also commissioned officers, and on retiring receive commanders’ rank.

Chapter Two.

First Voyage of Discovery. August 1768 to July 1771.

In the year 1763, on the restoration of peace, the desire to explore unknown seas and to discover new countries revived among the English, and was warmly encouraged by King George the Third. Two expeditions were at once fitted out to circumnavigate the globe—one under Lord Byron, and the other under Captains Wallis and Carteret; the former commanding the Dolphin, in which Lord Byron had just returned, the latter the Swallow. As, however, Captains Wallis and Carteret accidentally parted company at an early period of their voyage, and kept different routes, they are generally considered as having led two separate expeditions.

Before the return of these ships, another expedition was determined on, the immediate object of which was to observe a transit of Venus which it had been calculated by astronomers would occur in 1769. It was believed that one of the Marquesas, or one of the Friendly Islands, called, by Tasman, Amsterdam, Rotterdam, and Middleburg, would be an advantageous spot for making the proposed observation.

The King was memorialised by the Royal Society, and through his Majesty’s intervention the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty undertook to furnish a suitable vessel and crew to convey the astronomers and other scientific persons who might be selected to carry out the proposed objects. The Royal Society had fixed on Mr Alexander Dalrymple to take the direction of the expedition; but as he was not in the Royal Navy, Sir Edward Hawke, then at the head of the Admiralty, would not hear of his being appointed. Mr Dalrymple, on the other hand, would not consent to go unless he received a brevet commission as captain. It was necessary, therefore, to find some one else, and Mr Stephens, the Secretary of the Admiralty, a warm supporter of the expedition, mentioned Cook to the Board, and suggested that Sir Hugh Palliser’s opinion should be asked respecting him. This, as may be supposed, was in every respect favourable; and consequently Lieutenant Cook was directed to hold himself in readiness to take command of the proposed expedition. Sir Hugh Palliser was requested to select a fit ship for the purpose, and with Cook’s assistance he fixed on a barque of three hundred and seventy tons, to which the name of the Endeavour was given. She mounted ten carriage and ten swivel guns; her crew, besides the commander, consisted of eighty-four persons, and she was provisioned for eighteen months.

The well-known Sir Joseph Banks, then Mr Banks, one of the chief promoters of the expedition, volunteered to accompany it. On leaving Oxford he had visited the coasts of Newfoundland and Labrador, to obtain information on scientific subjects. Although he suffered no small amount of hardship on that occasion, he returned home with unabated zeal in the cause he had adopted, and ready again to leave all the advantages which his position afforded him, for the discomfort and dangers of a long voyage in unknown seas. Mr Banks was, however, more than a philosopher—he was a large-hearted philanthropist, and he was animated with the hope of diffusing some of the advantages of civilisation and Christianity among the people who might be discovered. He engaged, as naturalist to the expedition, the services of Dr Solander, a Swede by birth, educated under Linnaeus, from whom he had brought letters of introduction to England. Mr Banks also, at his own charge, took out a secretary and two artists—one to make drawings from subjects of natural history, the other to take sketches of scenery and the portraits of the natives who might be met with. He had likewise four personal attendants, two of whom were negroes.

The Government, on its part, appointed Mr Charles Green, who had long been assistant to Dr Bradley at the Royal Observatory, Greenwich, to assist Lieutenant Cook in the astronomical department of the expedition; and in every respect the persons engaged in this celebrated expedition were well fitted to attain the objects contemplated.

While these preparations were going forward, Captain Wallis returned from his voyage round the world. He expressed his opinion that a harbour in an island he had discovered, and called King George’s Island, since well-known as Otaheite or Tahiti, was a fit spot for observing the transit of Venus. That island was accordingly to be the first destination of the Endeavour. After having accomplished the primary object of the voyage, the commander was directed to proceed in making discoveries through the wide extent of the Great Southern Ocean.

Lieutenant Cook received his commission as commander of the Endeavour (which was then in the basin in Deptford Yard) on May 25, 1768. On the 27th he went on board, and immediately began fitting her for sea. The work in dockyards was not executed so rapidly in those days as it is now, and it was upwards of two months before the vessel was ready. On July 30 she dropped down the river; but it was not till August 15 that she reached Plymouth. On Friday, August 26, the wind becoming fair, the Endeavour finally put to sea, and commenced the first of one of the most memorable series of voyages which have ever been performed by a single vessel. Next to Commander Cook in authority in the Endeavour were her two lieutenants—Zachary Hicks and John Gore; her senior mate was Charles Clerke, who accompanied Cook in each of his subsequent voyages, and succeeded to the command of the third expedition on the death of his beloved captain. He had previously served as midshipman under Lord Byron in his first voyage round the world.

A long sea voyage is almost always felt to be extremely tedious and dull to landsmen; but every change in the atmosphere, the varied appearance presented by the sea, the numberless creatures found in it, the birds which hovered about the ship or pitched on the rigging, all afforded matter of interest to the enlightened persons on board the Endeavour.

At Madeira the naturalists of the expedition set to work collecting specimens. The social condition of the people has probably altered little since those days, though the monasteries, which then existed, have long since been abolished. The nuns of the convent of Santa Clara especially amused Mr Banks and his companions by the simplicity of the questions they put on hearing that they were philosophers. Among others, they requested them to ascertain by their art whether a spring of pure water existed within the walls of their convent, and also when the next thunderstorm would occur.

On leaving Madeira the course was shaped for Rio de Janeiro, which was reached on November 13. The voyagers were not treated by the viceroy with the courtesy which might have been expected. The object of the voyage was utterly beyond the comprehension of that functionary, who could form no other conception of the matter than that it had something to do with the passing of the North Star through the South Pole. This ignorance and suspicion caused the voyagers a great deal of annoyance during the whole of their stay; though the viceroy could not refuse them water and other necessaries. When, at length, these were procured, and the Endeavour was going out of the harbour, she was fired at from the forts of Santa Cruz. Cook immediately sent on shore to demand the cause of this act. The excuse offered by the commandant of the port was that he had received no orders from the viceroy to allow the ship to pass. It appeared that the letter had been written, but that through neglect it had not been forwarded. Through the whole of the contest with the viceroy, Cook behaved with equal spirit and discretion. Among the remarks which Cook makes in his journal on Brazil, is one on the fearful expense of life at which the royal gold mines in that country were worked. No less than forty thousand negroes were annually imported to labour in the royal mines. In the year 1766, through an epidemic, the number required falling short, twenty thousand more were drafted from the town of Rio. A very similar account may be given of the silver and other mines on the other side of the continent; while the treacherous system which was organised to supply the demand for labour from among the inhabitants of the Pacific Islands must be looked on with even greater horror and indignation than that which existed for supplying Brazil with slave labour. So strictly were the Brazilian gold mines guarded, that no stranger was allowed to visit them, and any person found on the roads leading to them was immediately hanged by the guards stationed there. Altogether Cook formed a very unfavourable opinion of the inhabitants of Brazil, though few parts of the tropics surpass it in beauty of climate, fertility of soil, and power of production.

After a stay of three weeks in the harbour of Rio, the Endeavour put to sea on December 7, and stood down the coast of South America. On approaching the latitudes of the Falkland Islands, the crew, complaining of cold, received what was called a Magellanic jacket, and a pair of trousers made of a thick woollen stuff called Fearnought. Instead of going through the Straits of Magellan, as was the custom in those times, the Endeavour was steered from the Strait of Le Maire between Helen Island and Tierra del Fuego. On her anchoring in the Bay of Good Success, several of the party went on shore. Thirty or forty Indians soon made their appearance, but, distrustful of the strangers, quickly retreated to a distance. On this, Mr Banks and Dr Solander advanced, when two of the Indians approached them and sat down. As the Englishmen drew near, the savages rose and each threw away from him a stick which he had in his hand, returning immediately to their companions and making signs to the white men to follow. This they did, and friendly relations were at once established between the two parties. Three of them were induced to go on board, and were chiefly remarkable for the entire want of interest with which they regarded all the novelties by which they were surrounded. One of them, who was conjectured to be a priest, did little else than shout all the time he was on board. He was supposed, by this, to be engaged in the performance of some heathenish incantation. When these three men were landed, their fellow-savages showed great eagerness to learn what they had seen in the strange big canoe, as they would probably have termed the English ship.

On December 16, Mr Banks and Dr Solander, with Mr Green, Mr Monkhouse the surgeon, and several attendants, landed, with the intention of ascending a mountain seen in the distance, and penetrating as far as they could into the country. The atmosphere when they set out was like that of a warm spring day in England. It being the middle of summer, the day was one of the longest in the year. Nothing could have been more favourable for their expedition. They had gone through a wood, and were about to pass over what at a distance they had taken to be a plain, but which proved to be a swamp covered thickly with tangled bushes three feet high. Still they pushed across it, and reached the mountain, on which Mr Banks and Dr Solander commenced collecting specimens. Most of the party were greatly fatigued, and Mr Buchan, the draughtsman, was seized with a fit. He was therefore left with some of the party while the rest went forward. The weather, however, changed—the cold became intense, and snow fell very thickly. Dr Solander had warned his companions not to give way to the sensation of sleepiness which intense cold produces, yet he was one of the first to propose to lie down and rest. Mr Banks, however, not without the greatest difficulty, urged him on, but the two black servants lay down and were frozen to death, and a seaman who remained with them nearly shared the same fate. The survivors collected together at night, but their provisions were exhausted; one or two were very ill, and they were a long day’s journey from the ship. There appeared, indeed, a great probability that the chief objects of the voyage would be frustrated by the death of the principal scientific persons engaged in it. After a night of great anxiety, a vulture they had shot being their only food, the snow partially cleared off, and they made their way to the beach, which was not so far distant as they had supposed.

After this disastrous adventure the party again went on shore, and found a tribe of savages, numbering fifty persons, living in a collection of conical huts, rudely formed of boughs, and open on the lee side. The people, who are stout and clumsily formed, had their faces painted, and were very imperfectly covered with seal-skins. Their chief article of clothing, indeed, was a small cloak which they wore on the side on which the wind comes when walking or sitting. They lived chiefly on shell-fish, and in search of them wandered from place to place. They were considered as among the most dull and stupid of the human race. No wonder, indeed, considering the few objects on which their minds could be expanded. A farther acquaintance with these tribes has shown that they have minds as capable of receiving good impressions as other human beings, and that they are not destitute of a considerable amount of intelligence.

The Endeavour took her departure from Cape Horn on January 26, 1769. She ran for seven hundred leagues without land being seen. After that she passed several coral islands, the appearance of which is now familiar to most people, but in those days was but little-known. To three of them the names of Lagoon Island, Bow Island, and Chain Island were given; several of them were inhabited.

On April 11 she sighted Otaheite, (now known as Tahiti) called King George’s Island by Captain Wallis, which appeared high and mountainous, and on the 13th came to an anchor in Matavai Bay. As she approached the land numerous canoes came off, their crews carrying young plantains and other green branches as a sign of friendship. Several of the boughs were handed on board, and it was intimated that they should be placed in different parts of the ship to show that the voyagers also wished for peace. The natives exhibited great satisfaction on this being done. They gladly exchanged cocoanuts, fruit resembling apples, bread-fruit, and small fish, for beads and other trifles. They had a pig, which they would not part with for anything but a hatchet; this Cook would not allow to be given, considering that if a hatchet was given them it would be considered from that time forward to be the proper price of a pig.

The bread-fruit, with which the voyagers now first became acquainted, grows on a tree about the height of an ordinary oak. Its leaves are about a foot and a half long, of an oblong shape, deeply sinuated like those of the fig-tree, which they resemble in consistency and colour; they also, on being broken, exude a white, milky juice. The fruit is about the size and shape of a child’s head, and the surface is reticulated. It is covered with a thin skin, and has an oblong core four inches long. The eatable part, which lies between the skin and the core, is as white as snow, and of the consistency of new bread. It must be roasted before it is eaten, being first divided into three or four parts. Its taste is insipid, with a slight sweetness somewhat resembling the crumb of wheaten bread mixed with a Jerusalem artichoke.

The first person who came off was Owhaw. He was well-known to Mr Gore, and to others who had been there with Captain Wallis. It was hoped that he would prove useful, and he was therefore taken on board and every attention shown him. Captain Cook at once issued a set of rules to govern the ship’s company in all their intercourse with the natives. They were as follows:—

“1. To endeavour by every fair means to cultivate a friendship with the natives; and to treat them with all imaginable humanity.

“2. A proper person or persons will be appointed to trade with the natives for all manner of provisions, fruit, and other productions of the earth; and no officer or seaman, or other person belonging to the ship, excepting such as are so appointed, shall trade or offer to trade for any sort of provision, fruit, or other productions of the earth, unless they have leave so to do.

“3. Every person employed on shore, on any duty whatsoever, is strictly to attend to the same; and if by any neglect he loses any of his arms or working tools, or suffers them to be stolen, the full value thereof will be charged against his pay, according to the custom of the Navy in such cases; and he shall receive such further punishment as the nature of the case may deserve.

“4. The same penalty will be inflicted on every person who is found to embezzle, trade, or offer to trade with any part of the ship’s stores of what nature soever.

“5. No sort of iron, or anything that is made of iron, or any sort of cloth, or other useful or necessary articles are to be given in exchange for anything but provisions.”

Though there can be no doubt as to Captain Cook’s own feelings and wishes, his subordinates did not always act in accordance with them; and his judicious and benevolent designs with regard to the natives were thus frequently frustrated. As soon as the ship was secured, he, with Mr Banks, Dr Solander, and a party of men under arms, went on shore, where they were received by hundreds of the natives, whose countenances exhibited their friendly feelings. At first, however, the simple people were so struck with awe that they approached their visitors crouching down almost on their hands and feet, while they carried in their hands the green boughs as emblems of peace. The leader presented Captain Cook with a bough, which he and his companions received with looks and gestures of kindness and satisfaction. Each of the Englishmen also immediately gathered a bough, and carried it in the same way the natives did theirs. The party then proceeded about a mile and a half towards the place where Captain Wallis’ ship, the Dolphin, had watered. Here a halt was called, and the natives having cleared away all the plants that grew on the ground, the principal persons among them threw their green branches on the bare spot, and made signs that their visitors should do the same. Captain Cook at once yielded to this request. The marines being drawn up, each as he passed dropped his bough on those of the Indians, the officers then doing the same. The natives now intimated to Captain Cook that he might make use of the ground for any purpose he desired; but as it was not suitable for the purpose of the expedition, the offer was declined.

The party now took a circuitous route of four or five miles through groves of trees which were loaded with cocoanuts and bread-fruit, and afforded the most grateful shade. Under these trees were the habitations of the people, most of them in the daytime presenting the appearance of a roof without walls. Mats at night were let down to afford such privacy and shelter as the habits of the people and the genial climate required. The whole scene seemed to realise to the voyagers the poetical fables of Arcadia.

The reception Captain Wallis met with from these people was in the first instance very different from that which Captain Cook and his companions now received. No sooner did the Dolphin, which the savages called a huge canoe without an outrigger, appear, than several thousand people, in canoes laden with stones, came off and attacked her. Not until they had been repeatedly fired on, and many of their number had been killed, did they retire. Several shots were fired at the crowds on shore before they would disperse. The people then saw that it would be hopeless to contend with the strangers, and with green boughs in their hands sued for peace. After this, Captain Wallis was treated with great attention, especially by a female chief, whom he called a queen or princess, and who lived in a house much larger than any others in the neighbourhood. On Captain Cook’s arrival, no trace of her house was to be found, and the princess herself had disappeared. Indeed, the voyagers were convinced that as yet they had seen none of the leading chiefs of the island. The next day, however, two persons of greater consequence than any who had yet appeared came off, called Matahah and Tootahah; the first fixing on Mr Banks as his friend, and the latter on Captain Cook. The ceremony consisted in the natives taking off a great part of their clothing, and putting on that of their white friends. A similar ceremony exists among some of the tribes of North America. The dress of the natives was formed from cloth made of the bark of the paper-mulberry tree.

Captain Cook, Mr Banks, and others accompanied these chiefs on shore, where they met another chief, Tubourai Tamaide, and formed a treaty of friendship with him. He invited them to his house, and gave them a feast of fish, bread-fruit, cocoanuts, and plantains, dressed after the native fashion. The natives ate some of the fish raw, a feat the Englishmen could not accomplish. The general harmony was interrupted by Dr Solander and Mr Monkhouse finding that their pockets had been picked, the one of an opera glass, the other of his snuff-box. Mr Banks on this started up and struck the butt end of his musket violently on the ground. On this, most of the people ran away, but the chief remained. To show his concern, and that he had nothing to do with the theft, he offered Mr Banks several pieces of native cloth as a compensation. When Mr Banks refused it, and let him understand that he required only what had been taken away, the chief went out, and in half an hour returned with the snuff-box and the case of the opera glass. His countenance fell when he found the case empty, and taking Mr Banks by the hand, he led him out towards the shore at a rapid rate. On the way, followed by Dr Solander and Mr Monkhouse, he passed a woman, who handed him a piece of cloth, which he took, and went on till he reached another house, where a woman received them. He intimated that they should give her some beads. These with the cloth were placed on the floor, when the woman went out, and in half an hour returned with the glass. The beads were now returned, and the cloth was forced on Dr Solander, who could not well refuse it, though he insisted on giving a present in return. This, among other instances, shows that the people had a sense of justice, and were raised above the savage state in which the inhabitants of many of the surrounding islands were plunged.

A spot was at last fixed on, away from habitations, where the astronomical instruments could be set up, protected by a fort; and on the 10th, Captain Cook, accompanied by Mr Banks, Dr Solander, and Mr Green, went on shore with a party of men to commence operations. A number of natives, on seeing them, collected to watch their proceedings; though they had no weapons, it was intimated to them that they must not cross a line which the captain drew in front of the ground it was proposed to occupy. Having taken all the precautions he considered necessary, he left a midshipman and a party of marines to guard the tent, and, with Mr Banks and the other gentlemen, set off on an excursion through the woods, accompanied by Owhaw, who, however, seemed very unwilling that they should go far from the shore. One of their objects was to obtain poultry and pigs. Owhaw’s unwillingness to proceed arose, they believed, from the fact that their live-stock had been driven into the interior by the natives lest their white visitors should lay violent hands on them.

As fresh meat or poultry was much wanted, Mr Banks, seeing some ducks, fired and killed three at one shot, which so astonished the natives that most of them fell flat on the ground as if knocked down by the same discharge. They soon recovered, however, and proceeded with the white men. The Englishmen were walking somewhat apart, when, shortly after the above-mentioned incident, two shots were heard. Owhaw, on this, seemed to think, as the visitors did, that something was wrong, and signing to them to keep together, sent most of the natives away. Three chiefs, however, remained, who instantly broke off green boughs from the nearest trees, and extended them towards the English, to show that they wished to be on terms of friendship, whatever had happened. The Englishmen, of course, full of anxiety, hurried back to the tent. On their arrival they found that the natives had fled, and that one of them had been killed. It appeared that a native had suddenly seized the sentry’s musket and made off with it, when the midshipman, most improperly, ordered the marines to fire. This they did, into the very middle of the flying crowd; but finding that the thief did not fall, they pursued and shot him dead. It is easy to fancy Captain Cook’s grief and annoyance at this incident. In spite of his humane desire to treat the natives justly and kindly, and to cultivate their goodwill, and notwithstanding all his precautions against violence, blood had been shed. Though the native had acted wrongly, death was too severe a punishment for his fault. The chiefs who had remained with Cook behaved very well. Calling the people around, they enabled him to explain to them that though the English would allow no liberties to be taken, yet their desire was to treat them with kindness.

Notwithstanding these assurances, the next morning very few natives came near the ship, and she was consequently warped closer in, more effectually to protect the intended fort. Before long, however, the natives got over their alarm, and the two chiefs Tubourai Tamaide and Tootahah returned, bringing in their canoes not branches only, but two young trees, and would not venture on board till these had been received as emblems of peace. They each also brought, as propitiatory gifts, a hog and bread-fruit ready dressed—both very acceptable articles at that time. In return, a hatchet and a nail were given to each of them.

At this time the expedition had the misfortune to lose Mr Buchan, the landscape-painter brought out by Mr Banks.

Rapid progress was made with the forts, and on April 18, Mr Banks’s tent being set up, he slept on shore for the first time. The natives had by this time completely recovered from their alarm, and an abundance of provisions was offered for sale. Their friend Tubourai Tamaide even brought his wife and family to the fort, and did not hesitate to throw himself down and sleep on Mr Banks’s bed. The voyagers were gradually gaining an insight into the manners and customs of the people. Mr Monkhouse, in one of his walks, learned their mode of treating their dead. He found the body of the poor man who had been shot. It was wrapped in cloth, and placed on a high platform supported by stakes, with a roof over it; near it were some instruments of war and other articles. Two other bodies were seen near, in a similar position, the bones of which were perfectly dry. The first was near the hut in which the man had lived. On the approach of the white man to the bodies the natives showed considerable uneasiness, and seemed greatly relieved when the examination was over.

A few days afterwards Tootahah amused them by a concert. There were four performers on flutes having two stops, which were sounded by application to the end of the nose, instead of the mouth; one nostril being stopped by the hand.

Longer excursions from the shore than they had at first ventured to take gave the explorers a good notion of the fertility and resources of the country. After passing a belt of fertile land, about two miles wide, they came to a range of barren hills. These being crossed, they descended into a wide plain, watered by a river issuing from a fertile valley, which was nearly a hundred yards wide, and at a considerable distance from the sea.

This plain was thickly studded over with houses, the inhabitants of which seemed to live in the full enjoyment of the ample productions of their country. As they became better acquainted with the people, it was discovered that, amiable as the people appeared, they had many vicious habits. They were generally expert and pertinacious thieves, although some of the chiefs appear to have been exempt from this vice, or to have been ashamed of practising it on their liberal visitors.

The fort was completed on April 26, and six swivel guns were mounted on it. This seemed very naturally to excite the apprehensions of the people, and some fishermen who lived near wisely moved farther off. Owhaw, indeed, intimated by signs that the English would begin to fire their guns in four days. Notwithstanding this, Tubourai Tamaide and other chiefs, with their wives, came into the fort and ate without showing any signs of fear. Again the commander’s patience was tried by the misconduct of one of his own people. The butcher had taken a fancy to a stone hatchet in the hands of the wife of the above-named chief, and because she refused to give it to him for a nail, he threatened to kill her. Being proved guilty of this crime, as well as of an infraction of the rules drawn up by the commander, he received a severe flogging, in the presence of a number of the natives. It speaks well for their kind feelings that when they saw the first strokes given they begged that the rest of his punishment might be remitted, and when Captain Cook would not consent to this they burst into tears. Indeed, numberless instances proved that these people were mere children of impulse. They had never been taught to disguise or suppress their feelings; easily affected by all the changes of the passing hour, their sorrows were transient, and their joy and pleasure speedily excited. Unaccustomed to dwell on the past, or to allow themselves to be troubled with thoughts of the future, all they desired was to gratify the desire of the moment. About this time—the beginning of May—an event occurred which threatened disappointment to the object of the expedition. This was the disappearance, from the middle of the fort, of the quadrant, a large instrument in a case, on which the possibility of making the proposed observations entirely depended. Search was instantly made in every direction, and at length, through the intervention of the friendly chiefs, portions were discovered in the possession of the natives. They had been carried off by different people, but fortunately, not broken, and finally all the parts were collected and the instruments set up. At the suggestion of the Earl of Morton, before leaving home, Captain Cook sent out two parties to observe the transit of Venus from different situations—one to the east, the other to the westward. The anxiety for such weather as would be favourable to the success of the experiment was powerfully felt by all parties concerned; they could not sleep the preceding night; but their apprehensions were removed by the sun’s rising without a cloud on the eventful morning of June 3. The weather continued with equal clearness throughout the day, so that the observations at each post were successfully made. At the fort Captain Cook, Mr Green, and Dr Solander were stationed. The passage of the planet Venus over the sun’s disc was observed with great advantage.

The explorers had been, from the first, anxious to see the person who had been looked upon by Captain Wallis as the queen of the island, and at length, a number of people being collected at the tents, Mr Mollineux, the master, declared that one of the females, who was sitting quietly among the rest, was the lady herself. She, at the same time, acknowledged him to be one of the strangers she had before seen. Her name, they soon learned, was Oberea. She was tall and stout, and must have been handsome in her youth. Her countenance indicated much intelligence, and she was also unusually fair. She was thenceforth treated with great attention, and many presents were offered her. It was curious that among them all she seemed to value most a child’s doll. On this, Tootahah, who was apparently at that time the principal chief on the island, jealous of the favours shown to Oberea, was not content till he also had a doll given to him. For the moment he valued it more than a hatchet, probably supposing that its possession conferred some mark of dignity; or perhaps he took it for one of the gods of the white men. Whatever the position really held by Oberea, her moral conduct was not superior to that of most of her countrywomen. She seems to have been the repudiated wife of Oamo, one of the principal chiefs of the island. There appeared to have been three brothers, chiefs—Whappai, the eldest, Oamo, and Tootahah. As soon as a son is born to a head chief, he succeeds as king, and generally the father becomes regent. Whappai had a son who was thus king, but Tootahah, having distinguished himself as a leader in battle, was chosen as regent instead of Whappai, and a son of Oamo and Oberea was the heir-apparent. It was thus manifest to our voyagers that even among those simple savages—“the children of nature” as they were sometimes called—ambition for greatness and jealousy of power were passions not unknown nor unfelt, any more than they are among civilised and highly cultivated nations and races of men.

Among the attendants of Oberea was Tupia, who had been her minister in the days of her power, and was now a priest, and possessed of considerable influence. He from the first attached himself to the English, and soon expressed a strong desire to accompany them whenever they should leave the country. As it was very important to have an intelligent native of a South Sea island attached to the expedition, Captain Cook gladly availed himself of this desire, and Tupia was subsequently received on board the Endeavour as interpreter.

During his first visit to the island, Captain Cook learned very little about the religion of the people. He came to the conclusion that they believed in one God or Creator of the universe, and in a number of subordinate deities, called Etuas, as also in a separate state of existence with different degrees of happiness. They did not seem to fancy that their deities took any notice of their actions. Their religion, such as it was, had therefore no restraining influence over them. Their priests were called Tahowas. The office was hereditary. All ranks belonged to it. The chief priest was generally the younger brother of a good family, and was respected in a degree next to the king. Of the little knowledge existing in the country the priests possessed the greatest share, especially with regard to navigation and astronomy. The name Tahowa signifies, indeed, a man of knowledge. Like all heathen superstitions, their system was one of imposture; and the priests supported their authority by cunning, and by working on the credulity of the people. Captain Cook was not aware at that time that it was their custom to offer up human sacrifices, and that they exercised a fearful influence over the people by selecting for victims those who had in any way offended them. The persons fixed on, often young men or girls in the pride and strength of youth, were followed, unsuspicious of the fate awaiting them, and were struck down by the clubs of the assistant priests without warning. They were then offered up at their morais to the Etuas, whose anger they desired to propitiate. The priests professed also to cure diseases by incantations very similar to those practised by the medicine-men or mystery-men among the Indians of North America. A society existed, called the Arreoy, the object of which was to set at defiance all the laws of morality which the rest of the people acknowledged. Many of the principal people of the island belonged to it. By its rules any woman becoming a mother was compelled instantly to strangle her infant. Both Captain Cook and Mr Banks spoke to some who acknowledged that they had thus destroyed several children, and, far from considering it as a disgrace, declared that it was a privilege to belong to the association. For a long period this dissolute society existed, and opposed all the efforts of the Christian missionaries to get it abolished. From the lowest to the highest, the people were addicted to thieving; for even the principal chiefs could not resist temptation when it came in their way. On one of their expeditions Mr Banks and his companions had the greater part of their clothes stolen from them while they were asleep. They had no doubt that Oberea was concerned in the robbery.

Still the people possessed qualities which won the regard of their visitors. In all their habits they were scrupulously clean. They regularly bathed three times in the day, washed their mouths before and after eating, and their hands frequently during each meal. It was the custom for the chiefs to take their meals alone, seated on the ground, with leaves instead of a cloth spread before them, and their food ready cooked in a basket by their side. Their chief animal food consisted of pigs and dogs, the latter being carefully kept for the purpose, and fed entirely on vegetable diet. It was agreed that South Sea dog was but little inferior to English lamb. The meat was either broiled or baked in earth-ovens. A hole was dug in the ground, and a fire lighted in it, small stones being mixed with the wood. When the hole was sufficiently hot, the fire was raked out, and a layer of hot stones placed at the bottom; on this leaves were put. The animal to be cooked was laid on the top of them, and covered, first with more leaves, and then with the remainder of the hot stones; the whole being then covered up with earth. All the fish and flesh eaten by the natives was baked in the same way.

An excursion in the pinnace, made by Captain Cook and Mr Banks, round the island, gave them a perfect knowledge of its shape and size. It consists of two peninsulas joined by a narrow neck of land, and was found to be about thirty leagues in circumference. Though they were received in a very friendly way, the natives stole their clothes or whatever they could lay hands on. On this excursion they met with a representation of one of their Etuas, or deities. It was the figure of a man constructed of basket-work, rudely made, and rather more than seven feet high. The wicker skeleton was completely covered with feathers, which were white where the skin was to appear, and black in the parts which it is their custom to paint or stain. On the head was a representation of hair; there were also four protuberances, three in front and one behind, which the English would have called horns, but which were called by the natives Tate Ete (little men).

In the northern peninsula they visited a burying-place, the pavement of which was extremely neat; upon it was raised a pyramid five feet high, covered with the fruit of two plants peculiar to the country. Near the pyramid, under a shed, was a small image of stone, of very rude workmanship—the first specimen of stone-carving which had been seen among the people. Continuing their voyage, they came to a district belonging to Oberea, and were entertained at her house, which, though small, was very neat. Not far from it they saw an enormous pile, which they were told was the morai of Oamo and Oberea, literally their burying-place and temple. It was a pile of stone-work, raised pyramidically upon an oblong base or square two hundred and sixty-seven feet long and eighty-seven wide. It was like the small mounds erected for sun-dials, with steps leading on all sides to the summit. The steps at the sides were broader than those at the ends, and it terminated in a ridge like the roof of a house. There were eleven steps, each four feet high, so that the height of the pile was forty-four feet; each course was formed of white coral stone, neatly squared and polished; the rest of the mass, for there was no hollow within, consisted of round pebbles. Some of the coral stones were measured, and found to be three feet and a half by two feet and a half. The foundation was of stones squared, and one of them measured four feet seven inches by two feet four inches. It was surprising that such a structure should have been raised without iron tools to shape the stones, or mortar to join them. The quarried stones must have been brought from a considerable distance by hand, and the coral must have been raised from under the water, where, though there is an abundance, it is at a depth of never less than three feet. To square these stones must have been a work of incredible labour, though the polishing might have been more easily effected by means of the sharp coral sand from the sea-shore. The whole pyramid was not straight, but formed a slight curve, and made one side of a spacious area or square of three hundred and sixty feet by three hundred and fifty-four feet, enclosed by a stone wall, and paved throughout its whole extent with flat stones. Several trees, called etoa and plantains, were growing through the pavement. On the top of the pyramid stood the figure of a bird carved in wood, and near it lay the broken figure of a fish carved in stone. About a hundred yards to the west of this building was another paved court, in which were several small stages raised on wooden pillars seven feet high. These were altars, called Ewattas, and upon them were placed provisions of all sorts as offerings to their gods. In the neighbourhood of the morai were found large numbers of human bones. These were said to have been the remains of the inhabitants killed a few months before by the people of Tirrabou, in the south-east peninsula, who had made a sudden descent on the coast. The jaw-bones had been carried away as trophies, as the Indians of North America carry off the scalps of their enemies. The natives conjectured, probably, that the English would not approve of human sacrifices, and therefore refrained from offering up any, or did so only when they knew that their visitors would not interrupt them in their horrible proceedings.

The inhabitants of Otaheite were remarkably intelligent, and their minds were capable of a high state of cultivation. The climate was considered healthy, and the natural productions of the island abundant. The bread-fruit was, perhaps, the most valuable. They had also cocoanuts, thirteen sorts of bananas, plantains; a fruit not unlike an apple, sweet potatoes, yams, cacao; a kind of arum, the yambu, the sugar-cane; a fruit growing in a pod, like a large kidney bean; the pandana tree, which produces fruit like the pine-apple, and numerous edible roots of nutritious quality. Among other trees must be mentioned the Chinese paper-mulberry, from which their cloth was, and is still, manufactured, and two species of fig-trees. There were no serpents and no wild quadrupeds on the island, except rats. Their tame animals were hogs, dogs, and poultry, and there were wild ducks, pigeons, paroquets, and a few other birds. The complexion of the people was olive or light brown; that of the women of the upper classes being very clear, with well-formed faces and expressive eyes, the nose only being flatter than is admired in Europe. In their persons, as already observed, they were remarkably cleanly; and they certainly showed that they were neither treacherous nor revengeful. Mr Banks, Dr Solander, and Captain Cook himself, were constantly in their power, often in their villages, sleeping in separate huts, without any watch or guard.

Contrary to the usual custom, the men wore their hair long or tied up in a bunch, while the women wore it cropped short round their ears. The bodies of both sexes were tattooed, but not their faces. They manufactured three sorts of cloth for dress. The finest and whitest was made from the paper-mulberry tree, and was used for the dresses of the chief people. The second, used by the common people, was made from the bread-fruit tree, and the third from a tree resembling a fig-tree. The latter was coarse and harsh, and of the colour of the darkest brown paper; but it was valuable because it resisted the wet, while the others did not. The women of the upper class wore three pieces of cloth; one, eleven yards long and two wide, was wrapped round the waist, and hung down like a petticoat; while the two others were formed like the South American poncho, the head being put through a hole in the middle, so as to leave the arms at liberty. The men dressed in much the same way, except that instead of allowing the cloth to hang down like a petticoat, they brought it between their legs so as to have some resemblance to breeches. The higher a person’s rank, the more clothes he wore, some throwing a large piece loosely over the shoulders. They shaded their eyes from the sun with hats made at the moment required, of cocoanut leaves or matting, and the women sometimes wore small turbans, or a head-dress which consisted of long plaited threads of human hair, wound round and round, with flowers of various kinds stuck between the folds, especially the Cape jessamine, which was always planted near their houses. The chiefs sometimes wore the tail feathers of birds stuck upright in their hair. Their personal ornaments besides flowers were few; but both sexes wore ear-rings of shells, stones, berries, or small pearls.

Their houses were always built in woods, sufficient space only being cleared to prevent the droppings from the boughs from rotting the roofs. They were simply formed of three rows of parallel stakes for the support of the roof, the highest part of which was only nine feet from the ground, while the eaves reached to within three feet and a half. The houses were thatched with palm-leaves, and the floor was covered some inches deep with soft hay. They were, indeed, scarcely used for any other purpose than as dormitories, the people living almost constantly in the open air. The great chiefs, however, had houses in which privacy could be enjoyed; and there were guest-houses for the reception of visitors, or for the accommodation of the people of a whole district. Some were two hundred feet long, thirty broad, and twenty high under the ridge; on one side of them was an area enclosed with low palings. They were maintained at the public expense.

The style of cookery among these islanders has already been described. They baked in their earth-ovens hogs and large fish, as also the bread-fruit. The baked pork and fish were considered more juicy and more equally done than by any mode of cooking known at home. Of the bread-fruit they made various dishes, by putting to it either water or the milk of the cocoanut, and then beating it to a paste with a stone pestle, and afterwards mixing it with ripe plantains and bananas. They made an intoxicating beverage from a plant they called Ava. The chiefs only indulged in the vice of drinking to excess, and even they considered it a disgrace to be seen intoxicated. They sometimes drank together, and vied with each other in taking the greatest number of draughts, each draught being about a pint. They ate a prodigious quantity of food at each meal, and would finish off by swallowing a quart of pounded bread-fruit of the consistency of custard.

They had various amusements, and were especially fond of dancing, in which they kept admirable time, their movements being often graceful; but their gestures too generally showed the very debased condition of their morals. Their musical instruments were flutes and drums. The flutes were made of hollow bamboo, about a foot long. The drums were blocks of wood of cylindrical form, solid at one end, but scooped out and covered at the other with shark’s skin. They were beaten by the hands instead of sticks. The natives sang to these instruments, and often made extempore verses.

The men delighted especially in wrestling. They also practised archery and spear-throwing. They shot, not at a mark, but to try how far they could send an arrow; their spears, however, they threw at a mark, generally the bole of a plantain, at the distance of twenty yards. These spears were about nine feet long. They also, in war, used clubs of hard wood, often well carved, and six or seven feet long; pikes, headed with the stings of sting-rays; and slings, which they wielded with great dexterity. Thus armed, they fought with obstinacy and fury, and gave no quarter to man, woman, or child who, while their passion lasted, fell into their hands. Although they could not be said to live under a regular form of government, there was a certain subordination established among them, not unlike that of European nations under the feudal system.

Their tools were few and rude: an adze of stone, a chisel or gouge of bone—generally that of a man’s arm between the wrist and elbow—a rasp of coral, and the sting of a sting-ray, with coral sand as a file or polisher. With these tools they built their houses and canoes, hewed stone, and felled, clove, carved, and polished timber. Their axes were of different sizes, but even with the largest it took them several days to cut down a tree. The canoes were often large, and constructed with great labour and ingenuity. They were of two builds: one, the Ivaha, for short excursions, was wall-sided, with a flat bottom; the other, the Pahie, for longer voyages, was bow-sided, with a sharp bottom. There was the fighting Ivaha, the fishing Ivaha, and the travelling Ivaha. The fighting Ivaha was the largest; the head and stern were raised sometimes seventeen feet or more above the sides, which were only three feet out of the water. Two of these vessels were always secured together by strong poles about three feet apart. Towards the head a platform was raised, about twelve feet long, wider than the boats, and on this platform stood the fighting men, armed with slings and spears; for they did not use their bows and arrows except for amusement. Below the stage the rowers sat with reserved men, who supplied the place of those that were wounded. Some of their war canoes had stages or decks from one end to the other. The fighting Pahie was often sixty feet long, and two were also joined together, with a large platform above them. One measured by Captain Cook was, though sixty feet long, only one foot and a half at the gunwale, with flat sides; then it abruptly widened out to three feet, and narrowed again to the keel. The double canoes were sometimes out a month together, going from island to island. Some carried one, some two masts, with sails of matting, of shoulder-of-mutton shape. The bottom of a large Pahie was formed of three or more trunks of trees secured together and hollowed out, above this flooring were the sides of plank, two inches thick, and about fifteen inches broad; and then there were the upper works, hollowed out of trunks of trees like the bottom. Sometimes these canoes were used singly, but then they were fitted with outriggers like the flying Proa of the Ladrone Islands. The outrigger is a log of wood fixed at the end of two poles, which lie across the vessel, projecting eight or ten feet, according to her size. The length and high sterns of these canoes gave them great advantage in putting off from the shore through the surf; they also sailed and paddled very fast. The amount of time and labour expended in the construction of one of these canoes must have been very great, and speaks well for the intelligence as well as for the industry and perseverance of the islanders.

Before quitting the island, Mr Banks planted a quantity of seeds of water-melons, oranges, lemons, limes, and other plants and trees which he had collected at Rio de Janeiro. He had prepared the ground for them in the neighbourhood of the fort, in as many varieties of soil as he could select. He also gave away seeds liberally to the natives, and planted others in the woods. The plants from some melon-seeds which were sown on their first arrival were flourishing, and the natives eagerly begged for more.

Many articles manufactured by the natives have not yet been described. The mode of making cloth from the bark of the paper-mulberry was curious. When the trees were of a fit size, they were pulled up, and the tops and roots being cut off, the bark was slit longitudinally, and was this easily removed. It was then placed under stones in running water. When sufficiently softened, the coarser parts were scraped away with a shell, the fine fibres of the inner coat only remaining. They were then placed on plantain-leaves, in lengths of about twelve yards, one by the side of the other, for about a foot in width. Two or three layers were also placed one on the other, care being taken that the thickness should be equal throughout. In this state it remained till the following morning, when all the water it contained being drained off or evaporated, the fibres were found to adhere so closely together that the whole piece could be lifted up and carried home. There it was placed on a long, smooth board, to be beaten by the women. The instrument they used was a four-sided piece of wood, with a long handle. This mallet was scored with grooves of different finenesses, those on one side being wide enough to receive a small pack-thread, the size of the grooves diminishing by degrees till those on the last side were fine as the finest silk. The fabric was beaten with the coarser side first, the women keeping time, and it spread rapidly under their strokes. The finest side was the last used, and the groove marked the cloth so as to give it the appearance of having been made of fine thread. It was then almost as thin as English muslin, and became very white on being bleached in the air. The scarlet dye used was very brilliant, and was extracted from the juice of a species of fig; a duller red was from the leaves of another tree. A yellow pigment was extracted from the root of the Morinda citrifolia. A brown and a black dye were also used.

The natives, when visited by Cook, manufactured mats of various descriptions, some of them exceedingly fine and beautiful. One sort served them for clothing in wet weather. They made also coarse mats of rushes and grass, to sit or sleep on, plaiting them with great rapidity and facility. They produced every variety of basket-work of great beauty; they also made ropes and string of all sorts; their fishing-line, made from the bark of a species of nettle, was far stronger than any English line of the same thickness. Their fishing-nets, though coarse, answered their purpose. They were often eighty fathoms in length. Harpoons, made of cane, were used to catch fish, and fish-hooks of mother-of-pearl. One used for trawling had a white tuft of dog’s or hog’s hair attached to it, to look like the tail of a fish. The fishermen watched for the birds which always follow a shoal of bonetas, and seldom returned without a prize. Both sexes were expert swimmers, and would dash out through the fiercest foam, diving under the breaking seas as they rolled in, and coming up on the other side. One of their amusements was to tow out a small raft on which they would sit, and allow themselves to be carried in on the top of a high foaming sea, amid which no boat could live for an instant. They were not without the comfort of artificial light. Their candles were made of the kernels of a kind of oily nut, which were stuck one over another on a skewer running through the middle. The upper one being lighted burnt down to the second, which took fire, the part of the skewer which went through the first being consumed, and so on to the last. These candles burnt a considerable time, and gave a very tolerable light.

From the brief description which has been given of their manufactures it will be seen that the islanders of Otaheite possessed a considerable number of the conveniences of life. Had they but been blessed with true religion and a good government, they would already have had most of the elements of a happy existence, without further intercourse with the rest of the world.

That a life such as was apparently led by these South Sea islanders—a life of comparative ease, and in a luxurious and enervating but inviting climate—should have presented charms to such men as chiefly composed the crew of the Endeavour, can excite no surprise. Rude, ignorant, and, for the most part, vicious themselves, in spite of the boasted civilisation of their country, they saw nothing repulsive in the rudeness, ignorance, and vices of the dusky natives. On the other hand, they were attracted by visions of indolence and savage freedom from care. Some of them also had formed attachments not easy to be broken; and they were willing to barter their distant homes, connections, and prospects for the licentious pleasures so near at hand. It was very difficult for them to resist these enticements; and notwithstanding the vigilance of the commander of the expedition, two marines managed to desert from the ship. In order to recover these deserters, Captain Cook thought himself under the necessity of detaining several of the principal people of the island on board the Endeavour. This led to reprisals; for on a party being sent on shore to bring off the deserters, they were, in turn, seized by the natives, who made it understood that they should not be restored till their chiefs were set at liberty. A stronger party was consequently sent from the ship, with a message from Tootahah (one of the captives), desiring that the Englishmen should be released. This, happily, had the desired effect, and the deserters, as well as the other men, were immediately sent back. Thus, in this, as in previous transactions, the prudence and mildness of the islanders averted a quarrel which, had it proceeded to extremities, would have left the civilised visitors little to boast of, beyond the superior power they possessed. And it must be a source of deep regret to every Christian reader that in the protracted intercourse which had been carried on between these professed Christians on the one hand, and the poor heathens on the other, not one attempt, so far as is known, had been made to impart a knowledge of that glorious Being who is the “Light of the world” and “the Saviour of men;” nor of God the Holy Spirit, who is the Giver of the only true and eternal life. The scientific objects of the voyage had, indeed, thus far been successful, and, to a great extent, had been rendered so by the goodwill of the islanders; but to the silent appeal for religious teaching and spiritual aid made to the philosophers of that party by the ignorance of their hosts there was no reply.

The fort was now completely dismantled, and preparations were made for sailing. At a last interview with the chiefs, all differences were settled, and the voyagers parted from the islanders on the most friendly terms. The latter, indeed, were loud in their demonstrations of grief. Tupia, who still adhered to his determination of sailing in the Endeavour, though he shed tears, bade farewell to his countrymen in a dignified manner, and as far as he was able, concealed the sorrow he evidently felt. The Endeavour had remained exactly three months at the island. It was high time for her to leave; for the season for cocoanuts and bread-fruit being over, the natives could no longer spare any of their provisions for the strangers. Tupia, who had gone on shore, returned again on board with his servant, a lad of thirteen, called Tayeto, and on July 13, 1769, the Endeavour sailed from Otaheite to continue her voyage towards the west.

Tupia informed Captain Cook that four islands, called Huaheine, Ulietea, Otaha, and Bolabola, lay at the distance of between one and two days’ sail of Otaheite, and that refreshments in abundance might be procured at them. In consequence, however, of light winds, the Endeavour did not get off Huaheine till the morning of the 16th. Tupia probably fancied that he could impose on the white men as he did on his own people, for in his character of priest he began to offer prayers, or rather to perform incantations, as soon as he saw the prospect of a breeze springing up.

Upon the ship’s getting close in with the land, several canoes came off, but kept at a distance till they discovered Tupia. In one of them were Oree, king of the island, and his wife. On receiving reiterated assurances that they would be treated as friends, they ventured on board. Though at first struck with astonishment at what they saw, they soon became familiar with their visitors, and the king expressed his wish to change names with the captain, who was henceforth called Captain Oree, while the chief took the name of King Cookee. The ship having anchored in a small, excellent harbour called Owharee, the captain, Mr Banks, Dr Solander, and Mr Monkhouse, with Tupia and King Cookee, went on shore. On landing Tupia stripped himself to the waist, and desired Mr Monkhouse, whom he seems to have looked on as a brother priest, to do the same; and sitting down in a large guest-house, full of people, opposite the king, he began a sort of incantation, the king answering in what appeared to be set responses. During this he made presents of some handkerchiefs, beads, two bunches of feathers, and plantains to the Etua, or god of the island, and received in return a hog, two bunches of feathers, and some young plantains, as presents to the white man’s God. (Note 3.)

These he ordered to be carried on board. On the treaty, as the ceremony was supposed to be, being concluded, every one went his way, and Tupia repaired to worship at a morai. The next day, as Tupia was much engaged with his friends in the island, the captain and Mr Banks took Tayeto as their companion in their rambles. The most interesting object they met with was a chest or cask, the lid of which was nicely sewed on, and neatly thatched with palm-leaves. It was fixed on two horizontal poles, and supported on arches of wood neatly carved. The object of the poles seemed to be to remove it from place to place. There was a circular hole at one end, stopped, when it was first seen, with cloth. The chest was, on a second visit, found to be empty. The general resemblance between it and the ark of the Lord among the Jews was remarkable. The boy called it Ewharre no Etua (the house of the god). He, however, could give no account of its use.

Some hogs were exchanged for axes, and some medals bestowed on the king, and no accident having happened to mar their friendly intercourse with the natives, the voyagers took their departure. The people were superior in size and appearance to the general run of the natives of Otaheite, and the women fairer and better-looking. Not having experienced the effects of the guns of the Dolphin, they were less timid than the people of Otaheite, and did not fall down on hearing a musket fired. On one of them being detected in thieving, his companions prescribed a good beating, which was at once administered.

The next island visited was Ulietea, where, within the coral reef, the ship anchored in a good harbour. Two canoes at once came off, each bringing a woman and a pig—the one as a mark of confidence, the other as a present. The ladies each received a spike-nail and some beads, greatly to their delight. On landing, the Union-Jack was hoisted, and the three islands in sight taken possession of in the name of his Britannic Majesty. Here was a large morai, called Tapodeboatea, which was visited, and found to be different from those of Otaheite. It consisted only of four walls, eight feet high, built of coral stones—some of immense size—enclosing an area of five-and-twenty yards square, filled up with smaller stones. On the top of it many carved planks were set on end, and at a little distance was an altar, on which lay a hog of about eighty pounds weight, roasted whole, supposed to have been a sacrifice. Round it were four or five arks resting on poles like that seen at Huaheine. In the interior of one of them Mr Banks found a package done up tightly in mats. He had opened several folds, but the last resisted all his attempts; and as he saw that his proceeding gave great offence, he was compelled to desist. Not far off was a long house, where, among rolls of cloth, was the model of a canoe, about three feet long, to which were tied eight human jaw-bones. Other jaw-bones were seen near the ark, and Tupia affirmed that they were those of natives of the island.

Bad weather detained the ship in the harbour of Oopoa for two more days, and when at length she got out, she was in imminent danger of striking on a reef, having got unexpectedly close to the edge of one, which was discovered from the water being shallow on one side, though deep enough under the keel to float her. Some time was expended in endeavouring to beat up to an anchorage off Bolabola, and several smaller islands were visited.

A leak having been discovered, and some more ballast being required, Captain Cook put into a harbour in Ulietea, at the opposite side of the island to that he had before visited. While the ship’s company were taking in ballast and water, Mr Banks and Dr Solander went on shore, and were everywhere received with the greatest respect by the natives, who seemed conscious that their white visitors had the power, though not the desire, to do them every possible harm. Men, women, and children crowded round them, and followed them wherever they went; but no one was guilty of the least incivility. On the contrary, the men vied with each other in lifting them over any dirt or water in the way.

On approaching the first house, they saw the people arrange themselves on either side of a long mat spread on the ground, at the farther end of which sat some young girls and very pretty children, dressed with the greatest neatness and taste, who kept their position, evidently expecting the strangers to come up and make them presents. At one house, at the end of a mat thirty feet long, sat a girl about six years old; her dress was red, and a large quantity of plaited hair was wound round her head. She was leaning on the arm of a good-looking woman, supposed to be her nurse. The gentlemen walked up to her, and as soon as they approached she stretched out her hands for the beads which they offered, and received them with a grace which no princess in Europe could have surpassed. The people, in consequence of these gifts, seemed to be so pleased with their visitors that they employed every means in their power to amuse them. The master of one of the houses where they stopped ordered a dance to be performed before them, different from any they had yet witnessed. It was executed by one man, who put on a high head-dress of feathers, edged round with sharks’ teeth. As he moved slowly round he made it describe a circle, bringing it often close to the faces of the spectators so as to make them start back, always to the great amusement of the rest.

In the course of their walk the next day they met a company of dancers—two women and six men, with three drums—who were making a tour of the island for their own amusement, for they received no pay, and were said by Tupia to be among the principal people of the country. The women wore graceful head-dresses of long braids of hair and flowers. The upper parts of their bodies were without clothing; but they were amply clothed from the breast downwards in black, and they wore pearls in their ears. The dances were of the immoral kind general in the islands. Regular dramas were also represented before the strangers.

It appeared that the island had lately been conquered by the subjects of Opoony, King of Bolabola, whose acquaintance Captain Cook wished to make. Instead of seeing a fine-looking warrior as he had expected, he found a withered, decrepit wretch, half blind with age; yet it seemed that he was the terror of all the surrounding islands.

A good supply of hogs, poultry, and other provisions having been obtained at Ulietea, and her leak being stopped, the Endeavour sailed on August 9. As Bolabola was difficult of access, Captain Cook gave up his intention of touching there. To gratify Tupia, however, he fired a shot towards the island, though it was seven leagues distant. The object of Tupia appeared to be that of showing his resentment against the king of that island, as well as of exhibiting the power of his new allies.

To the six islands which had been visited or seen, namely, Ulietea, Otaha, Bolabola, Huaheine, Tubai, and Maurua, Captain Cook gave the name of the Society Islands. Otaheite was not included in the group, but continued to be known as King George’s Island. (Note 1.)

The voyagers were much disappointed in finding that they could not keep their live-stock. The hogs would not eat European grain of any sort, nor bread-dust; and the fowls were seized with a disease which made them hold their heads between their legs till they died.

Nothing worthy of notice occurred till the 13th, when an island, called, by Tupia, Oheteroa, was seen. The next morning Mr Gore was sent in the pinnace to attempt a landing, accompanied by Mr Banks, Dr Solander, and Tupia. As the boat approached the land a number of natives, armed with long lances, appeared. The main body sat down, while two walked abreast of the boat as she pulled along the shore. At length they leaped into the water and swam towards the boat, but were left behind. Two others followed, but were soon distanced. At last, one man, running on, got up to the boat. Mr Banks, wishing to gain the goodwill of the natives by kind treatment, urged Mr Gore to take him in; but he declined doing so. On the English attempting to land, soon after this, several natives came off in a canoe and boarded the boat, evidently with the intention of capturing her; indeed, it was not till muskets were fired over their heads that the savages leaped out and swam ashore. As no harbour or good landing-place was discovered in the circuit of the island, and as the natives were everywhere hostile, the attempt to land was abandoned. The clothing of the inhabitants was considered superior to that of the natives of the islands before visited. The cloth of which their dresses were made was richly coloured. One piece of red or yellow was crossed on the breast, and sewed round the waist as a sash. They had also head-dresses of white or lead-coloured cloth, shaped like a small turban; and some wore the feathers of the native birds round their heads. They had well-finished lances in their hands, twenty feet long, and highly carved and polished clubs and pikes. The canoe also, though small, was richly carved; and her head and stern were ornamented with white feathers. Tupia stated that there were numerous islands between the south and north-west, at different distances from Oheteroa; and that there was one, three days’ sail to the north-east, called Manua, or Bird Island. The most distant island with which he was acquainted to the south was Mouton, but his father had told him of islands to the south of that. But considering the uncertainty of this information, Captain Cook determined not to lose time in looking for islands, but to steer to the south in search of a continent.

In leaving these islands we cannot help expressing regret that the voyagers were so forgetful, as they appear to have been, of their obligations to the religion they professed, and of the eternal welfare of those among whom they sojourned. They found a people sunk in idolatry and superstition, and should have endeavoured to do as the Apostle Paul did at Athens, where, finding an altar inscribed “To the unknown God,” he said to the assembled multitude, “Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, Him declare I unto you,” and then began to preach Jesus Christ and His great salvation. But so far from imitating this example, they, in many instances, took part in their idolatrous and superstitious ceremonies. It is vain to attempt an excuse of these Englishmen by saying either that it was the fashion of the times to pass by the heathen without a thought for their wretched lost condition, or that the party of philosophers and scientific men and discoverers were not Christian missionaries. Every Christian ought to look upon himself as a missionary, when work for his Lord can be done by him; and it was a bad fashion to follow, surely, that of suffering heathens to perish without one effort made for their salvation. No doubt there were great physical and natural impediments in the way of Cook and his associates making anything known to the natives of those islands; but these impediments were overcome in relation to other matters.

The Endeavour sailed from Oheteroa on August 15, 1769. The 25th was the first anniversary of the day she had quitted the shores of England. To celebrate it a Cheshire cheese was cut, and a cask of porter broached, and both were found excellent. Those who have been long at sea and away from home can best understand the importance attached to such trifles, and the pleasure they afford.

On the morning of the 30th a comet was seen in the east, a little above the horizon. Tupia, who observed it with others, instantly cried out that as soon as the people of Bolabola perceived it they would attack the inhabitants of Uhetea, who would have to fly to the mountains to save their lives. Meeting with a heavy sea and strong gales from the westward, on September 1 Captain Cook wore and stood to the northward. On the weather moderating he continued his course to the westward during the whole of September. Several seals were seen asleep on the surface of the water, and various birds were perceived, a sure indication that the ship was approaching land. On October 6 land was seen from the mast-head, bearing west by north. In the evening it could be seen from the deck. It was not till the evening of the next day that the voyagers got near enough to observe the nature of the country, when it appeared of great extent, with four or five ranges of hills rising one over the other, and beyond them a lofty chain of mountains. The general opinion was that they had found the Terra Australia incognita. A bay was seen, and smoke rising from the shore, but night coming on, they were obliged to stand off till daylight. The next day, on standing in again, some small but neat houses were seen, and a considerable number of people seated on the beach. Farther on was discovered a tolerably high and regular paling, enclosing the whole of the top of a hill. Some on board supposed it to be a park for deer, others an enclosure for oxen or sheep. In the afternoon the ship came to an anchor in a bay off the mouth of a river. The sides of the bay were white cliffs of great height; the middle was low land, with hills rising behind and terminating in a chain of lofty mountains.

Captain Cook, with Mr Banks, Dr Solander, and a party of men in the yawl and pinnace, landed on the east side of the river; but some people being perceived on the west side, the yawl crossed over, and while the gentlemen landed, four boys were left in charge of her. On the approach of the Englishmen the natives ran away, and the former advanced towards some huts two or three hundred yards from the water’s edge. When, however, they had got some distance from the yawl, four men with long lances rushed out of the woods towards her, and would have cut her off had not the people in the pinnace covered them, and called to the boys to drop down the stream. This they did, but the natives pursued in spite of two musket-shots fired at them. At length, one of the natives was poising his spear to dart it at the boys, when the coxswain of the pinnace fired a third time, and shot the native dead. The other three at first attempted to drag off the dead body, but fear soon made them drop it and take to flight.

On the captain and his companions returning to the boat they stopped to examine the body, which had been shot through the heart. It was that of a man of middle stature, of a brown, but not very dark complexion. One side of his face was tattooed in spiral lines of regular figure, and his hair tied in a knot on the top of his head, but no feathers in it. He wore a garment of a fine cloth, of a manufacture new to the English. When the voyagers returned on board, they could hear the natives talking very loudly. The next day the captain and the same party landed with Tupia, and the marines were afterwards sent for. A large body of natives had collected on the opposite side of the river, apparently unarmed; but on the approach of the English they started up, each man holding a spear or dart, and made signs to the strangers to depart. The marines being drawn up, the visitors again approached the natives, when Tupia addressed them in the language of Otaheite, which they perfectly understood. He told them that their visitors wanted provisions and water, and would pay them with iron, the properties of which he explained as well as he could. They replied that they were willing to trade if the English would cross over to them. Captain Cook consented to do this, provided they would put aside their arms. This they would not consent to do. Tupia warned the English, during the conversation, that the natives were not friendly. Captain Cook then invited the natives to come across to them. At last, one of them stripped himself and swam over without his arms. He was soon after followed by others, to the number of twenty, most of whom came armed; and though iron and beads were offered them, they set no value apparently on either, for a few feathers were offered in return, and they at once showed their hostile disposition by endeavouring to snatch the weapons from the hands of their visitors. They were told, through Tupia, that if they continued to proceed in that manner they would be killed; notwithstanding this, one of them seized Mr Green’s hanger from his side, and ran off with it. Mr Banks on this fired at him with small shot; but though hit, he still continued to wave the hanger round his head. Mr Monkhouse, seeing this, fired at him with ball, when he instantly dropped. Upon this, the main body, who had retired to a rock in the middle of the river, began to return. Two that were near the man who had been killed tried to drag off the body. One seized his weapon of green talc; and the other tried to secure the hanger, which Mr Monkhouse had but just time to prevent. As the whole body were now returning with threatening gestures, those who had their guns loaded with small shot fired. The effect was to make the natives turn back, and to retreat up the country, several of them being wounded. Such was the first unhappy attempt of the English to open up an intercourse with the inhabitants of New Zealand, for that was the magnificent country Captain Cook and his companions had now reached. Painful as it is to reflect on the sacrifice of human life which often in those days attended the first intercourse of civilised Europeans with the savage inhabitants of newly-discovered countries, and the cruelties and injuries inflicted, we must not judge our countrymen too harshly. Much less value was set on human life a century ago than is the case at present, and dark-skinned savages were scarcely regarded as beings of the same nature as white men. Captain Cook was, however, undoubtedly a kind and humane man, and was sincere in his expressions of regret at the blood his followers so frequently shed whenever they met with opposition from the natives of the lands they visited.

Having no longer any hope of establishing a friendly intercourse with the inhabitants of this place, and finding that the water in the river was salt, Captain Cook proceeded with the boats round the head of the bay, in search of fresh water, intending also, if possible, to surprise some of the natives, and, by kind treatment and presents, to obtain their friendship. Everywhere, however, a dangerous surf beat on the coast, and he was unable to land. But seeing two canoes coming in towards the shore, one under sail, and the other moved by paddles, he judged it necessary for the object he had in view to intercept them. Supposing that they were fishermen without arms, he hoped to do this without bloodshed. Notwithstanding the way in which he had placed the boats, one of the canoes managed to escape; but the other, under sail, came directly into the middle of the English boats without perceiving what they were. On discovering the strangers, the natives lowered their sail and took to their paddles. Tupia called out to them that those in the boats wished to be friends; but the natives preferred trusting to their paddles, and continued their flight. On this, a musket was fired over their heads, when they ceased paddling and began to strip, not to swim to the shore but to fight to the last.

When the boat came up they attacked the English with paddles, stones, and other weapons, and showed a determination not to be taken alive. The English, in their own defence, fired, when four out of the seven people in the canoe were killed. The other three were lads—the eldest of whom, about nineteen years old, leaped into the sea, swimming vigorously, and resisting every effort made to capture him. At last he was seized and taken into the boat, as were the two younger lads, without further attempt to escape. As soon as they were in the boat, the lads squatted down, evidently expecting instant death. Every effort was made to win their confidence, and with so much success that by the time the ship was reached they appeared not only reconciled to their fate, but in high spirits. On food being offered them, they ate it voraciously, and asked and answered questions with every appearance of pleasure. At night, however, they sighed, and seemed to be mourning for the friends they had lost; but, encouraged by Tupia, they quickly regained their cheerfulness, and in the morning ate another enormous meal. On being told that they would be put on shore where the English had landed the previous day, they expressed great alarm, and said that the inhabitants were their enemies and would eat them. At last, on landing on the other side of the bay, after hesitating for some time, the lads cried out that they saw, among a large body of natives who were approaching, one of their relations. Still they seemed doubtful about joining them, and evidently regretted leaving their new friends. The body of the native who had been killed the previous day still lay on the shore. The boys, seeing it, went and covered it with some of the clothes they had received on board the Endeavour. Soon after, a man, who proved to be the uncle of one of the boys, swam over with a green bough in his hand, which was here, as at Otaheite, an emblem of peace. Tupia received the branch, and several presents were made to the native. Notwithstanding this, he refused to go on board the strange ship. Breaking off another bough, he then approached the dead body, before which he performed numerous ceremonies. When this was done he returned to his companions, and held with them a long consultation. The boys refused to go back to their countrymen, and begged again to be taken on board. The natives, after this, were observed from the ship to cross the river, and to carry off the dead body on a kind of bier.

Later in the day, the captain directed Tupia to ask the boys if they had any longer a fear of landing, the body having been carried off, which was supposed to be a ratification of peace. They replied that they were perfectly ready to go, and stepped with alacrity into the boat which was prepared to carry them on shore.

On the boat reaching the shore they landed willingly, but soon after, when she put off, waded back into the water, and entreated to be taken on board. As the midshipman in charge of the boat had received strict orders not to receive them, their request was not granted. After a time a man came and took them across the river, on a raft, to where a large number of people were assembled. They appeared to be well received, and shortly after were seen standing on the beach, when they waved their hands three times and stepped nimbly back to their companions.

Captain Cook gave the name of Poverty Bay to the place where these events occurred; and in his journal he strongly expresses his regret at the destruction of the four unfortunate fishermen, saying that, had he supposed they would have resisted, he would not have attempted to stop them; but that, as it was, he could not allow his people to be knocked on the head by the savages. It may be asked, why were the savages not permitted to escape? The reply of Captain Cook is, that he considered it his duty, in prosecution of his enterprise, to open a communication with the natives by force if he could not succeed by gentle means. In pursuance of that object, and in accordance with this supposed duty, our countrymen had little scruple in shedding the blood and taking the lives of their fellow-men, even when violence was not necessary for their own safety.

The next morning the Endeavour sailed from Poverty Bay, but, being becalmed, several canoes came off to her. The natives in one canoe setting the example, the rest were easily persuaded to come on board, to the number of fifty men. Only two weapons were seen among them; these were made of green talc, and called patoo-patoo, being shaped somewhat like a pointed battledore, with a short handle and sharp edges. They were well contrived for close fighting, and would certainly split the thickest skull at a single blow. The sad truth of this some of our countrymen were afterwards to experience, when not far from this spot the greater part of a ship’s company were destroyed, each savage producing one of these weapons from under his cloak, and singling out a victim for instant destruction. Presents were made by the officers of the Endeavour to the natives, who were all so eager for the white men’s goods that they afterwards exchanged everything they had with them, even to the paddles of their canoes. Inquiries were made for the poor boys, and the captain was assured that no harm had happened to them, and that it was in consequence of the account they had given of their reception on board that the present party had come off to the ship.

An hour before sunset the natives paddled off, leaving three of their number below. As soon as this was discovered they were hailed, but would not return, nor did the deserted natives seem to be alarmed. The next morning, however, when they discovered that the ship was at a distance from the land, their consternation was excessive, and Tupia had great difficulty in pacifying them. On standing in again, a canoe with an old chief came off, but he and his followers would not venture on board till Tupia had used numerous arguments to persuade them—among others, an assurance that the strangers did not eat men. This remark, coupled with those of the boys, gave the English their first suspicions of the horrible propensity of the people with whom they were now attempting to open up an intercourse. The old chief, after remaining a short time on board, returned with the three men to the shore.

The point of land first made to the north of Poverty Bay proved to be the most eastern part of New Zealand, and was called East Cape. The Endeavour was now steered to the south. An island close to the main was passed, which, from its similarity to Portland in Dorsetshire, received the same name. A number of natives were here seen seated on the cliffs watching the ship’s movements. When she suddenly got close to a reef, and there was some sign of confusion on board, they showed a disposition to attack her. Canoes at different times came off, and in one the people performed certain ceremonies, sometimes offering peace, and then threatening war. Five large canoes full of armed men soon after came off. As the boat’s crew were sounding, it was necessary to drive them away. A musket fired over their heads had no effect, but a four-pounder charged with grape shot, though fired wide, put them to flight.

Farther along the coast, the next morning, nine or ten large canoes, which must have contained little short of two hundred men, came off. When the first five were within a hundred yards of the ship, the natives began to sing their war-songs and to brandish their weapons. Tupia, on this, was ordered to inform them of the power and effects of the English thunder-making arms, and a four-pounder loaded with grape was fired wide of them. The result was satisfactory, and the natives went peaceably away. The following day another fleet of canoes came alongside, and though they had only stale fish to sell, Captain Cook accepted it for the sake of encouraging traffic. The natives, however, showed every disposition to take advantage of the strangers, and one of them having agreed to exchange a black cloak for a piece of red cloth, on receiving the cloth, packed it in a basket with the cloak, which he refused to give up, and made off with both cloth and cloak. Among those who were leaning over the ship’s side to hand up the articles purchased from the natives was Tupia’s boy, Tayeto. One of the natives, watching his opportunity, suddenly seized the boy, and dragging him over, held him down in the canoe, which made off. The marines on deck were ordered to fire, and to aim at the end of the canoe farthest away from the boy. One of the natives was seen to fall, when the other let go his hold of Tayeto, who leaped overboard and swam to the ship. A boat was lowered, and he was taken up unhurt, but dreadfully frightened. The canoes made towards the shore, and it was observed that three men were lifted out of them, either killed or badly wounded.

In this instance the natives actually deserved the punishment they received. Captain Cook called the headland off which this circumstance occurred Cape Kidnappers. When Tayeto recovered from his fright he took a fish to Tupia, that he might offer it to his Etua. Tupia praised him, and ordered him to throw it into the sea.

Captain Cook having now stood to the southward for a considerable distance without finding a harbour, tacked and stood to the northward, in hope of being more successful in that direction. The ship was off a high bluff headland with yellowish cliffs, which was accordingly called Cape Turnagain. Soon afterwards two chiefs and their three attendants paddled off, and willingly came on board. One of the chiefs had a very pleasing and honest expression of countenance. Though they would not eat, they seemed disposed to be very friendly, so much so that they insisted on remaining on board all night. The next morning they were somewhat surprised at finding themselves so far from the shore, but went away without hesitation. As the ship sailed along, several canoes came off to her, a few at a time. In one were two old chiefs, who, with many expressions of goodwill, invited the strangers on shore. The surf prevented their going, but in the evening, the wind moderating, Captain Cook, with Mr Banks and Dr Solander, landed, and were received in a most friendly manner. The natives took care not to appear in large bodies, the members of two or three families only keeping together. These little companies sat on the ground, and by signs invited their visitors to draw near. These indications of a friendly disposition determined the commander to fill his casks with water at this place.

The next morning, while this operation was going forward, Mr Banks and Dr Solander walked along the shore of the bay by themselves without anxiety, and collected numerous plants. They visited several huts, and found the inhabitants at dinner, their food consisting, at this time of the year, of fish and the root of a large fern. The roots were prepared by scorching them over a fire, and then beating them till the charred bark fell off. The remainder was a clammy, soft substance, not unpleasant to the taste, but mixed with three times its bulk of fibres, which could not be swallowed. This part was spat out into baskets ready at hand for its reception. No animals were seen, except some ugly little dogs. Carefully cultivated and closely fenced plantations of sweet potatoes and other vegetables were seen. The women were plain, and had their faces painted with red ochre and oil; the men generally did not follow the latter custom, but one man was observed who had a piece of yellow ochre in his hand, with which he renewed the coloured decorations on his person whenever he supposed them to be deficient. Mr Banks and others, having remained on shore after the boats had gone off with the casks, were brought on board by the natives in one of their canoes. Indeed, all the intercourse with the people in this place was carried on in the most friendly manner.

At the watering-place the natives entertained their visitors with a war-song, in which the women joined, with horrid distortions of countenance, rolling their eyes, thrusting out their tongues and heaving deep sighs, all keeping perfect time. A canoe was seen here, sixty-eight feet and a half long, five broad, and three feet and a half deep; she had a sharp bottom, consisting of three trunks of trees hollowed; the side planks were sixty-two feet long in one piece, carved in bas-relief; the head being still more richly carved. A large unfinished house was also visited; the side ports were carved in a masterly style, though with whimsical taste. The bay was called by the natives Tolaga.

Wood and water, and an abundance of wild celery, which proved an excellent anti-scorbutic, having been got on board, the Endeavour weighed and stood to the north. The wood they had cut was like the English maple; and a cabbage-tree was met with and cut down for the sake of the cabbage, or the succulent soft stem, so-called by the voyagers from its taste when boiled. The country abounded with plants, and the woods with birds in an endless variety, and exquisitely beautiful. After rounding each cape, numerous villages were seen, and much cultivated ground. Some way on an immense canoe with sixteen paddles on each side, and carrying sixty armed men, gave chase to the ship. To prevent an attack, a round shot was fired near them, when they paddled off; the headland near at hand was therefore called Cape Runaway. After this, a large number of canoes came off to trade; but the natives were disposed to cheat. At length some linen hanging over the bows to dry was carried off by a man, who, though fired at, deliberately packed it up and made off with it. As the natives continued to insult the English, a shot was fired close to them, which went bounding over the water far ahead, and made them paddle away at great speed.

Several villages were seen larger than any before observed, built on eminences near the sea, and fortified on the land side by a bank and ditch, with a high paling within it, carried all round; some of them had also outworks. They were supposed to be the fortified villages called by the natives Pahs or Hippahs. There seems to have been much doubt in the minds of the officers of the Endeavour as to whether the land on which they were now coasting was an island or part of a vast continent. The captain seems to have held to the former opinion, his officers to the latter.

The ship was now near a cluster of islands to which the names of the Mayor and the Court of Aldermen were given. Farther on more villages were in sight, with some hundreds of large canoes drawn up on the beach under them. The whole country from Cape Turnagain, thus far, was said to be under the rule of a single chief, called Teratu. A large inlet was next entered, and here the ship anchored. Several canoes of a less ornamental description came alongside, and tried to steal the buoy of the anchor. Three times during the night they repeated the attempt, hoping, it seemed, to catch the crew asleep. Again they came at daylight, and sang a war-song, preparatory to an attack. Tupia, however, expostulated with them, and explained so successfully that they would certainly be the sufferers in case of a skirmish, that instead of fighting, they began to trade. Here, again, a native made off with two pieces of cloth, both of which he had got for one weapon, which he refused to deliver up. A musket-ball was fired through his canoe; but he would not return. It was curious that the people in the other canoes paid no attention to him, though he was bleeding, but continued to trade as if nothing had happened. Soon afterwards, indeed, the same trick was played by others. Two muskets were fired, the bullets going through the sides of the canoe between wind and water. This only made the savages pull off more rapidly. As the commander intended to remain in this place for some days, to observe the transit of Mercury, it was necessary to make the natives understand the superiority of the English; and a round shot was therefore fired over their heads.

All the natives, however, were not alike dishonest. One chief, in particular, had behaved with great propriety during the day, neither attempting to cheat nor showing any fear of the English. He came off the next morning, and soon established friendly relations with them. He said that the people were generally convinced of their power, and would, he hoped, behave properly in future. His name was Toiava.

An officer, with the marines and a party of men, was sent on shore to cut wood. No houses were seen; but there were a number of people, who seemed to have slept under the bushes. The state of warfare in which the people existed was shown by Toiava when on board one day. Two canoes were perceived coming in from the opposite side of the bay, when, saying that they were enemies, he hastened off to the shore with all his canoes. He soon returned, however, they not being the people he supposed. A large number of mackerel were obtained here from the natives, the sailors salting enough to last for a month.

Fortunately, a fine day enabled the commander and Mr Green to obtain a satisfactory observation of Mercury; and the name of Mercury Bay was, therefore, given to the harbour on the shore of which it was taken. While they were on shore another case, of cheating by a native occurred. The thief and his companions having pulled off in their canoe, sang their war-song, and shook their paddles in defiance. This so provoked Mr Gore, the officer in charge, that he fired and killed the man, a circumstance for which Captain Cook expressed his deep regret. Though at first alarmed, the natives on shore, on inquiring into the matter, seemed to think that the man had received his deserts, and the friendly intercourse begun between them and the English was not further interrupted.

A little before sunset, the natives retired to eat their supper, consisting of birds, fish, and lobsters. Some were roasted, stuck on sticks inclined towards the fire; others were baked in ovens on the ground, in the way practised by the people of Otaheite. Among the natives was a woman mourning for the death of a relative. She sat on the ground by herself, and cut herself all over with pieces of shell till she was covered with blood, singing in a mournful voice, at the same time, a song the meaning of which Tupia could not understand.

The shore abounded with clams, cockles, and, in some places, rock-oysters. Numerous wild-fowl also were seen, and several were shot. The boats rowed up a river at the head of the bay for four or five miles, and near it a deserted fort of considerable strength was visited. Several beds of oysters were also discovered, dry at half-ebb, and a boat being sent to fetch some, returned completely laden, so that the ship’s company had a regular feast of them. Fish, also in abundance, were brought off by the natives. On the north side of the bay, a pah, small, but very strong and beautifully situated, was visited. It stood on the top of a rock detached from the mainland, surrounded at high-water. The centre part was perforated by an arch sixty feet in height, and of considerable width. The only way of reaching the top was by a very narrow winding path. Here there was room only for four or five huts. Farther on was a much larger fortified village, the inhabitants of which, to the number of a hundred, came out and invited the strangers to visit them, and seemed highly pleased when their invitation was accepted.

This pah, or fort, was examined with much interest, and afterwards minutely described by the English visitors. It seemed, indeed, a place which, if resolutely defended, was capable of holding out against any number of assailants famished only with such arms as were seen in the hands of the natives. It was curious that men capable of constructing so elaborate a fortification should have invented simply such weapons as lances, small and large battle-axes, and clubs; for not a sling nor a bow was seen among them, nor any other weapon but those mentioned. When stones were used they were thrown by the hand.

The Endeavour, having taken an ample supply of celery on board, sailed from Mercury Bay. The most successful generals of ancient and modern times were able to take advantage of their greatest victories by having paid careful attention to their commissariat; and Cook, for the same reason, could prolong his researches for a greater length of time than any previous navigator, and keep his crew in tolerable health, more especially preserve them from that fearful scourge of seamen, the scurvy. Of course he was greatly indebted to the experienced botanists on board, who were able to discover any anti-scorbutic plants grown on the shores they visited. Probably the lives of thousands of seamen might have been saved had the commanders been acquainted with the wild plants that the loving God has everywhere provided for the use of His creatures, capable of preventing that dire complaint.

About fifty miles to the north of Mercury Bay, the natives came off and threw stones at the ship, nor would they listen to the expostulations and advice of Tupia, till a musket-ball was sent through the bottom of one of their canoes, when they were convinced of the truth of his account respecting the power of the strangers.

On the 19th a large inlet was entered, in which the ship brought up. Immediately natives came off, who said that they had heard of the strangers from Toiava. One young man introduced himself as his grandson, and received several presents. They also addressed Tupia by name, showing that they had heard of the English from their friends. The commander and his usual companions proceeded in the boats nine miles up the inlet, which they discovered terminated in a river. This they entered with the flood, and found fresh water three miles from the mouth. Here they saw a large village on a sand-bank entirely surrounded by mud, probably considered a sufficient protection from their enemies. They were particularly struck by the great size of the pine trees which grew on the banks. One measured nineteen feet eight inches in girth at the height of six feet from the ground. From the root to the first branch it was eighty-nine feet, and as straight as an arrow, tapering very little in proportion to its height. It probably contained, by the captain’s computation, three hundred and sixty-six cubic feet of solid timber. Others still larger were seen. A small one was cut down, and found to be similar to the pitch pine, too heavy for masts, but the carpenter was of opinion that, by tapping, the wood would be lightened, and that then the trees would make the finest masts in the world. These trees were the celebrated Kauri pine, from which a valuable gum is extracted. It also makes very fine planking. This tree, the flax plant, and the gigantic fern are among the characteristic productions of New Zealand.

The name of the Thames was given to the river explored. The natives in the neighbourhood behaved in the most friendly manner; but while the commander and Dr Solander were on shore, and Mr Banks with Tupia and some of the natives were below, a lad took possession of a half-minute glass from the binnacle. Mr Hicks, who was commanding officer, ordered the lad to be triced up and a dozen lashes given to him. His countrymen interfered, and called for their arms from the canoes alongside. In vain Mr Banks, hearing the noise, and coming on deck, expostulated with the lieutenant. Tupia at length pacified the natives by explaining what was to happen, and allowed the punishment to proceed. As soon as it was over, an old man, supposed to be the father of the boy, gave him a beating and sent him into the canoe; but the confidence of the natives was gone, and though they promised to come back, no more was seen of them.

The natives on most occasions were ready to steal and cheat, whenever they thought they could do so with impunity. This occurred nearly every day as the Endeavour proceeded along the coast. In one day, at different times, nearly five hundred natives were on board or alongside, showing that the country was very populous. One of these was making off with an article of which he had possessed himself without giving anything in return, when the midshipman to whom it belonged hove a lead with a hook secured to it at the end of a line, with such aim that the hook caught the thief, but broke off. While at anchor in another part of this bay, which is known as the Bay of Islands, the commander gave a piece of cloth to an old chief, one of several hundred natives crowding round the ship. Notwithstanding this, some of them tried to steal the buoy, and not till one of them was hit by a musket-ball would they give it up. After this, the commander, with Mr Banks, Dr Solander, and two boats’ crews, landed in a little cove. They had not been there long, before they saw nearly three hundred people rushing towards them from behind the heads of the cove, and over the top of the hill. Some of the savages rushed to the boats to seize them, and others, led by a chief, advanced towards the English. The commander, Mr Banks, and two of the man fired with small shot. The natives, though at first they fell back, soon again rallied and advanced. On this Dr Solander fired again, and hit the chief, who, with the rest, ran off. The natives still continued in a body, and, as seen from the ship, appeared very numerous. A few round shot fired over their heads dispersed them. Happily not a single life was lost, and only two men were slightly wounded. As it happened, the old chief to whom the cloth had been given in the morning had, with some of his family, concealed himself in a cave. While the party were collecting celery he was discovered, and was soon put at his ease. He said that one of the men who had been hit with small shot was his brother, and inquired anxiously whether he would die. He was assured that he would not; and a bullet and small shot being shown to him, he was told that those who were hit with the first would die, but that the wounds made by the last were seldom mortal. He and his companions now came and sat down by the English, who gave them a few trifles.

Several days were passed in the Bay of Islands, and a friendly intercourse was maintained during the remainder of the time with the natives. On going out of it the ship grazed a rock to windward of her with great violence, but received no injury. This part of the country was evidently very densely inhabited; and the people seemed to live on friendly terms with each other, though no head or leading chief was heard of. Fishing seemed to be one of their principal occupations, and nets of great length were seen—one of not less than from three to four hundred fathoms. Their towns were all fortified. Farther on, while becalmed, some people who came off told the voyagers that at the distance of three days’ rowing the land would take a sharp turn to the south, and extend no more to the west. It was conjectured, therefore, that this headland was one seen by Tasman, and called by him Cape Maria Van Diemen; and an eager lookout was kept for the important headland.

At six in the morning on December 16 land was seen from the mast-head, which proved to be North Cape. It lies in latitude 34 degrees 22 minutes South, and longitude 186 degrees 55 minutes West. The isthmus which joins this head to the mainland is low, which gives it the appearance of an island. On the cape a hippah, or village, was seen, with several inhabitants. Soon after this, when off Cape Maria Van Diemen, the Endeavour met with a gale which, though it was in the middle of the summer of that hemisphere, Captain Cook says, for its strength, and the length of time it lasted, was such as he had scarcely ever been in before. The ship was three weeks getting ten leagues to the westward, and five weeks in getting fifty leagues. During the gale the ship was a considerable distance from the land, or it is highly probable, he says, they would not have returned to relate their adventures.

It is not necessary to mention the various courses run for several days, as no communication was held with the shore. At length a lofty peak was seen towering above the clouds, and covered with snow, to which the name of Mount Egmont was given. It was surrounded by a flat country of a pleasant appearance, being clothed with verdure and wood. Near it a bay was entered, in a safe and convenient cove of which the ship anchored. Some canoes at once paddled off, and much against the wishes of his people, an old chief from one of them came on board. He was received with all possible friendship, and after some time was dismissed, with many expressions of kindness, to his companions. This treatment had a beneficial effect, though some of the natives showed an inclination to try how far they might go with the strangers. On one occasion they pursued the long-boat as it was going on shore with casks; but some small shot quickly made them desist.

The bay where they were at anchor was found to be about fifteen miles south of one visited by Tasman, though none of the people among whom Tupia made inquiries had any tradition of his having been on the coast. The commander, with Mr Banks, Dr Solander, and others, on their way one day to visit a cove two miles off, saw the body of a woman floating, having apparently been dead for some days. Immediately on landing they found a family who seemed greatly alarmed at their approach, and ran away. In a short time, however, they were induced to return, and confidence being established, became very communicative. The body of the woman was that of a relation whom they had buried at sea fastened to a stone, from which they supposed it had broken. The family were dressing some provisions, and as the gentlemen cast their eyes into one of the baskets which stood near, two bones were perceived, which, upon nearer examination, were found to be those of a human body. The natives, on being questioned by Tupia, acknowledged, without the slightest hesitation, that they were the bones of a man whom they had eaten; that a canoe belonging to their enemies had come into the bay five days before; that seven persons in her had been killed, and that this man was one of them. On Tupia asking why they did not eat the body of the woman, they replied that she was a relation, and that they only eat the bodies of their enemies killed in battle. One of the natives took hold of his own forearm, and intimated that the bone Mr Banks held in his hand had belonged to that part of the human body; he also bit and gnawed the bone which Mr Banks had taken, drawing it through his mouth, and showing by signs that it had afforded a delicious repast. A woman of this family of cannibals had her arms, legs, and thighs frightfully cut, in token of her grief for the loss of her husband, who had lately been killed and eaten by their enemies.

Mr Banks and Dr Solander were several times on shore, but their walks were much circumscribed by climbing plants of luxuriant growth, which completely filled up the spaces between the trees, so as to render the woods impassable. Preparations had been made for erecting a durable memorial of the Endeavour’s visit, and their old friend promised that it should never be removed. Presents of coins and spike-nails, with the king’s broad arrow on them, were given to the natives, and two posts, of which the memorial was to be constructed, were taken to the highest part of the island near which the ship lay. The Union-Jack was then hoisted, and formal possession was taken of the country in the name of His Majesty King George the Third; the name of Queen Charlotte’s Sound being given to the inlet. A bottle of wine was then drunk to Her Majesty’s health, and the empty bottle given to the old man, who seemed highly delighted with it.

The Endeavour left the sound on February 6, and soon after, during a calm, was very nearly driven on shore by the strong current setting through the straits between the northern and middle island, now known as Cook’s Straits. Over the land was seen a mountain of stupendous height, covered with snow. Passing through the straits, the Endeavour steered north again, and continued on till, the weather clearing, Cape Turnagain was distinctly seen. Captain Cook on this asked his officers whether they were satisfied that Eaheinomauwe was an island. They replying in the affirmative, the Endeavour hauled her wind and stood to the eastward. Eaheinoniauwe was the name given by the natives to the northern island, Poenammoo to the southern, or rather, as it is now called, the middle island.

The Endeavour was now steered down the eastern coast of the last-named portion of New Zealand. Some lofty mountains were seen, partially covered with snow, and inferior in height to Mount Egmont. During a calm, when close in shore, Mr Banks went out in a small boat for the purpose of shooting. While he was away four double canoes were seen to put off from the shore, and to pull towards him. Captain Cook trembled for his friend’s safety, for Mr Banks could not see the signals made to hasten his return. At length he noticed the natives, and his boat’s head was turned towards the ship. The natives also approached. He, however, got on board before them, thankful for his escape. Probably, indeed, their attention had been so engrossed with the ship that they had not seen him. When they came about a stone’s throw off, they stopped and gazed at the ship with vacant astonishment; but even Tupia’s eloquence could not induce them to come on board. After surveying the ship, they made towards the shore, but it was dark before they could have reached it. This was the only sight Captain Cook had of the inhabitants of the middle island, or Tovy Poenammoo.

An island about twenty-four leagues in circumference, and five leagues from the main, was discovered, to which the name of Banks’s Island was given. Some persons on board asserting that they saw land to the south-east, the commander, though believing that they were mistaken, steered in that direction; but no land being discovered, the ship wore, and was steered east-south-east. Tovy Poenammoo was found to be very much larger than Captain Cook expected to find it, from the description of the natives in Queen Charlotte’s Sound. Heavy gales and rough seas were encountered, and on one occasion, at dawn, rocks were seen close under the ship’s bows, she having in the night passed close to another dangerous reef, some leagues from the main. The land discovered appeared green and well wooded, but destitute of inhabitants. Several whales and seals were observed, whereas none had been seen off the north island. At length, on March 5, the South Cape was rounded. At the time Captain Cook was doubtful whether it was part of the large island or a separate island, though he marked it in his chart as the former. Nothing of importance occurred during the passage back to the entrance of Cook’s Straits, on the northern shore of which, in a bay called Admiralty, the Endeavour again anchored, that she might fill up with wood and water. This was accomplished by March 31, 1770, when a course was shaped by which it was hoped the eastern coast of New Holland would be reached. It was intended, after visiting that coast, to return home by the East Indies and the Cape of Good Hope. Captain Cook himself had wished to return by Cape Horn, with the view of settling the question of a great southern continent; but the ship was deemed unfit to brave the tempests to be expected in a high southern latitude in the most inclement season of the year. The name of Cape Farewell was given to the last point of land seen as the Endeavour quitted the coast of New Zealand. The manners and customs of the inhabitants, as well as the features of New Zealand, are now almost as well-known as those of any country in Europe, and we are able to judge of the extraordinary accuracy of all Captain Cook’s descriptions whenever he had an opportunity of observing them.

Cape Farewell was left on March 31, and the Endeavour sailed westward. Nine days afterwards a tropical bird was seen, and on the 15th the voyagers caught sight of an egg-bird and a gannet; and as these birds never fly far from land, the lead was constantly heaved through the night. No bottom, however, was found; and it was not till six o’clock on the morning of April 19 that land was seen by Mr Hicks, the first lieutenant. This land proved to be part of the vast country of New Holland, since better known as Australia. The coast first seen was that of New South Wales.

The Endeavour now coasted along about three leagues from the shore, and as the weather was clear, a pleasant landscape presented itself before the eyes of the explorers. The land was of moderate elevation, diversified by hills and valleys, ridges and plains. Here and there were open spaces clothed with verdure, but in general the country was covered with timber. Smoke was in several places seen, showing that the country was inhabited.

Several days were spent—the Endeavour coasting along the shore to the northward; but on account of a northerly wind the voyagers were seldom near enough to remark the features of the country. At last a bay was discovered which seemed to be well sheltered from all winds, and Captain Cook determined to anchor in it. Just before this several natives had been seen on the shore, four of them carrying a canoe, but they did not come off, and when the yawl, in which the commander attempted to land, approached, they all ran away. So heavy a surf broke on the beach that it was found impossible to go ashore.

The pinnace was now sent ahead with the master to sound, while, the wind being out, the ship beat into the bay. A smoke being seen on shore, the glasses were directed towards it, when ten men were observed sitting round a fire, which they presently left, and then ascended a slight eminence, whence they could observe the proceedings of the English visitors. As the pinnace pulled along the shore most of the natives kept abreast of her. Some of them used threatening gestures, brandishing their weapons: there were two especially, whose faces seemed to have been dusted with a white powder, and their bodies painted with broad streaks, also white, which, passing obliquely over their breasts and backs, looked not unlike the cross-belts worn by soldiers. The same kind of streaks were also drawn round their legs and thighs, like broad garters. They were armed with long spears, and each of these men held in his hand a weapon curved like a scimitar, and which appeared to be about two feet and a half long. The Endeavour anchored two miles within the bay, in six-fathom water, abreast of a small village consisting of six or eight huts. On the two points on either side of the entrance a few huts, and men, women, and children, were seen, as were four small canoes, with a man in each engaged in fishing, so intent on their occupation that they took no notice of the ship. An old woman also, followed by three children, came out of a thicket, laden with fire-wood, each of the children having its burden. When she reached the huts three more children came out to meet her. She looked often at the ship, but manifested no surprise, and went on with her occupation and kindled a fire. Presently the men landed, hauled up their canoes, and began to dress the fish, apparently unconcerned at the stranger ship within half a mile of them. None of the savages had on a particle of clothing. It was a curious scene, like that of a drama in which the actors take no notice of the spectators.

In this instance, however, the actors were not so indifferent as they at first appeared; for when Captain Cook and several companions approached the shore in one of the boats, although the greater number of the people ran away, two men armed with lances came down on the rocks to dispute the landing of the strangers. (Note 2.) It was not an inapt representation on a small scale of the contest which, ere many years had rolled by, was to begin on these shores between savagedom and civilisation, when the latter would, with giant strides, sweep over and subdue the land. The two brave savages kept flourishing their lances and shouting in discordant tones, and Captain Cook, unwilling to injure them, ordered his crew to lie on their oars while he tried to parley with them. To show also his goodwill, he threw them nails, beads, and other trifles, which they took up and seemed pleased to obtain. They then waved their hands and seemed to invite their visitors on shore, but as soon as the boat approached they hurried again to oppose a landing. Captain Cook, as a last resource, fired a musket between them. On hearing the report the youngest dropped a bundle of lances, but quickly picked them up; while the eldest, as if in defiance, threw a stone at the intruders. Upon this a musket with small shot was fired at his legs, on which he scampered off to the huts. It was hoped that the contest was now over, and accordingly the English stepped on the shore of that vast territory which was to become the heritage of millions of the Anglo-Saxon race. Still the savage was not subdued, and appeared once more with a shield on his arm, and advancing, made one more significant protest against the intrusion of the white man, by hurling a spear into the very midst of the strangers. Happily, no one was hurt, and a third musket loaded with small shot being fired at them, after another spear had been thrown by one of the brave natives, they both took to flight, and the English claimed to be, by right of conquest, the lords of the soil. They might have pursued and overtaken the savages, but Mr Banks suggested that the spears were possibly poisoned, and that it would be imprudent to venture into the woods.

On entering one of the huts some little children were seen partially concealed, but they were not disturbed, and when the English went away, some beads, ribbons, and pieces of cloth were left in the huts as presents, which it was hoped would gain the goodwill of the natives. Fifty spears, from six to fifteen feet long, found lying about, were carried off. It was at first supposed that they were poisoned, but on further examination it was found that they were used for spearing fish, and that the green substance found sticking to them was seaweed.

The next morning a stream was found at which the casks could be filled. While this operation was going on, the natives came down and watched the proceedings with wonder, but did not venture to approach the strangers, though Mr Hicks advanced towards them with presents in his hands, making every sign of friendship he could think of. That the bay was full of fish, and capable of giving food to a large population, Captain Cook had ample proof; for going with Mr Banks and Dr Solander to a cove on the north side of the bay, in three or four hauls with the seine they took above three hundredweight of fish.

An expedition into the country was planned the same day by the commander, Mr Banks, Dr Solander, and seven others, and from it a very fair idea of the general face of the country was obtained. On visiting the huts they found that the natives had not taken away the presents that had been left for them; and others, therefore, of greater value, were added. Presents were left also at all the huts which were passed, in the hope of thus gaining the goodwill of the natives. The trees were tall, straight, and without underwood, and at such a distance from each other that the land might be cultivated without cutting down a tree. The ground was covered with an abundance of grass, growing in tufts close together, about as large as could well be grasped in the hand. Although numerous huts were seen, the natives kept themselves carefully concealed, though probably watching the strangers at a distance; a glimpse only was caught of one man, who instantly ran away. A transient view was got of an animal as big as a rabbit, and of the tracks of another of the size of a wolf, clawed like a dog; traces of a third, which fed on grass, and judged to be not less than a deer in size, were also seen. The trees overhead abounded with birds of various kinds, among which were many of exquisite beauty, particularly loriquets and cockatoos, which flew in scores together. The trees, however, were not of many species; among others was one which yielded a gum not unlike the sanguis draconis.

Many other excursions were made on shore, especially by Mr Banks and Dr Solander, in search of plants, of which they found vast quantities; and from this circumstance Captain Cook gave the place the name of Botany Bay, a name the whole country commonly bore for more than half a century afterwards.

Every effort to establish a friendly intercourse with the natives failed. They had undoubtedly watched, though unperceived, the effect of the white men’s weapons, and from awe and terror kept at a distance; still, when they had an opportunity, they showed their hostility to the strangers, and Mr Monkhouse narrowly escaped a spear thrown at him while he was wandering in the woods.

During the ship’s stay in Botany Bay, Captain Cook had the English colours hoisted every day on a flag-staff on shore, and caused the ship’s name, and the date of her visit, to be engraved on a tree near the watering-place.

At daybreak, on Tuesday, May 6, 1770, the Endeavour sailed from Botany Bay, and at noon the same day, in latitude 33 degrees 50 minutes South, she was abreast of a fine-looking harbour, to which Captain Cook gave the name of Port Jackson. Northerly winds prevented the ship from making much progress till, in latitude 32 degrees 40 minutes, another harbour was seen, and called Port Stephens. The ship continued her course to the north; smoke was frequently seen, and occasionally the natives were observed. The land increased considerably in height as she advanced, and in many places exhibited a pleasing variety of ridges, hills, valleys, and plains, all clothed with wood. A wide, open bay was passed in latitude 27 degrees 6 minutes, and called Moreton Bay.

It had now become necessary to lay the ship ashore, and Captain Cook’s object was to find a place where this might be accomplished with safety. Had he entered Port Jackson, he would have found one of the finest harbours in the world for his purpose. He several times anchored while proceeding along the coast, and landed to explore the country—the natives, as before, running off and hiding themselves. Rockingham Bay was passed and named, in latitude 17 degrees 59 minutes. Hitherto the Endeavour had met with no misfortune; but as she was now to make acquaintance with it, the point seen farthest to the north was called Cape Tribulation. It lies in latitude 16 degrees 4 minutes South, and longitude 145 degrees 26 minutes East.

One beautiful moonlight night, as the ship was speeding on her course with a fair wind, among the shoals of that coral sea, and while most of the officers and crew were tranquilly asleep, she suddenly struck upon a reef, and instantly roused every one on board to the horrors of shipwreck on an inhospitable coast, where they might linger for years without succour. However, the captain and his officers and crew were equal to the emergency, and by throwing everything weighty overboard that could be spared, the ship floated, but was making water rapidly. Had the weather been at all stormy, no human power could have saved their vessel. As it was, the fine weather continued long enough to enable them to draw a sail over the leak. This served the purpose of keeping her in sailing trim, until she was safely moored at the mouth of a creek, which was named Endeavour River. This was on June 17, and they remained there repairing the damage to the ship, as well as circumstances permitted, until August 4.

Although the Endeavour was now out of danger, her captain had still abundant cause for anxiety on another account: in spite of all his care, the fearful malady of scurvy had gained, and was still gaining ground among the ship’s company. Poor Tupia, who all his life had been accustomed to fresh fruit and vegetables, was among the chief sufferers, and symptoms were showing themselves which proved that the malignant disease had already made rapid progress. Mr Green, the astronomer, was also, among many others, stricken and disabled. As soon as possible, therefore, a tent was put up on shore for the reception of the sick, and recourse was had to nets, for providing fresh fish for the invalids.

The ground in the immediate neighbourhood of the river was either swampy, sandy, or stony. Mr Banks, who went on shore with his gun, saw great quantities of pigeons and crows: of the former, which were very beautiful, he shot several. He also saw some deserted human habitations, but no natives.

Four guns having been got up from the hold, were mounted on the quarter-deck of the ship, and the heavy stores and powder were landed, that her damages might be examined. It was, indeed, both wonderful and providential that she had escaped destruction; for not only had the sharp rock torn off the planking and worked its way into the timbers, but one point had cut a hole right through the bottom, and, breaking off, had happily remained fixed. Had it fallen out, no human power could have prevented the ship from foundering. Besides the leak, which was on the starboard side, the ship had sustained very extensive injury on the larboard. The sheathing from the bow on that side was torn off, and a great part of the false keel was gone. The carpenters at once commenced their work; and the forge was set up, that the smiths might make bolts and nails.

While this was going on, some of the people were sent on shore to shoot pigeons for the sick, and on their return they reported that they had found a stream of fresh water, and had seen several native huts, and an animal as large as a greyhound, of slender form, mouse-coloured, and very swift. The next day Captain Cook himself saw the same animal; it had a long tail, and leaped liked a hare or deer, and the prints of its feet were like those of a goat. For some time afterwards nothing more was seen of the animal, which Mr Banks, the naturalist, considered must be of some hitherto unknown species; so, indeed, it was, for it had no congeners in any quarter of the globe previously visited; though now the kangaroo is familiar enough to all readers of natural history, and it forms part of the arms of the colony of New South Wales.

Mr Banks likewise captured an Australian opossum, a female, with two young ones. This class of animal was formerly supposed to be peculiar to America, from whence its name is derived. Being nocturnal in their habits, nothing is to be seen of them in the daytime, unless you can catch a glimpse of one at noontide, sleeping soundly in the hollow of a tree. When night comes, they leap from bough to bough with the greatest animation, especially if it be moonlight. Some species, with thin membranes between the fore and hind paws, can take a flying leap of, sometimes, thirty yards from tree to tree; and hence they are called flying squirrels, though perfectly distinct in their nature, and in some of their habits, from that animal.

The carpenters continued to work hard on the ship whenever the tide permitted them. The position in which she was now placed, with her bow on the bank, naturally threw all the water aft, and from this circumstance the world was very nearly losing the results of Mr Banks’s labours. For greater security he had placed his collection of plants in the bread-room, into which the water ran, and covered them completely. By great care most of them were dried, but many were entirely spoilt.

In consequence of the carpenters being able to work only at low tide, the repairs of the ship proceeded very slowly. In the meantime, however, the people benefited from being on shore, and every effort was made to obtain fresh provisions, calculated to improve their health. The commander himself went to superintend the hauling of the seine; but this was attended with little success, for during one evening only between twenty and thirty fish were caught. A root with leaves like spinach, many cabbage-trees, and a wild plantain, were found, with a fruit of a deep purple colour, of the size of a pippin, which improved on keeping; Mr Banks also discovered a plant, called, in the West Indies, Indian kale, which served for greens. These greens, with a large supply of fish afterwards caught, afforded great relief to the voyagers, who had so long been compelled to live on salt meat. Their fresh provisions were further varied by some large cockles, one of which was of such size that it furnished an ample meal for two men. What was of still greater value was the discovery of some fine turtle by the master, three of which he caught when out surveying; though afterwards, when sent out expressly to find more, he seems to have purposely thwarted the wishes of his commander, who, indeed, had too much cause to complain of the narrow-mindedness and ignorance of several of his officers. Many other turtles were, however, afterwards caught, of a species called the green turtle.

Some time elapsed before one of the animals which had been so much the subject of speculation was shot by Mr Gore. This was a young one, but others were seen equal in size to sheep; the larger sort are, indeed, much larger than sheep. The fore legs of this specimen were only eight inches long, and the hind legs two-and-twenty; its mode of progress being by a succession of hops and leaps, helped by its long tail, with which also it balances itself in its progress. It is easy to imagine the interest with which this curious animal, now seen for the first time by civilised men, was examined by Mr Banks and his brother naturalists. The next day their kangaroo (for so the animal was called by the natives) was dressed for dinner, and proved most excellent. The explorers might now have been said to fare sumptuously every day; for they had an abundance of green turtle, fish, and vegetables of different sorts, with an occasional kangaroo. It was indeed fortunate for the crew of the Endeavour that the accident happened to her in this latitude, instead of farther south, where, although the soil amply rewards the labours of men, yet its spontaneous productions are very inferior to those of the north. Kangaroos certainly would have been found in abundance, and perhaps fish, but scarcely any vegetables fit for the food of man.

Favourably, however, as the navigators were situated for diet, their position in other respects was unsatisfactory. This was ascertained by the captain, who, with Mr Banks, one day started on a long walk northward, partly to obtain a view of the country, but chiefly to take note of appearances seaward. After traversing the country about eight miles, they ascended a high hill, and were soon convinced that the danger of their situation was at least equal to their apprehensions; for in whatever direction they turned their eyes, they saw rocks and shoals without number, and no passage out to sea but through the winding channels between them, which could not be navigated without the last degree of difficulty and peril. The reports of the master were equally unsatisfactory with regard to the shoals and dangers off the mouth of the harbour, and it seems surprising that the ship should have escaped them on her passage up the coasts. Still, as she had got in, there was no doubt that she might get out, could the right passage be found. They had other causes for hope and thankfulness: the natives were not likely to prove troublesome, the climate was healthy, and food abundant.

Besides kangaroos, wild dogs were seen, which were supposed to be foxes or wolves, as they partly resembled both these animals. With the natives for some time no intercourse was opened. At last some appeared on the opposite side of the river, very black, totally naked, and with lances in their hands. The commander judiciously ordered his people to take no notice of them, as the best means of drawing them near. This plan succeeded so well that two of them came off in a canoe to within a musket-shot, and talked very loudly. They were answered in the same tone, and by degrees they drew nearer, when some cloth, nails, beads, paper, and other trifles were thrown to them. Of these things, however, they seemed to take no notice, but were highly pleased when a fish was offered them. Some of them afterwards landed where Tupia and the rest of the crew were sitting, and he prevailed on them to lay down their arms, and to come forward without them. He then made signs that they should sit down by him. With this they complied, and seemed to be under no apprehension or constraint, although on more people going on shore they expressed by their gestures some fear lest the newcomers should get between them and their arms. More presents were made to them, to show the goodwill of the strangers, and their desire to continue on friendly terms. To prove this the Englishmen made signs that they were going to dinner, and invited the blacks to eat with them; the latter, however, declined the honour, and went away in their canoes. These men were of the common stature, but their limbs were remarkably small; their hair was black, but not woolly, some of them wearing it short cropped, others lank and long, and others had it curled. Their colour was dark chocolate, but the tint was owing somewhat to the dirt which covered their skins. They had lively eyes, and their teeth were even and white. The tones of their voices were soft and musical, and there was a flexibility in their organs of speech which enabled them to repeat, with great facility, many English words.

The next day three of the same party of natives paid the strangers a visit with a fourth, whom they introduced as Yaparico. This personage was distinguished by having the bone of a bird, six inches long, thrust through the cartilage of his nose. He seemed to prize this strange ornament as much as a young dandy does his newly raised silken moustache. On examination, all his companions were found to have holes in their ears, as he also had, while on the upper part of their arms they wore bracelets of plaited hair; thus evincing a taste for ornament, although they had not a rag of any sort of clothing. The previous day the only gift they seemed to prize was a fish which was offered them. To-day they brought one in return. They were, however, excessively jealous and suspicious, and in consequence of one of the gentlemen examining their canoe, they at once jumped into her and paddled away.

The following day three natives ventured down to Tupia’s tent, and were so well pleased with the way he received them that they went away and brought two others, whom they introduced to him formally by name; a ceremony they never omitted. Some fish were given to them, but after eating a small portion, they threw the rest to Mr Banks’s dog. They could not be persuaded to go far from their canoe, which was about ten feet long, fitted with an outrigger, and though very inferior, like those of the Society Islands. They used paddles, and in shallow water poled it along.

One day, on the commander’s return from an excursion on shore, he found several natives on board. Of all the articles exhibited to them, nothing seemed to have attracted their attention so much as the turtles, of which there were no less than twelve on deck. Two days afterwards they came again, bringing with them a greater number of lances than before. These they placed in a tree, with a man and a boy to watch them. It was evident that their object was to get one of the turtles. They asked for one by signs, and being refused, appealed to everybody who appeared to them to have any authority. Then seizing one, they attempted to drag it overboard. On its being taken from them, they jumped into their canoe in a rage, and went on shore. Here Mr Banks and others followed them. Before they could be stopped they seized their arms, and, snatching a brand from under a pitch-kettle, they whirled it round with great dexterity and rapidity, and set fire to the grass, which was six feet or more high, and dry as stubble. The fire burnt with fearful rapidity. The woodwork of the smith’s forge was destroyed; it caught a sow and some young pigs, one of which was scorched to death, and Mr Banks had great difficulty in saving his tent, which had been set up for Tupia on shore. Happily most of the stores, with the powder, had been taken back to the ship, or the consequences might have been more serious.

In another place the seamen were washing, and a quantity of linen and the nets were spread out to dry. Here the natives, disregarding all threats and entreaties, again set fire to the grass. By great exertions the fire was extinguished before it had done much damage, but where it had first been kindled it burnt with great fury, and spread into the woods to a long distance. A gun loaded with small shot was now fired at the natives, which put them to flight, one of them being wounded; and to give them a lesson, a bullet was fired to pass near them, and this of course hastened their retreat. It was thought that now they would give no more trouble; but in a short time they came back, and Mr Banks and others went out to meet them.

An old man among the natives then advanced, having a lance in his hand without a point. He came forward slowly, stopping several times, and the English made signs to him that they wished to be friends. On this he turned round and addressed his companions, and they, having set up their arms against a tree, also came forward in a friendly manner. The lances which had been taken from them were then returned; this evidently afforded them great satisfaction, and the reconciliation was considered complete.

Several strangers who were among the party were now introduced by name; and on receiving some presents they went away highly contented.

The next day no natives appeared, but the hills all round, for many miles, were on fire, the effects of which by night were very striking. Had the voyagers been compelled by circumstances to remain on that coast, the result of these fires would have been serious, as the conflagration would have driven the kangaroos and the feathered tribes to a distance, and thus deprived the crew of the Endeavour of some of their principal means of support. But the ship was now ready for sea, though the master had been unable to find any channel to the northward by which an escape could be made from among the coral reefs which hemmed her in.

It was necessary, however, to make the attempt without delay, as provisions and stores were running short, and the proper time for navigating the Indian seas was passing by. They were doomed to have their patience yet further tried, for when all was ready heavy gales prevented the ship from putting to sea.

On July 29 the weather moderated, the wind came off the land, and everything appeared favourable for sailing, when it was found that there was not sufficient water on the bar for the ship to pass over it. For several days more the ship was detained by the unfavourable state of the weather: the detention would have been of still greater consequence had not the boats sent out to catch fish and turtle been tolerably successful. At length, on August 4, Captain Cook had the satisfaction of sailing out of Endeavour Harbour. The ship was surrounded by shoals, and he was yet in doubt whether he should beat back to the southward, or seek a passage to the north or east. He had now a most anxious time, for it was clear that there was no way to sea except through the labyrinth of shoals amid which the ship lay. The navigation of a ship among coral rocks is at all times dangerous, for the lead gives no notice of their vicinity, their sides rising up like walls from almost unfathomable depths.

Night now approaching, the Endeavour anchored, when soon afterwards it came on to blow very hard, and at eleven she began to drive. More cable was veered away, and this brought her up; but in the morning, it coming on to blow harder, she drove again. All the appliances of seamanship were put into operation, but still she drove, when topgallant masts were got down, and yards and topmasts struck; and now, at length, she rode securely.

In this position she continued till the 10th, when, Captain Cook having resolved to search for a passage close in shore to the northward, she got under way, and stood in that direction with the boats exploring ahead. Nothing but the greatest caution, perseverance, and first-rate seamanship could have taken the Endeavour free of the dangers which surrounded her. Hour after hour the sagacious commander was at the mast-head, or away in a boat searching for a passage, while the rest of the boats were employed in a similar service. At length a passage was discovered, and with the boats piloting ahead, the Endeavour stood through it.

A long rolling swell convinced the voyagers that they had no rocks or shoals to fear, but at the same time proved to them that they must not place the same confidence in their ship as before she had struck; for the seas she now encountered so widened the leaks that they admitted no less than nine inches of water an hour, which, considering the state of the pumps and the navigation before them, was a matter of serious consideration.

The great object Captain Cook had now in view was to ascertain whether the coast of New Holland, along which he was sailing, was or was not united to that of New Guinea. He was afraid that, if he stood on long to the north, he might overshoot the passage, should one exist. At six in the evening, therefore, he brought the ship to with her head to the north-east, no land being in sight. The next morning sail was made, and land seen; and as the day advanced a reef appeared over which the sea broke heavily, extending from north to south as far as the eye could reach, with an occasional break between the ship and the land. The wind was then east-south-east; but scarcely had the sails been trimmed to haul off it than the wind shifted to east-by-north, which made it very doubtful whether the ship could clear the reef. The lead was kept going all night while the ship stood to the northward, but no bottom was found, yet at four o’clock the roaring of the surf was distinctly heard, and at break of day it was seen foaming to a vast height at not more than a mile off. The seas, too, which rolled in on the reef rapidly carried the ship towards it. The wind fell to a dead calm, and the depth made it impossible to anchor. The only prospect of saving the ship was by rowing; but the pinnace was under repair and useless: the long-boat and yawl were, however, sent ahead to tow, and sweeps were got out.

Still these efforts could only delay the destruction which seemed inevitable. The ship continued to drive on towards the fatal reef; she was within a hundred yards of it, and the same billow which washed her side broke on the reef to a tremendous height the very next time it rose. The carpenters had been working at the pinnace, and she was now lowered, but even with her assistance the Endeavour drove nearer and still nearer to the reef. At the very moment that her doom seemed fixed a light air sprang up, and, with the help of the boats, gave her once more head-way. Scarcely, however, had ten minutes passed before the wind again dropped, and the ship was driven back towards the roaring breakers. Again the gentle breeze returned, and lasted another ten minutes. During this time an opening had been discovered, and the ship was towed towards it, but so strong a current set through it that she was driven fully a quarter of a mile away from the reef. Aided by the boats, the ebb tide carried her nearly two miles away by noon. When the flood made, however, she was once more carried back towards the reef; but in the meantime the first lieutenant had discovered a passage, and a light breeze springing up, it was resolved to attempt it. The boats continued towing ahead; the raging, roaring sea leaped up on either side; the breeze filled the sails; the tide swept rapidly onward; and in a short time the Endeavour was within the reef, safe from present danger, and anchored in nineteen-fathom water.

Captain Cook now resolved to keep the land close on board, in spite of all dangers, for fear of missing the channel. Numerous islands and headlands were passed and named, and rocks and reefs were escaped, and at length perseverance and sagacity were rewarded by the discovery of York Cape, the northern promontory of the country, and the southern side of Torres Straits, through which the Endeavour triumphantly passed.

As Captain Cook was now about to leave the eastern coast of New Holland, which he had followed up from latitude 38 degrees, and which he was confident no European had ever before seen, he landed on an island, which he named Possession Island, and once more took formal possession of the whole eastern coast of the mainland, in right of His Majesty King George the Third. He gave to the country, with all its bays, rivers, and islands, the name of New South Wales. Three volleys of small arms were then fired, and these were answered by the same number from the ship. Ten natives were seen on the island when this ceremony was performed, and seemed astounded, as they very well might be.

They were seen to be armed with spears; one of them had also a bow and a bundle of arrows, which weapons had not before been seen. Two of them had large ornaments of mother-of-pearl hanging round their necks. It was expected that when the boats approached they would have made a show of opposing a landing, but instead of that, they walked leisurely away. They and their descendants have never been disturbed in their possession of the island, and at the present day it is exactly in the state it was when Cook visited it.

Some time was occupied in the intricate navigation of the straits, and the Endeavour then steered north, along the south-western coast of New Guinea, but the water being shallow, at such a distance from the shore that it could scarcely be seen from the ship. Still, as the commander wished to ascertain the character of the country and the appearance of the inhabitants, he steered in for the land till about three or four miles from it, and in three-fathom water, when the ship came to an anchor on September 3.

The pinnace being hoisted out, Captain Cook, with Mr Banks and his servants, Dr Solander and the boat’s crew, in all twelve persons, well armed, embarked in her and pulled directly for the shore. But the water was so shallow that they could not reach it by about two hundred yards; they therefore waded the rest of the way, and left two seamen to take care of the boat. As yet no inhabitants had been seen, but when the party landed they discovered the print of feet on the sand below high-water mark, showing that people had lately been there. A thick wood came down to within a hundred yards of the water. To avoid the risk of being cut off by an ambush, the explorers proceeded cautiously, skirting the wood till they came to a grove of cocoanut trees of small growth which stood on the bank of a little stream. The trees were well hung with fruit, and near them was a small hut, round which lay a number of the freshly picked shells. Tempting as was the fruit, it was not considered safe to climb the trees to obtain it; they were obliged, therefore, to leave the grove without tasting a nut. Farther on they met with a bread-fruit tree and some plantains, and had got about a quarter of a mile from the boat when three blacks rushed out of the wood with a hideous shout, and ran towards them. The foremost threw something from his hand which burnt like gunpowder, and the other two darted their lances at the strangers. As it was necessary to keep these savages at a distance, they were fired at with small shot, but as this did not make them retreat, and they threw another dart, some bullets were discharged at them. The effect was to make them run; but it was hoped that none of them were wounded. As Captain Cook says, he had no desire to invade the country, either to gratify appetite or curiosity; he judged it right and merciful to retreat at once, so as not to have to destroy more of the ignorant savages. There was no time to lose, as the men in the boat made signs that more natives were collecting. They had succeeded in getting safely on board, when they saw nearly a hundred savages, who shouted and threw fire-darts, several at a time, towards them. On board ship it was supposed, from the effect produced, that the natives had fire-arms, and even from the boat, had they not been so near, the English would have fancied, from the flash and smoke, that the blacks were firing musketry; the sound only was wanting. Some muskets being fired over their heads, they walked leisurely away.

In appearance these natives were very similar to those of New Holland, though their skin was not quite so dark. They were all stark naked. The land was low, and covered with a luxuriance of wood and herbage that can scarcely be conceived. Some of the officers wished to send on shore to cut down the cocoanut trees for the sake of the fruit, but the commander refused to comply with their proposal, feeling that it would be cruel and criminal to risk the lives of the natives, who would certainly try to defend their property, merely for the sake of a transient gratification. The boat was therefore hoisted in, and sail made to the westward.

The more interesting portion of Captain Cook’s first voyage round the world was now accomplished. He had successfully made the important observation for which he was sent out; he had become intimately acquainted with the inhabitants of Otaheite and several of the adjacent islands, though, from the cunning of the people, he had failed to discover that it was among the darkest of “the dark places of the earth.” He had shown that if there was a great southern continent it must be in a very high latitude; he had proved that New Zealand consisted of two great islands, and had cause to suspect the existence of a third smaller one. He had sailed along the coast of New Holland, and had made the acquaintance of its inhabitants and many of its animal and vegetable productions. Though he had seen the coast of Tasmania, and admired its beauty, he had not discovered that it was separated from New Holland; but he had settled the point before in dispute—whether that little-known land was or was not joined to New Guinea—by sailing between them; and he had shown that the eastern coast of the island-continent of Australia was fit to become the habitation of civilised men. This great fact was, after all, the most important result of the voyage.

The condition of the Endeavour had, by this time, become very critical. So battered were her lower timbers and planks, and so out of order were her pumps, that a heavy sea might at any moment have sent her to the bottom. It was absolutely necessary to find a harbour where she might be hove down to undergo a complete refit. Under these circumstances the commander of the expedition determined to go to Batavia, the capital of the Dutch settlements in the island of Java, and at that time the centre of commerce in those seas. He had, indeed, no option, for there was not another port which he could hope to reach, where the ship would receive the necessary repairs. He was not, indeed, ignorant of the unhealthiness of the climate; but he hoped not to be detained there long, and that his hardy crew would be able for a short time to withstand its ill effects.

The first island of any size which the Endeavour sighted after leaving New Guinea was Timor, along the shore of which she coasted. Notwithstanding the wishes of some of his officers, Captain Cook declined to put in there, as he was anxious to reach Batavia without delay. Between that island and Java, however, he fell in with a small island, which at first he thought was a new discovery; but on steering for it, and getting close in with the north side, houses, plantations, and numerous flocks of sheep were seen. The temptation of obtaining fresh meat and vegetables was not to be resisted, as there were many sick on board; and accordingly Mr Gore was sent on shore to open a communication with the natives. Two persons were seen riding on the hills as if for their amusement, and often stopping to look at the ship. This made the voyagers suspect that there must be a settlement of Europeans on the island. Such was in fact the case. The Dutch East India Company had a short time before taken possession of it, and sent a resident to superintend their affairs, though the native rajah or chief was still retained as the nominal ruler of the island. This island proved to be Savu, at that time so little known that it was not to be found on any of the charts on board. It is about thirty miles long, and was then very thickly populated.

In the evening the ship entered a bay before a large native town, over which the Dutch colours were flying, and three guns were fired. The native chief treated the strangers very courteously, and was evidently ready to supply them with all they desired. They were informed that the island abounded in buffaloes, sheep, horses, asses, goats, hogs, dogs, cats, fowls, and pigeons, with most of the fruits of the tropics. The resident, Mr Lange, however, though polite in his manners, very soon showed that he was determined to make a gain of the visitors, and asked the most exorbitant prices for all the provisions they required, besides insisting that they should be paid for in gold. Fortunately, by a well-timed present to an old man, the rajah’s prime minister, his services were engaged, and ultimately, through his means, all the provisions which were required were procured at fair prices. The island was divided into five provinces, with a rajah over each, who could altogether muster upwards of seven thousand fighting men. All the rajahs were said to live on friendly terms with each other, and the inhabitants were described by Mr Lange as being particularly well conducted and moral. Their religion was a kind of paganism, but of a most liberal description, according to the account given by Mr Lange, each man having the liberty to set up a god in his own house, and to worship it after his own fashion. Although, in many instances, the Dutch have been sadly unmindful of the spiritual as well as temporal interests of the inhabitants of their colonial possessions, they had sent to this island a Dutch officer, and a native woman who had been brought up a Christian, charged with the education of the people, and their instruction in the principles of Christianity. The Dutch had also printed versions of the New Testament, a catechism, and several tracts in the language of this and the neighbouring islands. The number of Christians in the township of Seba alone was estimated at six hundred. If the character given by Mr Lange of these islanders was correct, a true Christian missionary would have found a prolific field open to him among them.

The Endeavour left the interesting island of Savu on September 21, 1770, and made Java Head, at the west end of Java, on October 1. Poor Tupia was very ill, and on the morning of the next day a boat was sent on shore to procure some fresh fruit for him, and some grass for the buffaloes, which, with sheep, pigs, and fowls, had recently been got on board. On passing through the Straits of Sunda, the Endeavour was boarded by the Dutch authorities, and various official inquiries were made as to whence she had come, and the object of her voyage. These being answered, she proceeded to Batavia.

Captain Cook and his companions were received into port by the Dutch governor with all the courtesy and kindness which could be expected. Permission was given them to take up their abode in private residences, although strangers were, as a rule, compelled to live at an hotel, under the direct supervision of the authorities. Leave was also obtained to heave down the ship in order to repair her damages, which were found on inspection to be of a very serious nature. Indeed, in one place the planking was so worn by the grinding on the rocks, that it did not exceed the thickness of the sole of a man’s shoe. Her frame in many places was much shattered, and her pumps had become rotten and utterly useless.

Batavia had long had the reputation of being very unhealthy. The crew, however, thought themselves thoroughly seasoned to all climates, and their rosy countenances contrasted favourably with the pale faces of those who had been even a few weeks at the place. All, indeed, with the exception of Tupia, were in good health when they entered the port. Even he revived at the strange sights which met his gaze as he entered, for the first time, a civilised town. The houses, carriages, streets, people, and a number of other novel objects had the effect on him of fascination. Tayeto expressed his wonder and delight with still less restraint, and danced along the street in a kind of ecstasy, examining every object with a restless and eager curiosity. Tupia, remarking the various dresses of the people of different countries, desired likewise to put on his native costume. South Sea cloth was therefore sent for from the ship, in which he immediately equipped himself.

In the course of a few days, however, the effects of the climate began to be felt. Poor Tupia, after the excitement caused by the novelties he witnessed had subsided, experienced a reaction, and every day grew worse and worse. Young Tayeto also was seized with an inflammation of the lungs, and both Dr Solander and Mr Banks and his two servants were taken seriously ill; indeed, almost all the people belonging to the ship, on board or ashore, were sick, affected by the low swampy situation of the place, and the numberless dirty canals which intersected the town in all directions.

Tents were then set up on shore, on Cooper’s Island, for the ship’s company, and one was also pitched, by Mr Banks’s desire, for Tupia, who was anxious to escape from the close air of the town. Mr Banks accompanied him, and remained with him for two days, till compelled by his own illness (a regular tertian ague) to return to his lodgings. Mr Monkhouse, the surgeon of the ship, was the first victim, and Dr Solander could with difficulty crawl out of lied to attend his funeral, which Mr Banks, from illness, was unable to do. On the 9th the poor young boy Tayeto died, and Tupia, who loved him as a son, was so much affected that he rapidly sank, and in two days followed him to the grave. The lives of Mr Banks and Dr Solander were saved by their removal to a healthy spot, some miles from the city. Altogether, seven persons who had come in the ship were buried at Batavia; but many others imbibed the seeds of disease, which, in a short time, proved fatal.

Every possible assistance which Captain Cook required was given by the Dutch governor, and on December 26th, 1770, having taken leave of him and the principal people in the place, the voyagers set sail from Batavia with a light breeze from south-west. At that time the number of sick on board amounted to forty, and the rest of the ship’s company were in a very feeble condition. Every man had been ill except one, the sail-maker, who was upwards of seventy years of age; he, however, was among those who died on the passage to the Cape of Good Hope.

After leaving Java, the Endeavour touched at Prince’s Island, where she took in water and fresh provisions. Shortly afterwards, dysenteries and slow fevers appeared, and so violent were the symptoms that the ship was a complete hospital, those who were able to move about being insufficient to attend to the sick in their hammocks. Mr Banks was so ill that his life was despaired of. Mr Green, Mr Sporing, Mr Parkinson, the natural history painter, with Mr Monkhouse, and many others, three-and-twenty persons in all, in addition to the seven buried at Batavia, died before the ship reached the Cape of Good Hope. On March 15 the Endeavour anchored in Table Bay, near the Cape of Good Hope, where Captain Cook’s first care was to provide a place for the sick on shore. Here the greater number recovered, though some were still ill when again taken on board. The country appeared to the voyagers to be of a most sterile and forlorn character, and from the accounts they received of the great distances from each other at which the settlers were situated, they conjectured that such must be the general nature of the country in the interior. Possibly the Dutch settlers may not have been anxious to praise it to the English, as it must have been obvious that it would prove a very important possession, on account of our extensive commerce with the East Indies.

Cape Town, at that time, consisted of about a thousand houses, neatly built of brick, and white-washed on the outside, with thatched roofs. The streets were broad and commodious, and through the principal street ran a canal, with rows of oaks planted on either side, but, on account of the slope of the ground, having numerous locks. The healthiness of the climate of Cape Town contrasted favourably with that of Batavia, and most of the sick rapidly recovered. The Dutch, at this time, appear to have been living on friendly terms with all the neighbouring tribes of natives, nor did Captain Cook seem to be aware that any of the Hottentots were reduced to a state of slavery. He speaks only of their being servants to the Dutch farmers, and taking care of their cattle. Their only enemies were the bushmen, who never engaged in open warfare, but stole the cattle of their neighbours at night, being armed with lances and poisoned arrows.

The Endeavour left Table Bay on April 14, and after calling at Robin Island, a Dutch convict station, she proceeded with her voyage on the 25th. On that day she lost her master, whose health had been destroyed by intemperate habits, and just before she reached England her first lieutenant, Mr Hicks, died of consumption, from which he had been suffering the greater part of the voyage; thus making up a long catalogue of deaths since the ship left England. Mr Hicks was succeeded by Mr Charles Clerke, who accompanied Captain Cook in his subsequent voyages, and was highly esteemed by his commander, as well as by all who sailed under him.

On May 1 the Endeavour called off Saint Helena, then known only as the summit of a submarine mountain, the water round it being of unfathomable depth; although the island was of especial importance to Indiamen, as it was the only British possession at which they could call on their voyage. Here the Endeavour found the Portland man-of-war, commanded by Captain Elliot, and twelve sail of Indiamen. In company with this fleet, she stood out of the roads on May 4. But finding that his ship sailed more heavily than the rest of the fleet, Captain Cook deposited his logs, or ship’s papers, and some of the journals of his officers, with Captain Elliot; and on the 23rd not one of the ships was in sight.

By this time the rigging and sails of the Endeavour had become so bad that every day something was giving way. But, notwithstanding this, she continued her course in safety, and on June 10 land, which proved to be the Lizard Point, was seen by Nicholas Young, the same boy who first sighted New Zealand. On the 12th the ship came to an anchor in the Downs, and Captain Cook went on shore at Deal.

The importance of the voyage just described can be better appreciated by the present generation than it could have been by those who were alive at the time of its conclusion. Captain Cook’s own modest summary of it is interesting. He says:—

“I sailed from Deptford July 30, 1768; from Plymouth August 26; touched at Madeira, Rio de Janeiro, and Straits of Le Maire; and entered the South Pacific Ocean, by Cape Horn, in January, the following year.

“I endeavoured to make a direct course to Otaheite, and, in part, succeeded; but I made no discovery till I got within the tropic, when I fell in with Lagoon Island, Two Groups, Bird Island, Chain Island, and on April 13 arrived at Otaheite, where I remained three months, during which time the observations on the transit of Venus were made.

“I then left it; discovered and visited the Society Isles, and Oheteroa; thence proceeded to the south till I arrived in the latitude of 40 degrees 22 minutes, longitude 147 degrees 29 minutes West; and on October 6 fell in with the east side of New Zealand. I continued exploring the coast of this country till March 1, 1770, when I quitted it and proceeded to New Holland, and having surveyed the eastern coast of that vast country, which part had not before been visited, I passed between its northern extremity and New Guinea; landed on the latter, touched at the island of Savu, thence to Batavia, the Cape of Good Hope, Saint Helena, and arrived in England on July 12, 1771.”

On their arrival in London, Cook and his companions were received by the scientific, as well as by the great and fashionable world, with the attention and respect they so well-deserved; for no previous expedition undertaken by England had been more generally successful. Cook was promoted to the rank of Commander, his commission being dated August 29, 1771. He was also introduced to the King at Saint James’s Palace, and had the honour of presenting the journal of his voyage, illustrated by maps and charts; while their Majesties the King and Queen, and numerous people of high rank and attainments, took delight in listening to the accounts given by the explorers of their adventures, and in examining the specimens of manufactures and of natural history which they had brought home.

It was not, however, present éclat, nor the apparent magnitude of the discoveries made, but their consequences, which rendered this voyage of real importance. The ultimate result was the founding of two nations of the Anglo-Saxon race; and whatever cause there may be to question, if not to condemn, the manner in which possession has been obtained of distant countries, and in which, also, their colonisation has been effected, in almost every instance, and by almost all nations having the power which civilisation gives, it must still be borne in mind that God has overruled, and is overruling, these transactions for His own glory and for the spiritual benefit of the world. He makes not only “the wrath,” but the ambition, and pride, and cupidity of man “to praise Him;” and then the remainder “He restrains.” And all circumstances are made, in His infinite wisdom and power, to advance the spread of “the glorious Gospel of the blessed God,” and to usher in the kingdom of Him whose right it is to reign, even of Christ Jesus, the Prince of peace, the Lord of lords, and the King of kings.

With regard to the discoveries made in the voyage just recorded, it is almost superfluous to say that the countries then visited for the first time by our countrymen have, after the lapse of a century, become familiar as household words to the whole world. Australia, Tasmania, and New Zealand have become component parts of the British empire, and have already been made the home of hundreds of thousands of the crowded population of the British Isles, as well as of emigrants from other European countries; and these lands will, probably, before another century has passed away, become centres, not only of civilisation, but of evangelical truth and saving faith. And herein the Christian reader will and must rejoice.

Note 1. The names of several places visited by Captain Cook have, in course of time, been varied or altered. In this work, however, it has been thought proper generally to adhere to the original nomenclature.

Note 2. A tablet has been placed to mark the spot where Captain Cook and his party landed, and may be seen in the engraving.

Note 3. If this was so understood at the time, we must lament that our countrymen should have consented to take part in what must be considered as a profane farce.

Chapter Three.

Second Voyage of Discovery. June 1772 to July 1775.

It had long been the opinion of geographers that a great southern continent existed; and in 1738 a French expedition, under Monsieur Lozier Bouvet, had been sent out in search of it. On January 1, 1739, he got sight of land, in latitude 45 degrees 20 minutes, and longitude 25 degrees 47 minutes East from Teneriffe. It was, according to his description, a lofty and steep cape, backed by mountains mostly covered with snow, while the coast had so broad a fringe of ice that it was impossible to approach it near enough to make any thorough examination. In remembrance of the day of discovery, the cape, which was supposed to be part of the southern continent, was called Cape de la Circoncision.

It had been supposed, before the return of Cook from his first voyage, that New Zealand, New Holland, and New Guinea formed part of the great southern land, which was generally denominated Terra Australis Incognita.

Cook, indeed, dispelled this idea by proving that these three territories were islands; but the question as to the existence of the great southern land still remained to be proved.

The subject was under discussion by men of science when the Endeavour returned from her first voyage; and the Royal Society soon afterwards resolved to recommend the despatch of another expedition, for the purpose of attempting to settle the question. An offer of the command of this exploratory voyage was at once made to Captain Cook, who gladly accepted it—the selection of ships suitable for the purpose being wisely left to his judgment. The qualities he considered essential were great capacity, or stowage room, a rig easily worked, a size not too large to enter small harbours, and a build which would enable the vessel to take the ground and be easily got off again.

The Endeavour, having been sent out to the Falkland Islands as a store ship, was not available; two more vessels, therefore, made by the same ship-builder as the Endeavour, were purchased at Hull. The largest, named the Resolution, was of four hundred and sixty-two tons burden; and the other, called the Adventure, was three hundred and thirty-six tons. Captain Cook took possession of the former, as commander of the expedition; and Tobias Furneaux, who had been second lieutenant with Captain Wallis, was promoted and appointed to serve under Cook in command of the Adventure.

Captain Cook’s first lieutenant was Robert Cooper; his second, Charles Clerke, who had accompanied him on his previous voyage, as had also his third lieutenant, Richard Pickersgill, and the lieutenant of marines, John Edgecombe, with two of the warrant and several of the petty officers.

Mr Banks and Dr Solander had intended going, but not finding the accommodation on board which they considered necessary for the comfort and convenience of themselves and their attendants, they gave up the project. So great, however, was the public enthusiasm on the subject of the expedition, that, according to Boswell, even Dr Johnson thought of applying for leave to accompany it, though, if he ever seriously entertained the wish, it was speedily abandoned.

Two astronomers, Mr William Wales and Mr William Bayley, were engaged by the Board of Longitude—the former sailing in the Resolution, the latter in the Adventure. The Admiralty appointed, as landscape-painter, Mr William Hodges; and Mr John Reinhold Forster, and his son, were engaged to attend to the department of natural history. The Board of Longitude also amply furnished the expedition with the best astronomical and other instruments which might be required, and with four watch-machines, as chronometers were then called. Lord Sandwich, who was at the head of the Admiralty Board, anxiously watched the equipment of the ships, visiting them from time to time to satisfy himself that everything was done in the best way to secure the success of the undertaking and the comfort and health of those on board.

Captain Cook had, in his former voyage, paid great attention to the means best adapted for preserving the health of his crew, and he had seen the importance of having an ample supply of provisions of an anti-scorbutic character. He also endeavoured to have the ship well dried and ventilated, and determined, as far as possible, that the men’s clothes should be kept dry, and their persons clean. Each ship had two years and a half provisions on board, and among other articles were wheat and sugar (in lieu of oatmeal), oil, malt, salted cabbage, portable broth, mustard, marmalade of carrots, and inspissated juice of wort, from which beer could be at once made. The frame of a vessel of twenty tons was put on board each ship, to be set up, if found necessary, to serve as tenders, or to enable the crews to escape should the ships be wrecked. The Resolution had a complement of one hundred and twelve officers and men, and the Adventure of eighty-one. Fishing-nets and hooks of all sorts, articles to barter with the natives or to bestow as presents, and additional clothing for the crews were put on board. Medals also were struck, with the likeness of his Majesty on one side, and of the two ships on the other, to be given to the inhabitants of newly-discovered countries, as memorials of the explorers’ visit. Indeed, no expedition with a similar object in view had ever left the shores of England so well equipped in every respect as was the one now about to sail.

The Resolution, being ready for sea, sailed from Deptford on April 9, 1772; but after being joined by the Adventure, she was detained by contrary winds till May 10, when, both again sailing, the Resolution was found to be so crank (Note 1) that it was necessary to lower her upper works, and for this purpose she put into Sheerness. Lord Sandwich and Sir Hugh Palliser went down to see the alterations made in an effectual manner. On June 22, the ship, being again ready for sea, sailed from Sheerness and joined the Adventure in Plymouth Sound on July 3. Thus it will be seen that there was a delay of nearly three months after the expedition was supposed to be ready, before it was fully prepared for sea. Lord Sandwich and Sir Hugh Palliser again visited the ships in Plymouth Sound, and the chronometers being set going in the presence of the astronomers and the chief officers, the ships at length, on July 13, set sail and shaped a course for Madeira.

Anchoring in Funchal Roads on the 29th, and having taken on board fresh beef and vegetables, including onions, for sea stores, the ships sailed again on August 1. Finding their water run short, they put into Porto Praya, in the island of Saint Jago, one of the Cape de Verde Islands, for a supply. On October 29 the land of the Cape of Good Hope was made, but as the ships were unable to get in before dark, they stood off and on during the night. In the evening the phosphorescence of the sea became unusually brilliant; and to convince Mr Forster, who differed from Mr Banks and Dr Solander that it was caused by insects, some buckets of water were drawn up from alongside. On examination he found that the water was full of globular insects of the size of a pin’s head, and quite transparent.

The next day the ships anchored off Cape Town, where Captain Cook and his officers were received by the Governor and other authorities with attention and respect. The Governor informed Captain Cook that a French ship had discovered land in the meridian of the Mauritius, in latitude 48 degrees South; and also that in the previous March two French ships, under Monsieur Marion, had touched at the Cape on their way to explore the South Pacific.

The expedition quitted the Cape of Good Hope on November 22, and steered a course towards Cape Circumcision, which was the first object for which they were directed to search. They soon found the weather very cold, when warm clothing was issued; and having encountered a heavy gale, with hail and rain, which drove them far to the eastward of their course, all hope of reaching the looked-for cape was given up. Owing, also, to the severity of the weather, and the sudden transition from dry heat to extreme cold and wet, the ships’ companies suffered a severe misfortune in the loss of nearly all the live-stock (consisting of sheep, hogs, and geese) which they had brought with them from Cape Town. This weather continued for the greater part of the time the ships remained in that high latitude. On December 10 an island of ice was seen in latitude 50 degrees 40 minutes South and 2 degrees 0 minutes East of the Cape of Good Hope. After this thick, hazy weather again came on, with sleet and snow. The ships continued their course, the Resolution leading, when an iceberg, directly for which they were steering, was discovered through the mist not a mile off. It was about fifty feet high, flat at top, about half a mile in circumference, and its sides, against which the sea broke furiously, rose perpendicularly from the ocean. Captain Furneaux, who was astern, took this ice for land, and hauled off from it; and there is no doubt that many navigators who have reported land in these latitudes have been deceived in the same way.

Nothing could be more trying to the explorers than the navigation in which they were now engaged, day after day tacking off and on among large fields of ice, through which they in vain endeavoured to find a passage to the southward, with the constant risk, in thick weather, of running foul of icebergs, or of getting fast in the packed ice which might any moment enclose them, while all the time they were exposed to storms of snow and sleet, with a constant frost, although it was the middle of summer. Dangerous as it was sailing among icebergs, or, as Captain Cook calls them, ice-rocks, especially in thick weather, the ships were in still greater peril when surrounded by packed ice, which consisted of huge slabs, of great thickness, varying from thirty or forty feet down to three or four feet square, packed close together, and often piled one on another. Stout as were the ships, it was not expected that they could resist the enormous pressure to which they would be subjected should they get caught in such frozen bonds. It was the opinion of those on board that this sort of ice was formed only in bays and rivers, and that therefore they must be near land, which was eagerly though vainly looked-for. So severe was the cold that an iceberg examined by the master had no water running down it, as is generally the case in summer.

Captain Cook now steered to the west, in the hope of getting round the ice; but though he held on this course for some time, both to the south and west of the supposed position of Cape Circumcision, he neither fell in with it, nor did he observe any of the usual indications of land. Various birds, however, were seen, and several of them were shot; but as they would find roosting-places on the ice islands, they might have come a very great distance from the land. Thus, the penguins, which were seen in great numbers on some icebergs, and are supposed never to go far from land, might have come a very great distance over the ice from their native haunts. Be that as it may, no land was seen by either vessel, notwithstanding the diligent search made for it.

On December 31, while the ships were still surrounded by ice, a strong gale sprang up, with a heavy sea, which made it very dangerous for them to remain in the position in which they then were. The peril was yet further increased by an immense field of ice which appeared to the north, extending from north-east by east to south-west by west, and between two and three miles off. The ships received several severe blows from masses of ice of the largest size. Providentially, they got clear by the afternoon, for at that time the wind increased so much that it was necessary to haul the top-sails and to strike topgallant masts. The next day the wind abated, but the weather continued thick and hazy, with sleet and snow which froze on the rigging as it fell, and ornamented the whole of it with icicles. At length the longitude in which the looked-for cape was supposed to lie was reached, and as the ships were far to the southward of the latitude in which Captain Bouvet stated he had seen it, no doubt remained that he had mistaken lofty icebergs, surrounded by loose or field ice, for land, as Captain Cook and his officers had already been deceived on the first day they fell in with field ice.

When the weather became finer the ships were able to fill up their water-casks with pure fresh water, by collecting masses of ice, and then hanging them up to allow any salt which might have adhered to them to run off. Whenever the weather permitted, the astronomers were employed in making observations, and the naturalists in collecting birds, the only objects they had the means of obtaining.

The antarctic circle was crossed on January 17, in longitude 39 degrees 35 minutes East; and on the evening of that day the whole sea to the south and west appeared covered with ice, though shortly before none was in sight. In this space thirty-eight ice islands, great and small, were counted, besides loose ice in abundance, so that the ships were obliged to luff to avoid one piece, and to bear up to escape another, as they proceeded to the south. At length a compact mass, from sixteen to eighteen feet high, appearing to the south, without any opening, Captain Cook altered his course to the north. A number of whales were now seen sporting about the ice, and several flocks of antarctic petrels. The ships did not alter their course an hour too soon, for that night a heavy gale sprang up which would have rendered their position very dangerous. After this, search was in vain made for the land said to have been seen by the French captain in the longitude of the Mauritius.

On February 8, during thick weather, the Adventure was separated from the Resolution, and though, according to arrangement, Captain Cook cruised for three days about the spot where his consort had last been seen, and continued burning blue lights and firing guns, he was compelled at last to give up the search. On the night of the 17th the aurora presented a very beautiful appearance. It was first seen in the east, and, gradually rising, formed a brilliant arch across the heavens, with a light sufficiently strong to cast shadows on the deck, and at one time to allow a book to be read. A description of the incidents met with during this part of the voyage would not prove generally interesting. One, however, must not be omitted.

The Resolution being off a large ice island, round which there was a quantity of loose ice, Captain Cook sent two boats to take some on board. The island was not less than half a mile in circumference, and its summit three or four hundred feet above the surface of the sea. While the boats were thus engaged in its neighbourhood, it was seen to bend over till it turned nearly bottom up, though it seemed by the change not to have lost either in height or size. The boats escaped without damage from their dangerous position.

During all the time, up to the separation of the two ships, the crews had enjoyed generally excellent health. A few slight symptoms of scurvy had appeared, but they were quickly subdued by a liberal use of the remedies which had been supplied. The fresh wort made from malt seems to have been very efficacious in arresting the malady. Occasionally, too, when the weather allowed, the men’s bedding and clothes were spread on deck to air, and the ship was smoked and cleaned between decks. This prevented the crews from contracting those diseases which have proved so fatal on board ships where they have been neglected.

At length, by the middle of March, the antarctic summer being nearly over, and his crew requiring rest and his ship refitting, Captain Cook shaped a course which would soon bring her into a more genial clime. He had purposed visiting Van Diemen’s Land, but as the wind would not allow him to shape a course for that country, he steered for New Zealand, which was sighted on March 25. A heavy gale compelled him to keep at sea, but the following day he entered Dusky Bay, at the south-west end of Tavai Poenammoo, or the Middle Island, as it is now called. This was on Friday, March 26, after having been one hundred and seventeen days at sea, and sailed over three thousand six hundred and sixty leagues, or nearly ten thousand miles, without having once sighted land. Only one man, and he of a naturally bad habit of body, had been seriously ill; and Cook attributed the excellent health of his crew, partly to the frequent airing and sweetening of the ship by fires, etcetera, and partly to the portable broth, sweet-wort, pickled cabbage, and sour-krout. Although no discovery, except of a negative character, was made during this part of the voyage, we cannot but admire the hardihood and perseverance, the skill and courage, exhibited by the great navigator during the whole of that trying time.

A secure harbour having been found by Lieutenant Pickersgill in Dasky Bay, where the ship could lie close to the shore, she was warped into it and moored, her yards being locked in the branches of the trees; there being also, a hundred yards from her stern, a fine stream of fresh water. No place could have been better suited for refitting the ship and refreshing the crew, and both officers and men enjoyed their stay at this healthy and beautiful spot. Places were forthwith cleared of trees to set up the observatory, the forge, and the tents for the sail-makers and coopers. At the captain’s suggestion, wholesome beer was brewed from the leaves of a tree resembling the American black spruce, mixed with the inspissated juice of wort and molasses. The constant attention of the great navigator to the most minute points calculated to maintain or improve the health of those placed under his charge cannot be too strongly commended. Throughout his journals notices constantly occur which show that whenever anti-scorbutic vegetables, or herbs of any sort, were required, he did not entrust the search to others, but went himself to look for them. It is sad to reflect how indifferent to his example many other navigators have been, especially the masters of merchantmen; and that even at the present day, notwithstanding all the assistance which science is able to render, their crews often suffer fearfully from scurvy.

Shooting and fishing parties now went out constantly, and an ample supply of wild-fowl was obtained. The bay was also surveyed, and found to contain several good harbours. Some exploring expeditions for short distances into the exterior were also started, but very few natives were met with. There appeared, indeed, to be only three or four families settled in the neighbourhood, and it was not understood why they had separated themselves from their countrymen; but it was conjectured that they were the remnant of a tribe which, in one of the frequent native wars, had escaped massacre. Only one of these families became intimate with the strangers, in whom they showed unusual confidence by taking up their quarters very near to the watering-place.

These people evinced little astonishment at sight of a few sheep and goats which, having escaped the effects of the cold, were taken on shore, but stared at them with what appeared to be stupid insensibility; and when various articles of European manufacture were offered to them they received these gifts with indifference, except, indeed, hatchets and spike-nails, the value of which they could comprehend.

After some further acquaintance, the head of this family and his daughter were persuaded to visit the ship. Before venturing on board, he presented to the captain a piece of cloth and a green talc hatchet; he gave another to Mr Forster, and the girl gave one to Mr Hodges. This custom of making presents had been found common with the natives of the South Sea Islands, but had not before been observed among the New Zealanders. After these propitiatory gifts were received, and before stepping on to the stage which led to the deck, the native took a small green branch in his hand, with which he several times struck the ship’s side, while he also repeated a speech or prayer. When this ceremony was concluded he stepped on deck.

On taking leave of this New Zealander, Captain Cook was presented by him with another piece of native cloth, with the expression of a wish for a cloak in return. One of red baize was accordingly given to him, and seemed to afford great satisfaction. Thus far, therefore, on this visit, intercourse with these aborigines of the new country was pleasant and successful.

Other natives were afterwards seen by some of the explorers, who were on a shooting expedition. These set up a hideous noise, and were with difficulty persuaded to approach and lay down their spears. At last one of them came forward, with a plant in his hand, one end of which he presented to Captain Cook, while he himself held the other. He then began a long speech with frequent pauses, and as soon as the captain replied—of course, not understanding a word that was said—the savage proceeded in his harangue. This done, he took off his cloak, which he put on the captain’s shoulders, and seemed to consider that their peace was established. The natives followed the English to the boat, and seeing some muskets lying across the stern, desired them to be taken away, having probably observed their effects on the wild ducks. They then assisted to launch the boat, but it was necessary to keep a watchful eye on them, for they wanted to take away everything in the boat on which they could lay hands. No canoes were observed belonging to these people, two or three logs of wood tied together serving them for crossing rivers; indeed, fish and fowl were so plentiful that they had not far to go in order to procure food.

In accordance with Cook’s desire to benefit the countries he visited, he took five geese which he had brought from the Cape of Good Hope, and left them in a retired cove (which was on that account called Goose Cove), in hope that they might there multiply and be useful to future inhabitants. A garden was also dug, and, with the same object in view, various sorts of garden seeds were sown in it.

On April 28, the tents and other articles being taken on board, the Resolution once more got under way, though, owing to light and contrary winds, it was not till May 11 that she was fairly at sea. She then proceeded along the west coast, towards Queen Charlotte’s Sound, in Cook’s Straits, between the two islands. Nothing of importance occurred till the ship was about three leagues to the westward of Cape Stephens, when just as it fell calm six waterspouts appeared round her, four between her and the land, and one outside; the sixth in the south-west, two or three miles off. Progressing in a crooked line to the north-east, it passed within fifty yards of her stern. A gun had been got ready to fire into it when it should come nearer. The diameter of the base was about sixty feet, the sea within which was much agitated, and foamed up to great height. From this the water appeared to be carried in a spiral stream up to the clouds. Some of the seamen said that they saw a bird in it, which was whirled round like the fly of a jack. During the time the waterspouts were in sight there were light puffs of wind from all points of the compass, while occasionally large drops of rain fell.

On the 18th the Resolution appeared off Queen Charlotte’s Sound, where, greatly to the satisfaction of all on board, her consort, the Adventure, was found to be awaiting her. Her boats soon came out, and the Resolution was brought to an anchor in Ship Cove, close to her. Captain Furneaux at once came on board, and gave Captain Cook a narrative of his proceedings after being separated from him. Having in vain looked-for the Resolution, he bore away to the north, till Van Diemen’s Land was sighted. He sailed along the east coast for some distance, some parts of which appeared fertile and thickly populated. The Adventure lay within Maria Island for five days, to take in wood and water, and then proceeded to the north along shore. For some distance no land was seen, but as the soundings were very regular, Captain Furneaux was of opinion that no straits existed between New Holland and Van Diemen’s Land, but only a very deep bay. Having come to this erroneous opinion, he bore away for New Zealand, and had been five weeks in Ship Cove when the Resolution appeared. He had kept up a friendly intercourse with the natives, who frequently asked for Tupia, and seemed much concerned when told that he was dead.

While at Queen Charlotte’s Sound Captain Cook had a garden planted, as before, and gave the natives some potatoes, explaining their use and the mode of cultivating them. A pair of goats and a boar and two sows were put on shore, in the hopes of their multiplying. A ewe and ram, which had been brought with great trouble and care to the place, were also landed, but the following day were found dead, from having eaten some poisonous plant.

An idea had prevailed on board the Adventure that the natives were ready to sell their children. This Captain Cook soon proved to be incorrect. Their object in bringing them on board was to obtain presents for them. A man brought his son, a boy of about ten years of age, and at first Captain Cook fancied from what he had heard that the object of the father was to sell him, but he soon found that it was merely to obtain a white shirt, which was given. The boy was so proud of it that he went about showing it to everybody he met, till he encountered old Will, the goat, who, making a butt at him, knocked him over in some dirt, sadly soiling his shirt. The boy considered the mischief irreparable, and was afraid of appearing before his father. At last he was brought in by Mr Forster, when he told a lamentable story against the great “dog”—nor was he comforted till his shirt was washed and dried. Captain Cook justly remarks in his journal that this incident shows how easily people can be deceived, when ignorant of the language, as to the customs and habits of the natives of foreign countries.

While these friendly natives were on board, a strange canoe full of people entered the harbour. The natives on seeing them said they were enemies, and two of them mounted the arm chests on the poop, one armed with a native hatchet, and the other with a spear, and, in bravado, bade their enemies defiance. The rest who were on board, jumping into their canoe, went on shore, probably to secure their women and children. The two who remained begged Captain Cook to fire at the strangers. The latter, however, came on board, apparently without having had any evil intentions, and peace was soon established among all parties. The strangers at once asked for Tupia, and hearing that he was dead, one or two expressed their sorrow in a way which appeared more formal than real.

A brisk trade was soon established with the newcomers; but the thoughtless seamen were so ready to give even the clothes off their backs for the merest trifles, neither useful nor ornamental, that the captain was compelled to dismiss the strangers. He afterwards crossed the harbour with Mr Forster and one of the officers to a spot where a hundred natives—men, women, and children—were collected, with six canoes, and apparently all their utensils. These they seem always to carry with them when they go even a short distance from home, lest they should be stolen by their enemies in their absence.

The state of constant warfare and consequent distrust in which they lived, especially in the Middle Island, was very evident, for they were generally found on their guard, travelling or working with their weapons in their hands; even the women were seen occasionally armed with spears. Captain Cook had reason to believe that the entire population of the Sound had changed since he was there in 1770, as he could not recognise the face of a single person he then knew. Those who asked for Tupia had possibly not seen him, but had only heard of him from their countrymen, among whom he was very popular. The immorality of the natives met with during their visit to New Zealand appears to have been very flagrant, and it is sad to reflect that advantage was taken of it by the seamen, without the slightest rebuke or censure from their superiors; indeed, it cannot be discovered from the journals of the officers that they were at all aware of their duties as a Christian people with regard to heathen savages whose shores they visited.

The king’s birthday was spent with the usual festivities, the officers of the two ships dining together.

On June 7, 1773, the two ships put out to sea, with the intention of exploring all the unknown parts of the ocean between the meridian of New Zealand and Cape Horn. In case of separation they were to rendezvous at Otaheite, where Captain Furneaux was to wait till August 20, and then to proceed to Queen Charlotte’s Sound. If not joined at that place before November 20 by Captain Cook, he was to put to sea, and carry out the instructions he had received from the Admiralty. Cook’s object in attempting to explore in so high a latitude during the winter season was to get some of the work done which would otherwise have occupied the precious months of summer; and besides, he wished to show future navigators that it would be practicable to make discoveries even in the depths of winter.

After leaving New Zealand, the course steered was generally about north-east, so that the ships soon got into a warm latitude, and the men once more put on their cool clothing. Sad news was brought on board the Resolution at this time, June 29. It was that scurvy had broken out on board the Adventure; that her cook had died, and that twenty men were ill with that complaint and the flux. The Resolution had only three men on the sick-list, and but one of these had the scurvy. A few others, showing symptoms of it, were supplied with wort, marmalade of carrots, and thickened juice of lemons. It appeared that the crew of the Adventure, during the six weeks they were in Queen Charlotte’s Sound, had eaten no vegetables, partly from not knowing what herbs to gather, and also from the inveterate dislike of the seamen to a new diet. Captain Cook had, from the first, when he thought it necessary, insisted on having wild celery, scurvy grass, and other herbs boiled with the pease and wheat, both for officers and men; and though some refused to eat it, he was firm, and would allow no other food to be served out, so that at last the prejudice wore off. Captain Furneaux instantly made use of all the remedies in his power, and his people improved in health. Still it was necessary for their sakes to put into harbour where vegetables could be procured, and a course was accordingly steered for Otaheite.

Several small low islands, clothed with cocoanut trees, were seen, but the necessity of reaching a harbour without delay prevented their examination.

On August 15, Osnaburg Island, or Maitea, was seen, and the ships then steered for Oaiti-piha Bay, near the south-east end of Otaheite, in order to procure there such refreshments as the place could afford.

At daybreak they found themselves not half a league from a reef, towards which the scud of the sea rapidly sent them, the wind having completely fallen. The depth was too great to anchor, and the boats failed to tow the ships off. A number of natives came off with provisions, but seemed totally unconscious of the dangerous position of the ships. It was curious that, though they recognised Captain Cook and those who had been there before, no one asked for Tupia.

The position of the ships became more and more critical; the captain had hoped to get round the end of the reef, but as they drew nearer and nearer this hope vanished, and shipwreck seemed certain. Just then a passage was discovered through the reef, but a boat being sent ahead to sound, it was found that there was not water sufficient for the ships to pass over: indeed, so strongly did the flood-tide set towards it, that the Resolution seemed nearer than ever to destruction. The horrors of shipwreck stared the explorers in the face; there was no wind to fill their sails; the boats were powerless; the only means of saving the ships was to anchor; but would the anchors hold? They were let go, and the Resolution was brought up in less than three-fathom water, striking at every fall of the sea, while the Adventure brought up close on her bow without striking. Kedge anchors and hawsers were now carried out, and found ground; by hauling on these the ship was got afloat, but there was a fear that these would come home or be cut by the rocks, and nothing could then have saved the Resolution. Happily, they held on till the tide turned, when a light breeze coming off the land both vessels made sail, and got out of danger, though with the loss of several anchors and cables.

The next day the ships anchored in Oaiti-piha Bay, about two cables’ length from the shore. Both ships were crowded with natives, who brought off cocoanuts, plantains, bananas, apples, yams, and other fruits and vegetables, which they exchanged for nails and beads. Presents of shirts and axes were made to several who called themselves chiefs, or earees, and who promised to bring off hogs and fowls, which, however, they did not do. These earees did not scruple to pilfer whatever came in their way, and one of them, who pretended to be very friendly, was found handing articles which did not belong to him out of the quarter-galley. As his companions on deck were behaving in the same way, they were all turned out of the ship, and two muskets were fired over the head of the chief offender to frighten him. On this, he jumped out of his canoe, which, with two others, was brought on board, and a gun was fired along shore, but so as not to hurt any one. This soon cleared the coast. In one of the canoes was a little boy, who was at first very much frightened, but beads were given to him, and he was sent in safety on shore. This quickly restored the confidence of the natives, and all by the evening were again good friends.

The intercourse with the natives now went on with tolerable smoothness, though their thieving propensities frequently nearly brought about a rupture. On one occasion, in Captain Cook’s presence, a native seized the musket of one of the guards on shore, and made off with it. Some of the seamen were sent after him, but he would have escaped had not the natives also given chase, knocked down the thief, and brought back the musket. Although fear may possibly have operated on this occasion with the natives more than a sense of justice, Captain Cook was thankful to them, because he would certainly have lost ten times the value of the weapon in endeavouring to recover it by force.

The following day a thief brought on board a quantity of fruit as a present, among which were a number of cocoanuts, which, after the juice had been extracted, had been thrown away by the seamen. These had been so artfully tied up in bundles that at first the cheat was not perceived. The chief did not seem at all ashamed when the trick was discovered, but having opened a few himself, acknowledged that they were empty. On going on shore, however, he sent off a quantity of plantains and bananas.

A supply of water, fruit, and roots having been got on board, Captain Cook was preparing to sail for Matavai, when it was announced that Waheatoua was coming to meet him. He found the young chief seated in the open air on a stool, surrounded by a large number of attendants, and at once recollected him, having known him when a boy, under the name of Tearee. He had, on the death of his father, Waheatoua, taken his name. The chief begged Captain Cook to remain some months, promising hogs and provisions of all sorts. He insisted on keeping the captain by his side, and whenever they moved about the stool was carried after them, that they might again be seated in the same position.

Before the ships had come to an anchor in Matavai Bay, the decks were covered with natives, many of whom Captain Cook recognised. The king, Otoo, was among those on board, but he took fright without any apparent reason, and landed again. The next day an encampment was made on shore for the sail-makers, coopers, and the sick. This done, Captain Cook, accompanied by Captain Furneaux, Mr Forster, and others, set off to visit Otoo. He was found seated on the ground, under the shade of a tree, with a large crowd round him, all standing uncovered, as a mark of respect; that is, not only their heads bare, but their shoulders, and some wore no clothing above the breast—his father not excepted. Presents were made by Captain Cook, and the king was told that they were given in friendship, and that none would be received in return. The king inquired for Tupia, and for all the officers who were on board the Endeavour on the former voyage. Otoo, though a fine tall young man, was very nervous, and acknowledged that he had left the ship because he was afraid of the guns. On the 27th, however, he came to the camp with a large retinue, having first sent on board a quantity of cloth, fruits, a hog, and two large fish. He, a sister and younger brother, with several attendants, were persuaded to visit the ship, and all received presents, Captain Cook afterwards taking them to their home at Oparree in his boat.

On landing, the captain met a venerable old lady, the mother of Toutaha. She seized him by the hands, and bursting into tears, exclaimed, “Toutaha, the friend of Cook, is dead!” Captain Cook says that he was so much affected that he should have wept also had not Otoo drawn him away. Captain Furneaux made the king a present of a male and female goat, in the hope that they might stock the island.

On another occasion, when Otoo came on board, as he entered the cabin several chiefs who were there immediately uncovered their shoulders, although they did not rise or show him any other mark of respect. He was entertained with the bagpipes, which seemed to have especial charms for the natives. The seamen also danced hornpipes and country dances. In return, the king entertained the voyagers with a dramatic performance, in which his sister took a part. The drama seemed to have reference to the circumstances of the time, as Captain Cook’s name was frequently mentioned. The lady’s dress was very elegant, being decorated with long tassels made of feathers, hanging from the waist downwards. The performance lasted about two hours. So far as the disposition of the natives was concerned, the visit seems to have been satisfactory, though fewer hogs were obtained than were required. Mr Pickersgill was sent about in all directions to obtain them, and in one of his expeditions he saw Oberea, once the person of most importance in the island. She had now become old, poor, and of little consequence.

Otoo was very unwilling that the ships should go, and shed tears when he parted from Captain Cook. A young lad, called Boreo, was taken on board the Resolution. Though he seemed tolerably satisfied, he could not help weeping as he saw his native island left astern. Two days afterwards the ships anchored in the harbour of Owharre, in the island of Huaheine. The two captains, on landing, were received with the greatest cordiality by the natives, who, after a few presents had been distributed amongst them, brought hogs, fowls, dogs, and fruit, which they exchanged for hatchets, nails, and beads; indeed, there seemed every prospect of an abundance of provisions being obtained. The chief, Oree, who had, on Cook’s former visit, exchanged names with him, was still living, and sent word that he was hastening to see him. Before, however, the captain was allowed to leave his boat, five young plantain trees—the emblem of peace employed by the natives—were brought on board separately, and with some ceremony. Three young pigs, their ears ornamented with cocoanut fibre, accompanied the first three, and a dog the fourth. Lastly, the chief sent the inscription engraved on a piece of pewter which had been left with him in July 1769.

This ceremony ended, the guide who had come to conduct the English to the shore requested them to decorate three young plantain trees with looking-glasses, nails, medals, and beads. This being done, they landed with the trees in their hands, and were conducted to the chief through a multitude of people, who made a lane for them to pass. They were then made to sit down a few paces from the chief, and the plantains were taken from them. One was for their god, one for the king, and the third for friendship. Captain Cook then wished to advance to the king, but he was told that the king would come to him, which he did, falling on his neck and embracing him; the tears flowing down his venerable cheeks, showing the affectionate feelings of his heart. His friends were then introduced, and presents were made to them. Cook speaks in the most affectionate terms of Oree; indeed, all his actions showed him to have been an upright, kind-hearted man.

The trading expeditions sent out were so successful that three hundred hogs, besides fowls and vegetables of all sorts, were obtained. It was from this island that Captain Furneaux received on board a young man, named Omai, a native of Ulietea, where he had some property, of which he had been dispossessed by the people of Bolabola. Omai was not a chief, and he was so inferior in figure, complexion, and manners to the chiefs, that Captain Cook was surprised that Captain Furneaux should have selected him. He was not, indeed, a favourable sample of the natives of the Pacific Isles as far as appearance went. Ultimately, however, Omai, by his intelligence and good conduct, won the regard of Captain Cook, who afterwards, in his journal, speaks of him in warm terms of commendation.

Here, as elsewhere, there were thieves and rogues. Mr Sparrman was attacked while wandering in the woods, beaten, and robbed of his clothes and hanger. Oree, on hearing of it, shed tears, and set off in person to recover the clothes, most of which he got back. Altogether, however, the chief and his subjects were among the best disposed of all the people visited during the voyage. He came on board the Resolution as she was leaving the harbour, and did not quit her till he had taken an affectionate farewell of Captain Cook, when nearly half a league out at sea. He then went away in a small canoe, paddled by himself and another man, all the other natives having long before left the ship.

The following morning the ships entered the harbour of Ohamaneno, in the island of Ulietea, where they lay safely moored. The ships were at once surrounded with canoes, and hogs and vegetables were offered in abundance. At first, none of the former would be taken, as the ships were already crowded; but as killing and salting went on, room was made for them; and, in all, four hundred and fifty hogs were collected at this island. Most of them were brought in canoes from different directions to the ship, so that there was very little trading on shore. It was in consequence of the exertions made by Captain Cook in collecting provisions, and the judicious means he employed, that he was able to remain away from home so many years, and to make so many important discoveries.

The chief of that part of the island was Oreo. Captain Cook paid him a visit at his own house, and was cordially received. He, as others had done, inquired after Tupia and the captain’s companions on his former voyage, by name. A play was soon got up—the chiefs daughter and seven men being the actors. The plot was as follows:—A theft was committed in a masterly manner, but discovered before the thief had time to carry off his plunder. He and his accomplice were attacked by those who had charge of it; but the latter were beaten off, and the rogues escaped in triumph. This incident gives a notion of the moral character of the people in that respect. On another occasion Oreo entertained the strangers with a feast, in the native fashion. The floor was strewed thick with leaves, on which hot bread, fruit, and plantains were placed, with two pigs roasted whole—one of about sixty, the other thirty pounds. They were admirably dressed, having been baked in the native underground ovens, all parts being equally cooked. Cocoanuts supplied the beverage, but the visitors had brought some bottles of wine, which the chief seemed to like, as he both then and always filled his glass whenever the bottle came to him, but seemed not to be affected by it. Plays were got up every day for the amusement of the strangers; indeed, the natives seemed anxious in every way to please them. The people of this island appeared to be of a mild, amiable, and timid disposition.

A native lad about eighteen years of age, called Oedidee, joined the Resolution at this island, in the place of Boreo, who, falling in love with a damsel he met with, remained that he might marry her. Oedidee was a native of Bolabola, and a near relation of the great Opoony, chief of that island.

On this his second visit to these islands, Captain Cook, knowing more of the language of the people, was able to gain a better insight into their habits and customs. Among other points, he discovered, without doubt, that human sacrifices were frequently offered up at their morais. At first the natives would only acknowledge that criminals were killed, but afterwards they confessed that any whom the priest chose to denounce were offered up. Thus, a priest who had a dislike to a man might at any moment doom him to death by pronouncing him a bad man. He then sent out his executioners, who, with a couple of blows from their heavy clubs, struck the unsuspecting victim dead at their feet. The corpse was forthwith carried to the morais, when the chief, who was compelled to attend such sacrifices, had the eye offered to him to eat! At some of the islands, the inhabitants of which Captain Cook describes as the most happy on earth, the priests held this terrific power to a fearful extent. At the time of his thus writing he was not aware of the fact which is so strikingly illustrative of the declaration of holy writ, that “the dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of cruelty.”

On September 17, 1773, the ships were again at sea. It was the intention of Captain Cook to get into the latitude of Middleburg and Amsterdam, in order to touch there before hauling up for New Zealand. At night they generally lay to, lest any land might be passed in the dark. Some small islets clothed with cocoanut trees were passed on the 23rd, and named Hervey’s Islands, but no inhabitants were seen on shore.

Middleburg was reached on October 1, and the following day, as the ships were beating up to an anchorage, two canoes came boldly off to them. Directly the anchors were dropped, the ships were surrounded by canoes, bringing cloth and other curiosities. Among the people who came on board was a chief, whose good services were secured by the present of a hatchet, spike-nails, and other articles. His name was Tioony. He piloted the boats to a place where the landing was very easy, and where a large concourse of people were assembled to receive them with commodities, which they pressed on their visitors, scarcely expecting to receive anything in return. At last, the chief, making the people open right and left, conducted his visitors to his house, which was delightfully situated about three hundred yards from the sea, at the head of a fine lawn under the shade of some shaddock trees. The floor was covered with mats, on which the guests were invited to be seated, the people arranging themselves on the ground in a circle outside. The piper having landed, Captain Cook ordered the bagpipes to be played, and, in return, three young women sang with a very good grace. A present being made to each of these, all the other women commenced singing. Their songs were musical and harmonious, and in no way harsh or disagreeable. The chief had another house in an adjoining plantation, to which his guests were conducted, and where they were entertained with bananas and cocoanuts, and bowls of cava; though, on witnessing the mode of preparing that beverage, the thirst of the visitors was sufficiently quenched. They were seated in an open space in front of the house, which was surrounded with fruit and other trees, whose fragrance filled the air.

The chief, Tioony, went on board and dined, and then, at their request, conducted the strangers through part of the island. There were numerous plantations of fir trees and edible roots, laid out with great judgment, and enclosed with neat fences made of reeds. The ships were crowded the whole day with people trafficking, and perfect good order prevailed. In the evening, on the return of the officers on board, they expressed themselves highly delighted with the country and the very obliging behaviour of the inhabitants, who seemed to vie with each other in doing what they thought would please their visitors.

The group of islands, at one of which the ships now were, was called the Tonga Islands; but Cook, from the treatment he received, named them the Friendly Islands, by which name they are now generally known. Tasman, who discovered them in 1642-3, named the two principal islands Amsterdam and Middleburg. The former is called by the natives Tongatabu, or the Great Tonga; the latter Ea-oo-we. There are other volcanic islands to the north, belonging to the group, not then known.

Leaving Ea-oo-we, or Middleburg, the ships ran down to Tongatabu, keeping about half a mile from the shore, on which the sea broke with a heavy surf. With the aid of glasses it was seen that every part of the shore was laid out in plantations, while the natives were observed running along the shore waving small white flags, which were, of course, looked on as an emblem of peace. They were answered by hoisting a Saint George’s ensign. Several canoes paddled alongside, and the people in them, after presenting the cava root, came boldly on board. The ships anchored in Van Diemen’s Road, just outside the breakers, with a casting-anchor and cable to seaward in forty-seven-fathom water, to prevent them from tailing on the rocks. Their decks were quickly crowded with natives, who brought off only native cloths, for which the seamen too readily gave them clothes. To put a stop to this proceeding, Captain Cook ordered that no sort of curiosities should be purchased by any person whatever. The good effect of this order was visible next morning, when, instead of comparatively useless articles, the natives brought off bananas and cocoanuts in abundance, and some pigs and fowls.

Proper arrangements having been made for conducting the trade, the captains landed under the guidance of a chief, Attago, who had at once singled out Captain Cook as the principal person, and offered him the usual presents. Cook and Attago also exchanged names, the custom of so doing being practised at the Friendly as well as at the Society Islands. The friendly chief pointed out a creek into which the boats could run, and on landing the visitors were seated under the shade of a tree, the people forming a circle round them; but no one attempted to push forward, as was the habit of the Otaheiteans. The officers then begged Attago to show them the country. This, without hesitation, he at once signified his readiness to do.

The first visit was paid to a sort of temple in an open green, raised on the top of an artificial mound, about seventeen feet above the level ground. The mound was of an oblong form, enclosed by a wall, and the building, which differed little from the ordinary dwelling-houses of the people, was of the same shape. On approaching this temple the people seated themselves on the grass, about fifty yards off, when three venerable-looking priests appeared and addressed the strangers, with whom, as soon as their speech was finished, they came and sat down, when some presents were made to them. After this, Attago signified that the strangers were welcome to examine the temple. In the interior were some images, but when Cook inquired if they were Etuas, or gods, Attago kicked them over without any ceremony, to show that he did not look upon them with reverence. Neither Omai nor Oedidee understood the language spoken by the natives of Tonga, consequently it was difficult to ascertain the exact object of the building.

It appears extraordinary to us at the present day, and it is painful to narrate, that Captain Cook should have conceived it right, as he said he did, to make an offering at the altar. He and his companions, therefore, laid down some blue pebbles, coins, nails, and other articles, as presents to the gods of these poor heathens. Unhappily, this proceeding was in accordance with the customs of our countrymen, and even of the English Government in India, who, to a much later period, furnished a money grant to the temple of Juggernaut (one of the principal gods of the Hindoos), and it was only in comparatively modern times that this disgraceful grant was discontinued. In the present instance, however, it did not appear that these offerings were looked upon as particularly sacred, as the chief, Attago, took them up, and placing them in the folds of his dress, appropriated them to himself.

The green in which this temple stood was at the junction of several roads, two or three of which were very much frequented. The high road along which the chief led the strangers was perfectly level, and sixteen feet broad; many others led into it, and all were enclosed on each side with neat fences made of reeds, and shaded from the scorching sun by fruit trees. Not an inch of ground was waste; the roads occupied no more space than was necessary, while the fences did not take up above four inches on each side, and even this was not wholly lost, for many of them were composed of useful trees or shrubs. Numbers of people were met, some travelling down to the ships with their burdens of fruits and other articles for barter. All courteously got out of the road, sitting down or standing with their backs to the fences as their visitors passed.

At most of the cross roads the temples just described were seen standing on mounds, but were surrounded by palisades instead of stone walls. After walking several miles a larger temple than usual was reached, and near it was a house, at which the party stopped, and were treated with fruit and other provisions, while an old priest made a long speech. These temples at the cross roads remind us of the shrines set up to legendary saints in Roman Catholic countries.

The party returned on board with Attago, and while at dinner they received a visit from an old chief of superior rank, in whose presence the former would not sit down or eat. As soon, however, as the old man was gone, Attago took his place, finished his dinner, and drank two glasses of wine.

Here, as at most places, the natives of inferior rank showed a disposition to thieve. Poor Mr Wales was found seated on the shore, unable to move, for having, when landing, in order to wade to the shore, taken off his shoes and stockings, a native had run off with them, and it was impossible for him to follow over the sharp coral rocks. Attago, however, soon discovered the thief, and had the stolen garments returned. On two or three other occasions the boats were pillaged, and a man, having run off with a seaman’s jacket, though hotly pursued and fired at, would not abandon his prize till intercepted by some of the English on shore. A native also got into the master’s cabin, and had stolen some articles, when, as he was leaping through the port into his canoe to escape, he was discovered. He was pursued by one of the boats, when, taking to the water, he dived under her several times, just as the men thought they were about to catch hold of him. Finally, he contrived to unship the rudder, and thus rendering the boat unmanageable, made his escape.

Just as the explorers were about to sail, it was discovered that there was a much greater person in the island than any one they had yet seen. Mr Pickersgill, who had met him, said that the people paid him extraordinary respect; that some, when they approached him, fell on their faces, and put their heads between their feet, and that no one presumed to pass him without permission. When, however, Captain Cook saw the monarch, he took him for an idiot, from his stolid or sullen manner. On being spoken to, he neither answered nor altered a feature of his countenance, and even when a shirt was put on him, and other articles were placed by his side, he neither lifted an arm of his own accord, nor put out his hand to receive them. Probably, however, this manner was assumed, as adding, in his opinion, to his dignity, as he was afterwards caught laughing at something Attago said to him.

During the whole time of their stay at this island, Attago had proved himself of great use to Captain Cook and his companions. He had presented himself on board the captain’s ship every morning, and did not quit his side till dark. On the departure of the ships he earnestly pressed the captain to return, and to bring cloth and axes, promising hogs, fowls, fruit, and roots in abundance. He asked also, for himself, a uniform similar to that worn by the captain. Among other presents made by Cook to this friendly chief were two dogs, as there were none at that time in the island; indeed, pigs appear to have been the only four-footed animals in the possession of the inhabitants, although they knew of the existence of dogs. Besides fowls, there were pigeons, doves, parrots, and other birds. The whole island was thoroughly cultivated, and produced bread-fruit, cocoanut trees, plantains, bananas, shaddocks, yams, and other roots, the sugar-cane, and a fruit like a nectarine. The roads also were so well laid out that there was an easy communication from one part of the island to the other in every direction. There were no towns or villages, but most of the houses stood in the midst of plantations. They were neatly constructed, but not much superior to those of the Society Islands. The floor, however, was slightly raised, and covered with thick mats; the same sort of matting serving to enclose them on the weather side, while on the opposite they were left open.

The ingenuity of this people was more especially exhibited in the construction of their canoes, which were superior to any that had been seen in the Pacific, though their tools were made of stone, bone, or shells, like those of the other islanders. The canoes are built of several pieces, sewed together in so neat a manner that on the outside no join could be seen. They were of two kinds, double and single. The single were from twenty to thirty feet long, and twenty-two inches broad in the middle, with wedge-shaped heads and sterns, and decked over at both ends, leaving only a third part open. They had outriggers, and some few carried sails, but were generally impelled by short paddles, the blades of which were broadest in the middle. The double canoes were composed of two vessels, each from sixty to seventy feet long, and four or five broad in the middle, and sharp at each end. They were fastened together by strong beams placed across their gunwales, which were raised for that purpose, and they were kept about seven feet apart. A platform of boards was placed on these beams, and served as a deck. They were very strongly built, and as the canoes themselves were also decked over, they might be immersed to the very platform without sinking. On the platform was a hut, serving as a cabin for the crew, and there was a hatchway through the platform into the hulls by which the water was baled out. The canoes also carried, as a movable fire-hearth, a square, shallow trough of wood, filled with stones. They were rigged with one mast, which could be easily lowered, and had a lateen sail of matting, stretched on a long, slightly-bent yard, which could be quickly shifted round when beating to windward. These vessels were capable of making long voyages, and the Tonga islanders were in the habit of going to Fejee, where they built canoes for the natives, and had probably extended their voyages to the Navigators’ Group, and possibly to New Zealand itself. Indeed, when these vessels are seen, there is no difficulty in understanding the means by which so large a number of the islands of the Pacific have been peopled by the same race, some retaining a portion of the civilisation their ancestors possessed, others losing it altogether.

The natives of Tonga were slightly tattooed, and their natural complexion was of a light copper colour. The size of both men and women was that of ordinary Europeans. The dress of both sexes consisted of a piece of cloth or matting, wrapped round the waist and hanging below the knees, while their shoulders and arms were uncovered, and usually anointed. They wore their hair short, and had ornaments in the form of necklaces, bracelets, and finger-rings, made of bone, shells, or mother-of-pearl. Their cloth was of the same material as that of Otaheite, but coarser and more durable, because glazed so as to resist the rain. They used vegetable dyes of various colours—brown, purple, yellow, red, and black. Their baskets, made of the same material as their mats, were very beautiful. They had different kinds of musical instruments: one of these was a sort of flute, which was made resonant by the breath of the nostril; another was similar to Pandean pipes, and composed of reeds; and a third was a drum made out of a heavy log. Their mode of saluting was like that of the New Zealanders, by rubbing noses together; and when anything was presented to them, they put it on their heads as a sign of its being accepted.

The government of the country was vested in a great chief or king, called the Areeke; and there were other chiefs under him, as governors of districts. It seemed pretty evident to the voyagers that the land of the island was apportioned among certain dignitaries, for whom the rest of the community worked, either as free labourers or slaves. When purchases were made by the English, although the collected goods were brought to market by a number of natives, one person uniformly received payment, and no bargain was struck without his consent.

Captain Cook was unable to obtain information respecting the religion of the people, excepting that he saw their temples and tombs in his excursions through the island. It was observed, however, that nearly all the adults had lost the little finger of one hand, some of both hands, and it was conjectured that the amputation was made at the death of parents or other relations. The people also burnt incisions in their cheeks, near the cheek-bone, probably also as a sign of mourning for the dead.

The expedition sailed from Tongatabu on October 7, Captain Cook’s last act being to send off by a canoe, to his friend Attago, some wheat, peas, and beans, which he had neglected to give him with other seeds. A course was then shaped for Queen Charlotte’s Sound, in New Zealand, there to take in wood and water; the commander intending afterwards to continue his discoveries to the south and east. The next day the lofty island of Pilstart was seen. It lies thirty-two leagues south by west from the south end of Eua. On the 21st the north end of New Zealand was made, and the ships ran down the east coast for the purpose of communicating with the natives, Captain Cook being very anxious to give them seeds and animals with which to stock the country. He had, however, no opportunity of doing this till he reached Cape Kidnappers, when a canoe came off with two men, who, by their dress and behaviour, appeared to be chiefs. To the principal of these, pigs, fowls, seeds, and roots were given, and a promise exacted that he would not kill the animals. He seemed more delighted with a long spike-nail which was offered him than with the animals. It was evident that the people on the coast had not forgotten what occurred on the previous voyage, as the first words they uttered on coming on board were, “We are afraid of the guns;” yet they seemed to understand that if they behaved properly they would be well treated.

Soon after this a heavy gale sprang up, which lasted several days. During its continuance the Adventure was separated from the Resolution, and no more was seen or heard of her during the remainder of the voyage. The stormy weather continued for some time, and the Resolution had all her sails split before she at length came to an anchor in an inlet discovered on the east side of Cape Teerawhitte. While she lay at anchor, some natives came off who were tempted on board with the offer of nails, which they highly valued. To one of the men two cocks and two hens were given, but it was feared from his manner, on receiving the present, that he would not take proper care of them.

The next day, the gale having abated, the Resolution proceeded to Ship Cove, in Queen Charlotte’s Sound. Here the sails were unbent to be repaired, and tents were set up on shore. It was now discovered that the bread, which was in casks, was greatly damaged. It was therefore examined, the copper oven was set up, and the better portions re-baked. The natives at once visited the ship, several of whom Captain Cook remembered, especially an old man, Goubiah by name. Some of them appropriated whatever they could find on shore unguarded, and, among other things, a seaman’s bag of clothes. These were, however, recovered by the captain, who made, he says, a “friendly application for them,” a mode of proceeding which, with a due exhibition of power, might possibly have succeeded on other occasions under similar circumstances. The youngest of the two sows which Captain Furneaux had put on shore in Cannibal Cove was seen with these people, but lame of a leg and very tame. It was said that the other had been killed, but this was afterwards found not to be the case. The people proved to be adepts in thieving, and one chief, pretending to keep his countrymen at a proper distance, with furious actions, was discovered putting a handkerchief into his bosom which he had just picked out of Captain Cook’s pocket. A fresh party, after bartering fish for cloth very fairly, stole six small water-casks, and then made off in a fright, leaving a boar, which had been given them, and some of their own dogs. It is pleasant to have to describe the persevering endeavours of Captain Cook to stock the country with animals likely to prove useful to the inhabitants, little thinking how largely his own countrymen would benefit by his labours, and that, before a century would have passed by, vast flocks of sheep, and horned cattle, and horses would be feeding on the widely extended pastures of those fertile islands.

Before sailing, when at length one day his visitors had left him, he took on shore three sows and a boar, two cocks and two hens, carrying them some little way into the woods, where they were left with a supply of food to last them for ten or twelve days. The food was left that the animals might remain in the woods, and not roam down to the shore, where they might be discovered by the natives. Some cocks and hens were also left in Ship Cove, but as the natives occasionally went there, there was a risk of the birds falling into their hands. Two more goats were landed, but the he-goat was seized with a sort of fit, and was supposed to have rushed into the sea and been drowned, as his mate, who followed him when he started off on his mad career, came back without him. The vegetables which had been planted on the former visit had thriven, and most of the potatoes had been dug up.

All the time of the ship’s stay a friendly intercourse was kept up with the natives. The best way of securing peace with savages, Captain Cook observes, is by first convincing them of your superiority, and then by being always on your guard. A regard for their own safety will then prevent them from being unanimous in forming any plan to attack you, while strict honesty and kindly treatment will gain their friendship. These principles mainly guided the great navigator in his intercourse with the savages he visited, and it was owing to this that he was so long able to pursue his useful discoveries.

He had ample evidence on this occasion of the savage character of the people by whom he was surrounded. A party of them had gone away on a war expedition, and returned with the body of a youth whom they had killed. Most of the body had been eaten, when one of the officers brought the head and a portion of the flesh on board. This latter was boiled and eaten by one of the natives with avidity, in the presence of Captain Cook and most of the officers and ship’s company. This horrid proceeding had such an effect on some of the men, as well as on the captain, as to make them sick. (Note 2.) It had a still greater effect on the native of Otaheite, Oedidee. He at first became perfectly motionless, and looked the personification of horror. When aroused from this state he burst into tears, and continued to weep and scold by turns, telling the New Zealanders that they were vile men, and that he would no longer be their friend. He would not suffer them to touch him. He used the same language to one of the crew who tasted the flesh, and refused to accept or to touch the knife with which it had been cut. It would be difficult to paint more perfectly than Captain Cook has done, in the above description, the natural horror felt by human beings when first becoming aware of the existence of cannibalism. It must be remembered that the people of Otaheite and those of New Zealand evidently sprang from the same race; and it is remarkable that the latter should have become addicted to such an abominable practice, while the former viewed it with unmitigated horror. Captain Cook says that he did not suppose the New Zealanders to have commenced the practice for want of food, as their coasts supplied a vast quantity of fish and wild-fowl, and they had also numerous dogs which they ate. They had also some vegetables and many land birds. He was not aware that at the distance of a few days’ sail there was a race of men equal, if not superior, in intelligence to the New Zealanders, still more addicted to the horrible practice, the accounts of which, thoroughly authenticated as they are, make the heart sicken at the thought of the depths of depravity to which human nature can sink.

In vain the Adventure was looked-for. The unanimous opinion was that she was not stranded, nor likely to be in any neighbouring harbour; and as no actual rendezvous had been appointed, all hopes of seeing her again during the voyage were abandoned. This, however, did not discourage Cook from pursuing his researches in the South Pacific, in which he intended to occupy the whole of the ensuing summer; while his officers and crew expressed themselves willing to accompany him even without their consort, wherever he might think fit to go.

On the morning of November 26 the Resolution took her departure from Cape Palliser, and steered south, inclining to the east. Heavy gales were soon met with, and on the morning of December 12, in latitude 62 degrees 10 minutes South and longitude 172 degrees West, the first iceberg was seen, as also were many antarctic birds; while the explorers were greeted with a fresh gale and thick haze and snow, a great sea, rolling up from the north-west and south-west, at the same time showing that there was no continent in that direction, unless at a great distance. Two days afterwards more large ice islands and loose ice were encountered; and with strong gales of wind, a heavy sea, dense snow-storms and fogs, surrounded by masses of floating ice, the ship pursued her course to the east. Christmas Day was calm, and, with a hundred ice islands in sight, the ship was allowed to drift quietly on. Providentially, the weather was clear, with a light air, and as there was continued daylight she was prevented from falling aboard any of the masses of ice. Had it been blowing, and as foggy as on the preceding days, a miracle alone could have saved her from being dashed to pieces. A full description of this part of the voyage would be tedious. Especially so must the reality have been to the voyagers; and before long all began to feel the effects of the bitter weather to which they were exposed. Cook himself was dangerously ill, though he concealed his malady from the crew.

On January 30, at four in the morning, the clouds over the horizon were perceived to be of an unusual snow-white brightness, denoting a wide extent of ice. By eight the ship was close to its edge, when, from the mast-head, it was seen to extend to the brink of the southern horizon, as well as to the east and west; while ninety-seven ice mountains were counted rising out of it. To penetrate this field was hopeless, and at length the captain, to the satisfaction of all on board, announced his intention of proceeding in search of the island of Juan Fernandez, said to have been discovered a century before, in latitude 38 degrees, and failing to find it, to look for Easter Island, or Davis Land, which had been unsuccessfully sought for by Byron, Carteret, and Bougainville. After this he purposed getting within the tropic, and had thoughts of running as far west as the Tierra Austral del Spiritu Santo of Quiros. In vain the island of Juan Fernandez was looked-for in the latitude in which it was supposed to lie, and the conclusion arrived at was, that though such an island might be in existence, it could occupy but a small space in the ocean.

The captain was now again taken ill of what he calls a bilious colic, which was so severe as to confine him to his bed, the charge of the ship devolving on Mr Cooper. Mr Patten, the surgeon, proved not only a skilful physician, but an affectionate friend. A favourite dog belonging to Mr Forster fell a sacrifice, it being killed and made into soup for the captain, there being no other fresh meat in the ship. A few fish were afterwards caught, which were very acceptable to him.

Early on the morning of March 11, 1774, land was seen about twelve leagues distant, which, to the joy of all on board, ultimately proved to be the long-sought-for Easter Island. On getting near the coast, off a sandy beach, two men in a canoe came off, and after sending up, by a rope, a bunch of plantains, they returned to shore. This showed the good disposition of the islanders, and gave the voyagers hopes of obtaining refreshments. A better anchorage than this part of the coast afforded having been found, the ship brought up here. On the English landing, a few potatoes, plantains, and sugar-canes were brought to them; but the natives were such expert thieves that those on board could scarcely keep their hats on their heads or anything in their pockets. A supply of potatoes was obtained; indeed, this appeared to be the chief production of the island. The natives had been digging them up as fast as they could from a field close to the landing-place, till a person arrived who appeared to be the rightful owner, and who drove all the rest away.

As Captain Cook was unable to walk any distance, he sent Lieutenants Pickersgill and Edgecombe, with a party of men armed, to explore the country. They were at first pressed on by a crowd of the natives, till a man appeared, tattooed and painted, who drove them away, and then, hoisting a piece of white cloth on a spear, marched forward at the head of the party. A considerable portion of the island was barren and stony, but in other parts were plantations of potatoes, plantains, and sugar-canes. Water was very scarce, and hardly drinkable. Some huts were found, the owners of which came out with roasted potatoes and sugar-canes, and as the party marched in single file on account of the narrow path, gave some to each man as he passed by. They distributed water in the same manner. On the east side, near the sea, three ruinous platforms of stone were met with, on each of which had stood four large statues; but most of them had fallen down and been broken. Mr Wales measured an entire one, and found it to be fifteen feet in length and six feet across the shoulders. On the head of each statue was a large cylinder of a red-coloured stone. One of these cylinders, which was measured, was fifty-two inches high, and sixty-six in diameter. There were others, however, very much larger. Some of them were perfectly round, others had a cavity worked out, in the upper edge, for a quarter of the way round.

The opposite side of the island to this, to which their guide conducted them, was full of these gigantic statues, some placed in groups, on masonry, others single, fixed only in the earth. The latter were much larger than the others. One which had fallen down was twenty-seven feet high and eight feet across the shoulders; and yet this was much shorter than one they found standing—its shade being sufficient to shelter their party of nearly thirty persons from the rays of the sun at about two o’clock. Near this place was a hill, from which a view of the whole island was obtained. Not a creek large enough even for a boat was seen, nor any indication of fresh water. In a small hollow on the highest part of the island several cylinders were found, and Mr Wales was of opinion that the quarry had been at that spot, and that after the cylinders had been formed they were rolled down the hill. There must have been great difficulty in raising them to the heads of the statues. It was conjectured that this was done by raising a mound round each statue and rolling up the stone on it, the mound being afterwards removed. It must have required a considerable amount of mechanical knowledge to bring the statues from the quarry, and to place them upright. The natives knew nothing whatever as to the origin of the statues, nor did they look on them with any respect, nor, indeed, seem interested in any way in them. No quadrupeds were seen on the island, but few birds, and only two sorts of low shrubs.

The party were greatly inconvenienced in their walk by the attempts of the natives to steal from them, and at length one man, who ran off with a bagful of provisions, was fired upon with small shot and wounded slightly. He dropped the bag, and seemed in no way offended at the treatment he received. The people carried short clubs and also spears with flint heads. The dress of the chiefs consisted of two pieces of cloth, one round the waist and the other thrown over the shoulders; but many were almost naked. The men wore their hair and beards short, with a fillet ornamented with feathers round the head; while the women wore the hair long, and had straw caps, shaped like a Scotch bonnet, on their heads. Their habitations were low huts, built with sticks bent overhead, and joined together so as to form an arch. The longest seen was sixty feet long, and only four or five wide. Their canoes were very poor, owing to the want of materials, and very few were seen. Captain Cook considered that there were about six or seven hundred inhabitants on the island. In colour, features, and language they were similar to the inhabitants of the islands to the west, so that it was evident they had sprung from the same race.

The Resolution left Easter Island on March 16, and stood north-west-by-north, and north-north-west, for the Marquesas, with a fine easterly gale. Having reached the latitude of the group, the course was changed to west. On April 5 first one island and then others in succession were seen; and the explorers were satisfied that they had reached the Marquesas, discovered by the Spaniards in 1595. The first island seen was called Hood’s Island, after the midshipman who discovered it, and the others were Saint Pedro, Dominica, and Saint Christina. The ship, after being nearly driven on the rocks, brought up in port in the last-mentioned island. Directly afterwards, thirty or forty natives came off in ten or twelve canoes, in the bow of each of which a heap of stones was observed, while all the men had slings fastened to their hands. It required some address to get them alongside, but at last a hatchet and some spike-nails induced the people in one canoe to venture under the quarter-galley. The rest then followed, exchanging bread-fruit and fish for small nails. At sunset they all returned to the shore. The next morning the natives returned in greater numbers, with plantains, bread-fruit, and a pig, but soon showed themselves ready to cheat, and to be expert thieves. Captain Cook was going into the boat to look for a convenient place to moor the ship, when, seeing too many natives on board, he warned one of the officers on deck, saying that something would be stolen. Just then he was told that an iron stanchion had been carried off from the opposite gangway. He therefore ordered the officer to fire over the canoe till he could get round in the boat, but to be careful not to kill any one. But the noise made by the natives prevented this last warning from being heard, and at the third shot the unhappy thief was killed. Two other natives who were in the canoe leaped overboard, but soon got in again, and threw away the stanchion. One of them sat baling the blood and water out of the canoe, uttering a kind of hysteric laugh, while the other, a youth of fifteen, looked at the dead body with a serious and dejected countenance. The latter was found to be the son of the man who had been killed. Immediately on this, the natives took to flight, but on being followed by the captain into the bay the people in one canoe were persuaded to come alongside the boat, and to receive some nails. This restored their confidence in some degree, but soon afterwards they attempted to carry off the buoy of the kedge anchor. A musket-shot on this was fired at them, but it fell short, and they took no notice of it; but a second bullet passing over them, they immediately let go the buoy and made for the shore.

The natives undoubtedly were bold fellows, for, notwithstanding the effects of the firearms which they had witnessed, before long some more ventured off. One of them appeared to be a person of consequence. His dress was similar to that of the chiefs of Otaheite. Bound his head was a fillet with the tail feathers of birds fixed in it, and standing upright. He also wore ornaments of feathers round his legs and arms. The women wore a petticoat of native cloth, and a broad fillet made of the fibre of the cocoanut husk, with a piece of mother-of-pearl shell the size of a tea-saucer in front. On either side were other ornaments of tortoiseshell and mother-of-pearl, with feathers in the upper part. The chief brought a pig, and was persuaded to come up to the side, but soon went away.

The party from the Resolution who went on shore were received with courtesy by the natives; the captain was disappointed in not obtaining the number of pigs he had expected. Some of the young officers, it seemed, gave away thoughtlessly several articles which the natives valued more than the nails, and thus spoilt the trade. Among those highly coveted objects were some of the red feathers obtained at Tonga.

The productions of the Marquesas Islands were similar to those of Otaheite; the habitations were of a like character, but not so well built, and the habits of the people were not so cleanly. The people were considered the handsomest that had been met with during the whole voyage. The men were generally tattooed, but the women and children, who were not so, were thought to be as fair as many Europeans. Hogs were the only quadrupeds, and cocks and hens the only tame fowls seen, and these were not procured in any great number. Notwithstanding the length of time the crew had been at sea previous to their arrival at the Marquesas, yet, owing to the abundant supply of anti-scorbutic food, and the watchful care of the surgeon, there was not a man seriously ill on board. Captain Cook therefore determined to proceed on his voyage without further delay.

The Resolution therefore left the Marquesas on April 12, 1774; and ten days afterwards she reached Otaheite, and anchored once more in Matavai Bay. In the course of this passage several low coral islands or islets had been passed, and one of them had been visited. This was the Island of Tioakea, first of all discovered by Captain Byron, and formed one of a group, called Saint George’s Islands. After passing these, the Resolution had fallen in with four other smaller islands, not set down in any chart; and these Captain Cook had named Palliser’s Isles, in honour of his particular friend, Sir Hugh Palliser.

Captain Cook’s object in visiting Matavai Bay was that Mr Wales, the astronomer, might correct the chronometers of the ship by a known longitude. The first thing done, therefore, was to erect tents, and to land the instruments required in this operation.

As soon as the arrival of the voyagers was known, many of their old friends paid them a visit, expressing great joy at seeing them. Among others came Otoo, the king, with several chiefs, and a train of attendants, who brought with them a dozen large hogs and a quantity of fruit, which made them very welcome. A supply of red parrots’ feathers having been collected at Tonga, these were shown to the natives, and took their fancy to such a degree that the principal people of both sexes brought hogs, fruit, and everything the island afforded, in order to obtain them. So exhausted was his stock-in-trade that, had it not been for these feathers, Cook says he should have found it difficult to supply his ship with the necessary refreshments. He had intended remaining here only long enough to allow Mr Wales to take the observations he desired, but he found so great an improvement in the state of the country, and provisions so abundant, that he resolved at once to repair and refit his ship.

When Captain Cook on one occasion went to Opparree to pay King Otoo a visit, a formidable fleet of three hundred double war canoes was found drawn up along the beach, while a number of armed men were seen on the shore. What could be the object of this armament it was difficult to conjecture. The Englishmen, however, on landing, were received with great courtesy; but Otoo was not to be found, and, greatly disappointed, they returned on board. At length they were told that this fleet was part of an armament intended to be sent against Eimeo, whose chief had declared himself independent of Otaheite.

The chief next in consequence to Otoo was Towha, who seemed to be a very sensible man, and most friendly to the English. He showed it on a trying occasion. A native had been caught stealing a water-cask, and having been kept in irons on board, was returned on shore to be flogged. Otoo, his sister, and others, begged that the man might be set at liberty; but Cook explained that as he flogged any of his people who stole from them, or behaved ill in any way, so in justice, and to preserve peace between them, he must punish any natives who behaved ill to him. The sentence was carried out, the natives looking on. On the culprit being set at liberty, the people were going away, when Towha called them back and addressed them, recapitulating what had been said to Otoo, condemning their present bad habits, and advising a reformation in future. The gracefulness of action and the attention with which he was heard showed that he was no mean orator. After this the marines went through their exercises and loaded and fired in volleys, to the utter amazement of the natives, especially to those who had seen nothing of the kind before.

The next morning a small portion of the fleet of war canoes was observed exercising, and Mr Hodges had the opportunity of sketching them. The largest had about thirty rowers, the smaller only eighteen. The warriors stood on the stage, and encouraged the rowers, or paddlers rather, to exert themselves. Some youths were seated high up on the carved stem above the steersman, with white wands in their hands, apparently to look out and give notice of what they saw. The warriors were completely equipped for war, and the quantity and weight of cloth they had on them made it difficult to conceive how they could stand up under it when fighting. A large quantity was wrapped round their heads as turbans of helmets, to guard them from the blows of their enemies. The turbans of some of the warriors were surmounted by small bunches of shrubs covered with white feathers, intended as ornaments. On returning to the shore all the rowers leaped out the moment the canoe touched the ground, and, with the assistance of those on shore, hauled it up on the beach. Each man then walked off with his paddle, and so rapidly was everything done, that in less than five minutes there was no sign of the canoes having been lately afloat. Afterwards, at the dockyard of King Otoo, among many large canoes, two were seen in the course of building a hundred and eight feet long. They were to be united so as to form one double canoe; the largest, Cook says, he had seen in those seas.

On another occasion an example was given of the way the warriors, in attacking a place, are thrown on shore. Four or more canoes were lashed side by side, and then each division paddled in so judiciously that they formed one unbroken line along the shore. To do this they were directed by a man who stood in the fore part of the centre vessel, with a long wand in his hand, directing all their movements. The fleet was attended by some small double canoes, called marias. On the fore part of each was a sort of bed place with one division, capable of holding the body of a man, intended for the reception of any chief who might be killed in battle. Cook estimated, from the number of canoes he saw furnished by each district, that the whole island could raise and equip one thousand seven hundred and twenty war canoes, requiring sixty-eight thousand men, calculating forty for each canoe. As these would not amount to a third of the number of people in the island, he considered that it could not contain less than two hundred and four thousand inhabitants. He was convinced, from the vast swarms of people he met wherever he went, that this estimate was not too great. This is possible; but war, disease, and vicious habits had fearfully decreased the population before Christianity was established among them.

Otoo and his chiefs at first appeared very anxious that Captain Cook should accompany them in their proposed expedition, and they begged him to help them against their enemies. This he very properly declined doing, but would have been glad to have accompanied them to witness the mode in which they carried on their naval operations. It would have been more in accordance with the character of a Christian people had the English tried to reconcile the contending parties, and to prove to them the advantages and blessings of peace. But such a thought does not appear to have entered the mind of the sagacious navigator, or of his companions.

Cook’s endeavours to benefit the islanders in other respects appeared likely to be successful. Two goats had been left by Captain Furneaux. They had had two kids, now nearly full grown, and the mother was also again with kid. The animals were in excellent condition, and the people seemed very fond of them. One of two sheep had, however, died, but twenty cats were given to the natives, though it is difficult to understand how they were likely to prove useful, unless mice had threatened to overrun the island.

During this visit a man from a distant part of the island made off with a musket and effected his escape. The dread of the consequences to themselves caused Otoo and several other chiefs to run away and hide themselves, and the people were afraid to bring down provisions to the ship. After a considerable amount of negotiations, and the delay of nine days, the musket and some other articles which had been stolen were, by the intervention of the chiefs, brought back to the tents, and confidence was restored.

Preparations were now made for leaving Otaheite. On May 11 a large supply of fruit arrived from all parts, some of it sent by Towha, the admiral of the fleet, with orders to his servants to receive nothing in return. However, the captain thought fit to send an equivalent present by Oedidee. That young native had come to the resolution of remaining at Otaheite, but was persuaded to go on in the ship to Ulietea, his native island. Nothing but Captain Cook’s warning that it was very probable he would be unable to return to the Pacific would have induced him to leave the ship, so great was his affection for the English, and his desire to visit their country.

On the 12th old Oberea, who had been supposed by Captain Wallis to be the queen of the island, came on board, and brought a present of pigs and fruit, and soon afterwards Otoo appeared with a retinue and a large quantity of provisions. Handsome presents were made in return, and the visitors were entertained in the evening with fireworks. A succession of broadsides from the great guns on another occasion must have still more astonished the natives.

Captain Cook waited in vain for the sailing of the fleet on the proposed warlike expedition. It was evident that the chiefs considered, since they could not obtain the assistance of the English, that they should be more at liberty to act if left alone, and therefore, as long as the Resolution remained, they continued to make excuses for not setting out. Otoo’s large canoe had been called, at Cook’s request, the Britannia, and he had presented to the king a grappling-iron, a rope, and an English Jack and pendant for her.

Several natives were anxious to accompany Captain Cook, but he firmly resisted all their solicitations, from motives of humanity, knowing the great probability that they would never return to their native land. At length, on May 14, 1774, the anchor was hove up, and the ship proceeded out of the harbour, Otoo remaining in his canoe alongside till the ship was under sail. At that juncture, all the boats being hoisted in, a gunner’s mate, a good swimmer, slipped overboard, hoping to reach the shore and remain behind. He was, however, seen before he got clear of the ship; a boat was lowered, and he was brought back. He was an Irishman by birth, but he had been long-absent from home, and he was without any tie of kindred; Captain Cook says that he could not be surprised at his wish to remain where he could enjoy not only all the necessaries, but all the luxuries of life, in ease and plenty; and that had he asked permission to remain it might, perhaps, have been granted. He had formerly been in the Dutch service, and had come on board the Endeavour at Batavia during the former voyage.

On the 15th the Resolution anchored in O’Wharre Harbour, in the island of Huaheine, and immediately old Oree, the chief, and several natives came on board, when the former presented a hog and some other articles with the usual forms. A friendly intercourse was kept up with Oree the whole time of the visit, but several of the officers and men were robbed on shore. There appeared to exist a gang of banditti who set their chief at defiance, and robbed every one they met. Captain Cook, however, landed and quietly took possession of a house with two chiefs in it, who were kept as hostages till the articles were returned. On another occasion, at the request of Oree, he, with a strong party of armed men, landed, and went in pursuit of the thieves; but Oedidee, who was with them, became alarmed, and warned the captain that they were being led into an ambush to be destroyed. From the strict discipline, however, kept up by the party, this (even should the natives have intended treachery) was rendered impossible. In spite of these drawbacks the people brought cocoanuts and other fruits, and two young chiefs presented to the captain a pig, a dog, and some young plantain trees, the usual peace offerings. Notwithstanding this good feeling, he caused several volleys to be fired to show the natives the power and effect of musketry, for the young officers and others who went on shore shooting with muskets were so very inexpert in their use that they had brought firearms somewhat into contempt.

On the 21st a fleet of sixty canoes was seen steering for Ulietea. The people on board them were Eareeoies, going to visit their brethren in the neighbouring islands. They formed a secret society, and seemed to have customs which they would not explain. Infanticide appeared to be almost universal among them, and they had many other practices of a most abominable character. Cava-drinking and acting plays seemed to be the principal amusements of the chiefs of this island.

Early on the morning of the 23rd the ship put to sea. The good old chief Oree was the last man who left her. When told by the captain that he should see him no more, he wept, and said, “Let your sons come; we will treat them well.”

The next day, it having been calm all night, the Resolution reached Ulietea. While warping into a secure berth, the captain’s old friend, Oreo, with several other persons, came off, bringing presents. On returning the visit, the captain and his companions were met at the door of the house by five old women, who had been cutting their heads with sharks’ teeth, and now, while the blood was streaming down their faces, insisted on saluting their visitors. Directly afterwards they went out, washed themselves, and returned, appearing as cheerful as any of the company. A large number of people had collected on shore near the ship; they were said to be Eareeoies, and they continued feasting for several days. There, as at the other islands, plays were acted for the amusement of the visitors.

Ulietea was Oedidee’s native island, and here he took leave of his English friends, whom he left “with a regret fully demonstrative of his esteem and affection; nor could anything have torn him from them but the fear of never returning.” The captain declares that he had not words to describe the anguish of this young man when he went away. “He looked up at the ship, burst into tears, and then sank down into the canoe.”

This young South Sea Islander is described as “a youth of good parts, and of a docile, gentle, and humane disposition,” and as one who would have been—physically at least—a better specimen of the people than Omai. It is to be feared that he returned to his home, after his lengthened cruise with his English patrons, without having received any real benefit from the intercourse. So far as can be learned, “no man had cared for his soul.”

After leaving Ulietea, the Resolution proceeded westward on her voyage, being cautiously navigated at night, and having all sails set in the daytime. The first land seen was Howe Island, previously discovered by Captain Wallis; the next was an island before unknown, to which was given the name of Palmerston.

On June 20 more land was in sight. This proved to be an island about eleven leagues in circuit, and standing well out of the sea, having deep water close into its shores. As this island was perceived to be inhabited, Captain Cook was induced to go on shore with a party of explorers, and endeavoured to open communication with the natives. They were found, however, to be fierce and intractable, furiously attacking the visitors with stones and darts. Two or three muskets discharged in the air did not hinder them from advancing still nearer, and one of them threw a long dart or spear which narrowly missed the captain, passing close over his shoulder. The boldness and fury of this man nearly cost him his life, for, aroused by the instinct of self-preservation, and probably also by, momentary anger, Captain Cook raised a musket he carried, and pointing it at his assailant, who was only a few paces off, he pulled the trigger. Happily, the weapon missed fire, and the English commander was spared the after-remorse of needless bloodshed, for the explorers, or the invaders and intruders, as the natives considered them, reached their boat, and afterwards their ship, unharmed.

In consequence of the apparent disposition and the behaviour of the people, the island received from Cook the name of Savage Island, a name it still bears, although the inhabitants no longer merit the appellation of Savage Islanders.

After leaving this island, the ship’s course was west-south-west, and on June 25 a string of islands was seen ahead when the wind dropped. The next morning more islands were seen and soundings found. The islands in sight proved to be those of the Tonga group to which Cook had given the name of the Friendly Islands. A canoe came boldly off, and the people in her pointed out Anamocka, or Rotterdam, towards which the ship proceeded, and anchored on the north side of the island. The natives came off in their canoes in great numbers, and exchanged yams and shaddocks for nails and old rags; but, as usual, some began to pilfer, and one man got hold of the lead-line, which he would not relinquish till fired at.

On the captain and some of the officers going on shore, they were received with great courtesy by the natives, who assisted in filling the water-casks and rolling them down to the beach, contented with a few nails as payment. When, however, the surgeon was afterwards out shooting by himself, having been left on shore, a fellow seized his fowling-piece and made off with it. Afterwards, when the watering party were on shore, Mr Gierke’s gun was snatched from him, and several of the cooper’s tools were carried off. This style of proceeding, if allowed, would have hazarded the safety of all on board; the captain, therefore, who had been summoned, sent off for the marines, while two or three guns were fired from the ship to alarm Mr Forster, who was on shore. Several of the natives remained, who acted with their usual courtesy, and long before the marines arrived Mr Clerke’s gun was brought back. As the other was not restored, two large double sailing-canoes were seized by the marines on their landing; and one man, making resistance, was fired at with small shot. This showed the natives that the English were in earnest, and the musket was returned; but an adze had also been carried off, and it was insisted that this also should be brought back. The chiefs thought that the captain wanted the man who had been wounded, and whom they said was dead. Soon afterwards he was brought up, stretched out on a board, and apparently lifeless. Captain Cook was very much shocked at first, till, examining the body, he found that the man was alive and only slightly hurt. His wounds were dressed by the surgeon, who soon afterwards arrived, and a poultice of sugar-cane was applied to prevent inflammation. A present recompensed to some extent what the poor man suffered. No person of any consequence was seen by the voyagers while they remained here. Several lofty islands were seen in the group—among them Amattagoa, whose summit was veiled in clouds, and was rightly supposed to be a volcano. Many of the islands in the South Seas are volcanic, and in some of them the volcanoes are in full activity. That of Kilanea, in the Sandwich Islands, often presents a spectacle of awful fury and grandeur.

After leaving the Friendly Islands, and calling, on July 1, at Turtle Island, a brisk gale carried the ship on for some distance, till, on the 15th, high land was seen to the south-west. This was the Australia del Espirito Santo of Quiros; it also went by the name of the great Cyclades. After exploring the coast for some days, the captain came to an anchor in a harbour in the island of Mallicollo, where one of his objects was to open friendly communication with the natives.

A number of these came off, some in canoes, others swimming. They exchanged arrows tipped with bone for pieces of cloth, while two who ventured on deck received presents. The next morning so many made their appearance, and with such increased confidence, that after a large number had boarded the ship it was found necessary to refuse admittance to others. Upon this one of the repulsed natives threatened to shoot a boat-keeper in one of the boats. In the confusion that ensued Captain Cook came on deck, when the savage turned his arrow toward him. Upon this the captain, who had a gun in his hand loaded with small shot, fired at his assailant, who, being but slightly wounded, still kept his bow bent in a threatening attitude. Receiving the contents of a second musket, however, he dropped his bow and paddled off with all speed.

By this time others of the natives had begun to discharge their arrows; neither did a musket fired over their heads frighten them. It was not till they heard the thunder of a four-pounder that they were seriously alarmed; then the natives on deck and in the cabin leaped overboard, and, with those in the canoes, made their escape as fast as they could. Directly after the gun was fired drums were heard beating on shore, probably to summon the people to arms.

The next day the captain landed with a green branch in his hand, and was met by a chief who also carried one, and these being exchanged a friendly intercourse was established. The English made signs that they wished to cut down wood, and permission was granted to them by the natives to do so. These people, however, set no value on nails or anything their visitors possessed. They seemed unwilling that any one should advance beyond the beach, and were only anxious to get rid of the strangers. When the English left the shore the natives retired in different directions. In the afternoon a man was seen to bring to the beach a buoy which had been taken in the night from the kedge anchor. On a boat being sent it was at once put on board, the man walking off without saying a word, and this was the only thing which was stolen while the ship lay there. Some houses, similar to those of the Friendly Islands, were seen, with plantations of cocoanuts, plantains, yams, and bread-fruit, and a number of pigs were running about.

Other parts of the shore were visited, but the people kept aloof; and not till the ship was under way did they come off, showing then every disposition to trade, and acting with scrupulous honesty. Sometimes, for instance, they had received articles, and not having given anything in return, their canoes being shoved off by their companions, they used every exertion to get back to the ship. They were the most ugly, ill-proportioned people the explorers had yet seen; dark-coloured and rather diminutive, with long heads, flat faces, and monkey-like countenances. Their hair was black or brown, short and curly, but not so soft or woolly as that of a negro. Their beards were strong, crisp, and bushy. A belt round the middle curiously contracted that part of the body, while, with the exception of a wrapper between the legs, they went naked. The women wore a petticoat, and a bag over their shoulders in which the children were carried; but none came near the ship. A piece of white stone, an inch and a half long, with a slight curve in it, was worn in a hole made through the nose. Their arms were clubs, spears, and bows and arrows. Some of the officers were very nearly poisoned by eating portions of two reddish fish, the size of large bream, caught with hook and line. They were seized with violent pains in the head and bones, attended by a scorching heat all over the body, and a numbness of the joints. A pig and dog died from eating the remainder. It was a week or ten days before the officers quite recovered. The crews of Quiros had suffered in the same way. He had named the fish Porgos.

A number of islands were now passed, to which the names of Montagu, Sandwich, Hitchinbrook, and Shepherd were given; the ship continuing along the coast to the south-east.

On August 3 the Resolution approached another island, and anchored about a mile from the shore, when several natives attempted to swim off to her, but a boat being lowered they returned. The next morning the captain went off to the shore in search of wood and water, with presents which he distributed among some people who appeared on the rocks which line the coast. In return, they offered, as he supposed with a friendly feeling, to drag the boat through the surf on shore; but he declined the offer, wishing to have a better place to land at. This he found on a sandy beach, in a bay where he could land without wetting his feet. To this spot crowds followed him, headed by a chief, who made them form a semicircle, while with only a green branch in his hand Cook stepped on shore. The chief was loaded with presents, which he received courteously; and when, by signs, water and fruit were asked for, he immediately sent for some. Still, as all the people were armed with clubs, spears, bows and arrows, the captain was suspicious of their intentions, and kept his eye on the chief. Again signs were made by the natives that they would haul the boat up, and just then the chief disappeared among the crowd. On this, Cook stepped back into the boat, making signs that he would soon return. The islanders, however, had no intention of allowing him to depart, so while some of them laid hold of the gang-board, and attempted to drag up the boat on to the beach, others snatched at the oars, and tried to wrest them away from the sailors. In this predicament, and seeing that neither expostulations nor menaces were of any avail, the captain raised his musket, pointed it at the chief, who had again made his appearance, and pulled the trigger; but, as on a former occasion, the piece missed fire, or only flashed in the pan. The savages then began throwing stones and darts, and shooting their arrows. The captain now felt compelled to order his men to fire. The first discharge threw the savages into confusion, but even a second was hardly sufficient to drive them off the beach, and they then retired behind trees and bushes, popping out every now and then to throw a dart. Four lay to all appearances dead; but two managed to crawl behind the bushes. Happily, half the muskets missed fire, or more would have been wounded. One of the boat’s crew was badly wounded in the cheek by a dart, and an arrow shot from a distance struck Mr Gilbert. The skirmish ended by the English making good their retreat.

On the arrival of the party on board, the ship was got under way and stood closer in shore; and presently two of the natives appeared with two oars which had been lost in the scuffle. In a fit of exasperation, probably on account of the treatment he had received, and of mortification at his partial defeat, Captain Cook ordered a round shot to be fired at the men, which, though it proved harmless, had the effect of driving the men away. They left the oars, however, leaning against some bushes.

The whole of this unhappy affair seems to have been a series of misunderstandings. At least, it is not difficult to conceive that the natives were, at first, friendly disposed; that their offer to haul the boat upon the beach may have been dictated by kind motives, and that their subsequent conduct arose from what they might have conceived to be the suspicious actions of their strange and uninvited visitors. As to their being armed, and declining to lay down their arms, it is to be remembered that the English had arms also, which they did not lay down. It certainly does not seem improbable that if the chief of these poor barbarians and the English captain could have interchanged a few words, intelligible on both sides, and so convinced each other of their honest intentions and wishes, the subsequent fracas might have been prevented; but this, of course, was out of the question. It is to be feared, too, that the superiority over all uncivilised nations which the English voyagers proudly felt themselves to possess gave an air of contemptuous defiance to their actions which the natives might resent. The firing of that last shot was not unlikely (together with the previous scuffle) to provoke feelings of deep enmity, and not only to rankle in the minds and memories of those present, but to be handed down by tradition to the next generation, and the next after that, so as to keep up both detestation of all white men, and dread of their future visits.

These remarks are not uncalled for, nor will they be considered as without point when the name of the island is given—Erromanga; a name full of painful associations to all who take an interest in missionary enterprise, and in the advancement, by human instrumentality, of the kingdom of the Redeemer. It was here that, sixty-six years afterwards, the valuable life of one of the foremost in the ranks of modern Christian missionaries, John Williams, was sacrificed to the hatred of the whites of which we have just spoken. The proximate incentive to the murder was revenge for some ill-treatment the natives had shortly before received from a white man, a sandal-wood trader; but it is probable that the commencement of their strong dislike to strangers may be traced to the visit of the Resolution to their native island in 1774.

After leaving Erromanga, the ship steered for another island, which proved to be Tanna, being directed at night by a great light which was seen at the east end of it, and which, in the morning, was discovered to be that of a volcano in full activity. A harbour was found, and two boats, well armed, were sent in to sound. Here the ship anchored. A number of armed natives were seen on shore, and soon they began to come off, some swimming, others in canoes. Some cocoanuts were thrown into one of the boats, and cloths and other articles were given in return. This induced more to venture alongside, when they proved themselves to be most daring thieves; some attempted to knock off the rings from the rudder, others tried to tear away the fly of the ensign, and a bold effort was made to run away with the buoys. A musketoon fired over their heads had the effect of driving them off. Even here there was an exception to the rule. An old man continually came off to the ship with fruit, evidently trying to ingratiate himself with the strangers. Although a very strong party landed in the evening, it was clear to the voyagers that the natives would have attacked them, had they not, to avoid bloodshed, quickly embarked. As it was necessary to take in a fresh supply of wood and water, the ship was warped in close to the shore, both to overawe the natives, and more easily to get on board what was wanted. The natives again quickly manifested their thievish propensities. For instance, a man came off with a club, with which he struck the ship’s side in defiance, and then offered to exchange the weapon for beads. No sooner, however, did he get them, than he made off without giving up the club.

Captain Cook had wished for an opportunity of showing the natives the effect of firearms; some small shot were therefore sent after the thief, and several musketoons were discharged. As this did not seem to produce the desired effect, the Resolution was moored with her broadside to the shore, with her guns placed so as to command the whole harbour. The captain then landed, with a guard of marines and sailors, all well armed, hoping by this means to overawe the natives, who assembled in vast numbers on each side of the landing-place. Instead of being frightened by the display of strength, they began to use such threatening gestures that it was thought necessary to file upon them. This was the signal for the guns to open from the ship. The savages at once dispersed, but soon came back greatly humbled in manner. The old man, whose name was Paowang, was the only one who stood his ground, and was rewarded with gifts. Cook then drew a line on the ground, and signified to the natives that they must not pass it.

The captain had now every reason to believe that the natives were induced to be submissive, and taking old Paowang into the forest, he explained that he wanted wood, and asked permission to cut some down. This was readily granted, the old man begging only that he would not cut down any cocoanut trees.

The watering party meanwhile filled the casks; but still the lower orders were very troublesome. Some buckshot, fired at a man, at last brought them to order, and now everything seemed to go on pleasantly. Paowang even brought an axe and several other articles which had been left on shore; indeed, Cook’s demeanour seemed to have won the respect of the savages, and it was no longer necessary to mark a barrier line, as they did not press near the tents nor incommode the English when at work. Yet, savages they were, for they acknowledged voluntarily that they were cannibals, and asked their visitors if they also did not eat the flesh of their enemies. Yet they could have no excuse for the practice, as their island abounded with pigs, and fruit of all sorts.

All this time the English were constantly on their guard; still they ran no little risk, as they made some excursions up the country, when they were threatened by parties of natives, who, however, retired when they turned towards the harbour. It is manifest, however, that the natives were not badly disposed, but were influenced by the very natural feeling of jealousy at seeing strangers, whose object they could not comprehend, attempting to penetrate their country. It would have been difficult to convince untutored savages, who had been peppered with buckshot, and fired at with bullets and cannon-balls, that their white visitors were influenced by the purest feelings of philanthropy, and a disinterested desire to do them good. Fortunately, the muskets supplied to the Resolution must have been kept in very bad order, as they missed fire as often as they went off, or more lives of savages would have been sacrificed. There is no doubt, as has already been intimated, that Captain Cook had no delight in exercising cruelty towards the natives of the places he visited, and believed that he acted in self-defence when he, as he would have said, was unfortunately called upon to wound and perhaps to slay them. It may be added, also, that he frequently had great trouble in restraining the ardour of his officers, who were not troubled with so nice a conscience as the captain’s regarding the lives of the savages.

On one occasion, for instance, some native boys (little mischievous urchins, no doubt) who had got into a thicket near where a party were cutting wood, and had thrown stones, were fired at by some of the petty officers. The captain was very much displeased at so wanton a use being made of firearms, and took measures, as he thought, to prevent it for the future; but not long afterwards, to his horror, he saw a sentry level his musket, and before he could cry out, the soldier had fired and shot a native dead. The marine’s only excuse was that he saw a native bending his bow, an act they often performed without intending to shoot. After all, the sentry did not kill the man who bent the bow, but another who was standing near.

Among the excursions made by the officers was one towards the volcano, which, however, they could not reach. It was in such furious eruption that the air was filled with dust and ashes, and when it rained they were covered with mud. On their way they passed a spot emitting columns of smoke, and near the harbour hot springs were discovered; a thermometer placed in one of them rose to 170 degrees.

Although the people of this island had no notion of the use of iron, they were not so savage as at first appeared; their plantations were carefully cultivated, and produced sugar-canes and yams, bread-fruit, plantains, and cocoanuts. They had, however, one of the chief characteristics of savages—the women carried all the burdens, and were compelled to do every description of hard work. Though dark, they had not the peculiarities of the negro race, but they made themselves darker than they were by painting their skins. They differed in many respects from the inhabitants of the neighbouring islands, both in appearance and language. Their dwellings were of some size, but had no walls, being merely roofs—looking like those of English barns taken off their walls and placed on the ground. Their canoes were tolerably well constructed, but though their shores abounded with fish, they had no notion of catching them with nets or lines, the only way being to spear them as they swam by.

On the morning of August 20 the ship left Resolution Harbour, (so-called by Captain Cook, because the Resolution had anchored there,) in Tanna, and continued the survey along the coasts of this extensive group of islands. A large number of natives were seen at the south-west side of Mallicollo, and on the opposite shore a brief communication was held with apparently another race of people, who came off in numerous small outrigger canoes. Though gifts were handed to them, they could not be induced to come up the side, or even to take hold of a rope.

The scenery of the coast in all directions was much admired; the vegetation was most luxuriant; every hill was chequered with plantations, and every valley was watered by a sparkling stream. The survey of the group being at length completed, the Resolution stood away towards New Zealand. The supposed continent of Quiros had dwindled into a small island, and, as Captain Cook took his departure from the south-west point in latitude 15 degrees 40 minutes, longitude 165 degrees 59 minutes, he named it Cape Lisbourne. The Resolution continued her course to the south-west, from September 1 till the 4th, when land was discovered bearing south-south-west, and extending round for some leagues. Breakers were seen half-way between the ship and the shore, and inside them were several canoes, evidently coming off, but as night fell they returned. The night was spent in standing off and on the land, and the next morning, the boats having discovered a channel through the reef, the ship stood in and came to anchor. She was immediately surrounded by a number of natives, who came off in eighteen canoes. They were entirely unarmed, and apparently well disposed. Some presents were thrown to them, for which they offered two stale fish in return, and, confidence being established, numbers crowded on board. Some were asked into the cabin to dinner. They showed, however, no curiosity to taste the pea-soup, salt beef, or pork, but ate some yams.

Except a curious wrapper generally in use these people were entirely naked. They seemed intelligent, and examined with considerable interest the goats, hogs, dogs, and cats on board, which, it was evident, they had never before seen. They valued spike-nails and cloth of all colours, but red cloth they preferred. A young chief was seen in one of the canoes, but did not come on board. After dinner, Captain Cook, accompanied by a native, landed with two armed boats’ crews. The beach was thronged with people, and the native pointed out those to whom presents should be given, mostly old men; among them was the chief, Teabooma, who soon calling for silence addressed the people, apparently in favour of the strangers. All the chiefs in succession made speeches, the old men giving a grunt and a nod of approbation at the end of each sentence. The captain kept his eyes on the people all the time, and was completely convinced of their good intentions. Having made signs that water was wanting, his native friend conducted them along the coast, lined with mangroves, to a creek, on going up which, above the mangroves, a straggling village appeared; the ground around being laid out in well cultivated plantations of sugar-canes, plantains, yams, and other roots, watered by rills conducted from the main stream, whose source was in the hills. Here was an abundance of fresh water. Among other things, some roots were seen baking in an earthen jar, holding from six to eight gallons, apparently manufactured by the natives. On their way Mr Forster shot a duck, which the native begged to have, that he might explain to his countrymen how it was killed. The party returned on board at sunset, convinced that they were not likely to obtain provisions at the place, as it did not appear to produce more than the inhabitants themselves required, although it was clear that they were ready to give what they could, for a more obliging, civil, pleasant people had not been met with during the voyage. Hundreds came on board the ship, but not a theft was committed. One of them, who had attached himself to Captain Cook, brought some roots; a few of the others had weapons, such as clubs and darts, which they willingly exchanged for nails and pieces of cloth. A present had been made up for Teabooma, who, however, slipped out of the ship, and lost it. A good watering-place was found, not far off, up a creek; but as only a small boat could enter it the casks were rolled over the beach, and put on board the launch. Plenty of fuel could also be procured.

An excursion on shore gave the explorers a better idea of the island than they could otherwise have possessed. They were accompanied by several natives, the numbers increasing as they advanced, till they had a large cortège. Reaching the summit of a rocky hill, the sea was observed in two places on the opposite side between the heights, thus enabling them to calculate the width of the island. Below them was a large valley, through which ran a river, on whose banks were several villages and plantations, while the flat land which lay along the shore appeared to great advantage; the winding streams running through it, the plantations, the little straggling villages, the variety in the woods, the shoals on the coast, with the blue sea and the white breakers, made up a very beautiful and picturesque scene. The country in general bore a strong resemblance to parts of New Holland, under the same latitude; several of its natural productions appeared to be the same; while the forests, as in that country, were without underwood. The general aspect of the island was, however, that of a dreary waste; the sides of the mountains and other places being of hard rock, or of a thin soil baked by the sun. Even these unpromising spots were, however, covered with a coarse grass, which though of no use, as there were no cattle to feed on it, would afford pasture to numberless sheep if they were to be introduced into the island. There was a good supply of fish on the coast; but one day a somewhat ugly-looking one being dressed for supper, the captain and the two Mr Forsters, though they did but taste the liver and roe, were seized with a numbness and weakness over their limbs. An emetic and a sudorific considerably relieved them by the morning, but a pig which ate the fish died. A native who had sold the fish did not warn the buyer, though its poisonous character seems to have been known to the people, for, on seeing the skin hanging up the next morning, they expressed their utmost abhorrence of it, and intimated that it was not fit to eat. The captain was anxious to benefit the people as far as his short stay would allow; he, therefore, presented a dog and a bitch to Teabooma, who seemed delighted with the gift; indeed, he could scarcely suppose that the animals were for him. A boar and a sow were also intended for him, but as he was not then to be found they were given to another chief, or head man, and his family, who promised to take care of them. These people had made some advance out of the purely savage state. Their dwellings were circular, very thickly thatched, something like a beehive, and very close and warm. Many had two fireplaces, and some had two storeys, spread with mats and grass. As the entrance was very small, and there was no other outlet for the smoke, the heat was intolerable. It was strange that natives of so hot a climate should delight in all the extra heat they could get. Outside the huts were little pyramids, five together. On the point of the pyramids the clay pots in which they cooked their food were placed, not upright, but on the sides, the fire being lighted beneath. The canoes of the islanders were large, but rude and clumsy in build; and they constructed double canoes formed of the trunks of two trees fastened together, much in the fashion of the other double canoes of the Pacific. They had sometimes one, and sometimes two, lateen sails, composed of pieces of matting, the ropes being made of the coarse filaments of the plantain tree. When they could not sail they were propelled by sculls, the handles of which rose, nearly upright, four feet above the deck.

On standing down the coast, some objects were seen which the scientific gentlemen insisted were basaltic pillars, like those of the Giant’s Causeway in Ireland, contrary to the opinion of the captain, who held that they were trees of a peculiar growth. An island was discovered to the south of the large island, and the name of the Isle of Pines was given to it, on account of the number of tall trees growing thereon, and which the philosophers still maintained were basaltic pillars. It was not without some difficulty that, at length, the ship got near enough to the Isle of Pines to enable the captain, with a party of officers, to land on one of the islets connected with it. The objects observed were found to be a species of spruce pine, admirably fitted for masts and spars. After dinner, therefore, two boats went on shore with the carpenter and his crew, and as many spars as were required were cut down. It was of this tree that the natives made their canoes. The island on which the party landed was called Botany Island.

The Resolution got under way on October 1. Soon afterwards a gale sprang up, which, in spite of all the exertions which could be made, rendered the further survey of the group impossible. She therefore bore away for New Zealand.

New Caledonia, thus discovered, Captain Cook considered to be, with the exception of New Zealand, the largest island in the South Pacific Ocean, being about eighty-seven leagues long, extending from the north-west to south-east, that is, from latitude 19 degrees 37 minutes to 22 degrees 30 minutes South, and from longitude 163 degrees 37 minutes to 167 degrees 14 minutes East, although its width is nowhere very considerable.

The ship stood on about west-south-west till October 10, when land was discovered—an island of good height, five leagues in circuit, to which, as a compliment to the family of Howard, the name of Norfolk Island was given. The ship stood in, when after dinner two boats landed without difficulty behind some large rocks. The island was found to be uninhabited, and probably no human being had ever before set foot on its shore. Many trees and plants common in New Zealand were observed, especially the flax plant, which here appeared to be more luxuriant than in any part of that country. A spruce pine also grew in abundance, and to a great size, and there were also found a number of cabbage palms. They had large pinnated leaves, and the cabbage is, properly speaking, the bad of the tree. Each tree produces but one crown, which grows out of the stem, and by cutting this out the tree is destroyed. As many as could be collected were carried on board, and proved very welcome. The voyage to New Zealand was then continued.

On October 17 Mount Egmont was seen, and the next day the ship anchored at the entrance of Ship Cove, a strong wind preventing her getting in. The day after she warped up, and being moored, the usual preparations were made for carrying on operations on shore. The forge was set up, and coopers’ and sail-makers’ tents were erected. For several days no natives appeared. The gardens were visited, and several of the plants were in a flourishing condition. When the natives did appear their conduct was very strange. At first they kept at a distance, with their weapons in their hands; but when they recognised Captain Cook and his officers, they danced and skipped about like madmen, though even then they would not let any of their women come near.

Several of them talked about killing, but their language was so imperfectly understood that no meaning could at first be gathered from what they said. The following story was made out, however, before long:—The natives said that a ship like the Resolution had been lost in the strait, and that some of the people got on shore, when the natives stole their clothes, for which several were shot; that afterwards, when the sailors could fire no longer, the natives rushed in and killed them with their clubs and spears, and ate them. The narrators declared that they themselves had no hand in the matter, which occurred at some distance along the coast.

Friendly relations were at once established with the natives the English had first met, who brought a good supply of fish, which they willingly exchanged for Otaheite cloth. Cook’s training in the merchant service had given him some useful notions with regard to mercantile principles, and in many other cases, as well as in this, he purchased articles with the view of taking them to another market, where their value would be increased. Still, though Cook was trying to do the natives all the good in his power, it was evident that they were shy of the English. Their more intimate friends at last acknowledged that the Adventure had been there, and though the captain’s mind was relieved with regard to her, he still feared that some disaster had occurred to another vessel along the coast. He probably was, as usual, on his guard, and careful in preventing any causes of dispute between his people and the natives, or he himself might have had to experience the effects of New Zealand treachery.

On November 10 the Resolution left Queen Charlotte’s Sound for the last time, and steered south-by-east, with a fine wind, Cook’s intention being to get into latitude 54 degrees or 55 degrees, and to cross the ocean nearly in those parallels, thus to pass over those parts which were left unexplored the previous summer.

On the evening of December 17 the west coast of Tierra del Fuego, near the entrance of the Straits of Magalhaens, was made; and now Captain Cook says that he had done with the South Pacific, but he had a sound ship and a healthy crew, and he resolved to accomplish some more work before returning home. Among other things, he made a survey of the coasts he was now on. Nothing could be more desolate than those shores. They seemed entirely composed of rocky mountains, without the least appearance of vegetation, the mountains terminating in horrible precipices, while their craggy summits shot up to a vast height. The mountains seen inland were covered with snow, but those nearer the sea coasts were free from it. The former were supposed to belong to the mainland of Tierra del Fuego, while the latter were probably islands.

The ship at length was brought to an anchor, on December 20, in one of the numerous harbours in which the otherwise inhospitable-looking coast abounds. This was called Christmas Sound, as the ship remained at anchor during Christmas Day. An abundance of wild-fowl were shot here, so that the Christmas fare consisted of roast and boiled geese, goose pie, goose stew, and goose in every form which could be thought of, accompanied, in the cabin, by some Madeira, the only article of their provisions which had improved by keeping.

Some natives made their appearance here in nine canoes. They were a little, ugly, half-starved, beardless race. They were almost naked, their clothing being merely two or three seal-skins, sewed together to form a cloak reaching to the knee. Most of them had only one seal-skin, and the women had a sort of apron, but in other respects were clothed like the men. Some young children were seen entirely naked, so that they must be inured to cold and hardships from their infancy. They had with them bows and arrows, and darts, or rather harpoons, made of bone, fitted to a staff. These were probably intended to kill fish and seals, or perhaps whales, as the Esquimaux do. That they were accustomed to the use of train oil the noses of the officers had powerful evidence; indeed, it was far from pleasant to approach them. Their canoes were made of bark, and in each was a fire, round which the women and children huddled. There was also a large seal-skin, perhaps to form a covering to a hut on shore. As these people seemed well acquainted with Europeans, it was considered probable that they moved during the winter more to the northward. They called themselves Pecheras, at least that word was continually in their mouths. “Of all the people I have ever seen, these Pecheras are the most wretched,” says Cook; “they are doomed to live in one of the most inhospitable climates in the world, without having sagacity enough to provide themselves with such conveniences as might render life in some measure more comfortable.” Yet, unattractive as were these people, they had souls as precious in the sight of a loving Saviour as those of the more intelligent and attractive inhabitants of Otaheite. It was in the attempt to carry the glad tidings of salvation to people such as these that the noble-minded Captain Allan Gardiner lost his life; and it is for the sake of people sunk as low as were these in the scale of humanity that missionaries are labouring in many other parts of the earth.

A good supply of wood and water having been obtained at Christmas Sound, the Resolution got under way again on the 28th, and steered towards Cape Horn, which she rounded the next morning. She now steered East by North a half East for the Straits of Le Maire, with a view of looking into Success Bay, to ascertain if the Adventure had been there. A boat, commanded by Lieutenant Pickersgill, was sent on shore, but no traces of her were found. A notice, however, was left nailed to a tree, in case Captain Furneaux should afterwards touch there. Some natives appeared who behaved very courteously to Lieutenant Pickersgill, and made signs to him to bring in the ship. The bay was full of whales and seals; indeed, great numbers had been seen in the straits. At last, the Resolution came to an anchor near an island, on which seals had been observed. After dinner three boats were hoisted out and landed with a large party of men, some to kill seals or sea-lions, and others to kill or catch birds, fish, or whatever came in their way. The sea-lions, with which the island was covered, were so unaccustomed to the sight of man that they did not attempt to escape, and were knocked on the head with sticks and clubs. The only danger was by getting between them and the water, when, as they came floundering on, they were likely to knock down and rush over any one thus placed. A large supply of sea-lions, bears, geese, and ducks was soon obtained. The old lions were killed solely for the sake of their blubber, from which oil was extracted, for their flesh was abominable, but that of the cubs was considered very good, and even that of the lionesses was not amiss.

Once more, on January 3, 1775, the Resolution was at sea, steering an easterly course, in search of land said to exist in about the latitude 53 degrees or 54 degrees. At nine o’clock on the morning of the 13th land was seen by a man named Willis. At first it was taken for an iceberg, but on their drawing nearer the appearance changed, and soundings being found, with a muddy bottom, at one hundred and seventy-five fathoms, there was no doubt that it was really land, and the name of the discoverer was given to it. Passing between Willis Island and another islet, called Bird Island, land was seen extending for a considerable distance. The ship ranged along it, about a league from the shore, for part of two days, till an inlet appeared, towards which the ship steered. Instead, however, of the ship going in, a boat was hoisted out, and the captain, with Mr Forster and others, embarked in her to survey the bay. They landed in three different places, displayed the British flag, and took possession of the country in his Majesty’s name, under a discharge of small arms.

The appearance of the territory thus added to the dominion of Great Britain was not attractive. The head of the bay, as well as two portions on either side, consisted of perpendicular ice cliffs of considerable height. Pieces were continually breaking off and floating out to sea, and even while they were in the bay huge masses fell which made a noise like the discharge of a cannon. The inner parts of the country were not less savage and horrible. Wild rocks raised their lofty summits till they were lost in the clouds, and even the valleys were covered with everlasting snow. Not a tree was to be seen, nor even a shrub big enough to make a toothpick. The only vegetation met with was a coarse, strong-bladed grass, growing in tufts, wild burnet, and a plant like moss, which sprang from the rocks.

Seals or sea-bears were pretty numerous, and so were penguins; some very large, weighing from twenty-nine to thirty-eight pounds, were brought on board. At first it was hoped that the land now discovered was part of a great continent, but by going partly round it it was discovered to be an island of about seventy leagues in circuit, and the name of the Isle of Georgia was given to it. It seemed to answer very little purpose, for though the island lies between the latitudes of 54 degrees and 55 degrees, the whole coast was a mass of ice and snow even in the middle of summer. “The disappointment I felt did not, I must confess, affect me much,” says Cook, “for to judge of the bulk by the sample, it would not be worth the discovery.” Various other islets and rocks were seen, when, believing that no other discovery of importance would be made thereabouts, on January 25 the Resolution continued her course, steering east-south-east.

On the 31st several islands and a considerable extent of land were discovered, to which the name of Sandwich Land, or Southern Thule, was given, as it was the most southern land then known. It showed a surface of great height, everywhere covered with snow. While the Resolution was close in with this coast, the wind fell, and left her to the mercy of a great westerly swell, which set right upon the shore. A line of two hundred fathoms found no bottom. The weather became hazy; the coast could not be seen. A most fearful wreck now seemed inevitable, when the fog cleared away, and a point (Cape Bristol) appeared, bearing east-south-east, beyond which no land could be seen. This discovery relieved the explorers from the dread of being carried by the swell on to one of the most horrible coasts in the world. After undergoing this and similar fearful risks, it was scarcely necessary for Cook to make any apology for leaving this inhospitable region, and proceeding in search of the long-sought-for Cape Circumcision. He sailed over and round the spot where it was said to lie, and became thoroughly convinced that no cape, indeed no land, lies thereabouts. He was soon sure that if there was land it would only be a small island, from the long southerly swell which was found in that latitude.

What we are most struck with is the hardihood and fine seamanship displayed by Captain Cook and his officers in this run across the Antarctic Ocean. It was the summer season, and the nights were short; but they had to encounter storms and bitter cold, ice, and snow, and hail, with the risk, at any moment, of running on an iceberg or some hidden rock; but still greater was the risk when such inhospitable shores as those of Tierra del Fuego, or Staten Island, or the Isle of Georgia, or Southern Thule were to be explored.

A course was now steered for the Cape of Good Hope, greatly to the delight of all on board. On March 16 two sails were seen in the north-west, standing westward, one of them under Dutch colours, a sign that they were once more approaching civilised regions. In the evening land was seen. In pursuance of his instructions, the captain now demanded of the officers and petty officers the log-books and journals which they had kept, and which were sealed up for the inspection of the Admiralty. The officers and men were also especially charged not to say where they had been until they had received the permission of the Lords of the Admiralty.

Several other ships were now met with, one of which proved to be the True Briton, Captain Broadly, from China, bound direct home. With that liberality for which commanders of East India Company’s ships were famed, Captain Broadly sent on board the Resolution a present of a supply of fresh provisions, tea, and other articles, which were most acceptable. A heavy gale kept the Resolution from entering the harbour. At length, however, on Wednesday, March 22, according to the ship’s reckoning, but with the people on shore Tuesday, the 21st, she anchored in Table Bay. Finding an East India Company’s ship homeward bound, Captain Cook sent by her a copy of his journal, charts, and other drawings, to reduce the risk of the result of his enterprise being lost. He also found here a letter from Captain Furneaux, from which the mysterious conduct of the natives of Queen Charlotte’s Sound was completely explained. It was as follows:—On December 17, 1773, the large cutter, with ten men under charge of Mr Rowe, a midshipman, had been sent on shore to gather greens for the ship’s company, with orders to return that evening. On their non-appearance another boat was sent, under the command of Lieutenant Barney, when the mutilated remains of the cutter’s crew were discovered, some parts scattered about on the beach, and others carefully packed with fern leaves, in baskets, evidently intended for the oven. It was clear that some quarrel had arisen, and that after the unfortunate men had discharged their muskets they had been clubbed by the natives. It was afterwards discovered, by the acknowledgment of the natives, that they themselves had been the aggressors, having stolen some of the seamen’s clothes, and that then they pretended to make up the quarrel, but that finding the party seated at dinner, and utterly unsuspicious of evil, they had rushed down on them and killed them all. After this misfortune the Adventure sailed for the Cape of Good Hope, and thence returned to England.

Captain Cook speaks of the great courtesy and kindness he received from the Dutch authorities, as well as from the residents, and of the abundance of good provisions which he obtained. On April 27, the repairs of the ship being completed, the Resolution sailed in company with the Dutton, East Indiaman, for Saint Helena, and was saluted with thirteen guns. She was also saluted by a Spanish and Danish Indiaman as she passed them—she, of course, returning the salutes.

At daylight on May 15 the island of Saint Helena was sighted. It, at that time, belonged to the East India Company, and was laid out chiefly in pasture, in order that their ships might here obtain supplies of fresh meat.

The Resolution anchored off Ascension on May 28, and found some vessels from America come to load with turtle. A good supply was taken on board, and on the 31st she again sailed. On June 9 the island of Fernando de Moronha was sighted, and was found to be in possession of the Portuguese. Without anchoring, the Resolution continued her course for the Azores, at one of which, Fayal, she anchored on July 13. Among several vessels there was one belonging to the place, which had taken in a cargo of provisions at the Amazon, for the Cape de Verde Islands, but had been unable to find them—a specimen of Portuguese navigation not at all singular even in later days. The Resolution sailed on the 19th, passing the island of Terceira, and on the 29th made the land near Plymouth, and the next morning anchored at Spithead. The same day Captain Cook landed at Portsmouth, with Messrs Wales, Forster, and Hodges, and set off for London. He had been absent from England three years and eighteen days, and during that time had lost but four men, and only one of them by sickness. This was owing, under Providence, to the very great care taken of the health of the people. All means were used to induce the crew to keep their persons, hammocks, bedding, and clothes clean and dry. The ship, once or twice a week, was aired with fires, and when this could not be done she was smoked with gunpowder mixed with vinegar and water. There was frequently a fire in an iron pot at the bottom of the well. The ship’s coppers were kept carefully clean, fresh water being taken on board whenever practicable. Of remedies against scurvy the sweet-wort was proved to be most valuable. At the slightest appearance of the disease two or three pints a day were given to each man. A pound of sour-krout was supplied to each man, twice a week, at sea. Preparations of potatoes, lemons, and oranges were served out with good effect. Sugar was found useful, as was wheaten flour, while oatmeal and oil were considered to promote the scurvy—such oil, at least, as was served to the Navy. Olive oil would probably have had a different effect. Captain Cook thus concludes his journal of the voyage:—“But whatever may be the public judgment about other matters, it is with real satisfaction, and without claiming any merit but that of attention to my duty, that I can conclude this account with an observation which facts enable me to make, that our having discovered the possibility of preserving health amongst a numerous ship’s company for such a length of time, in such varieties of climate, and amidst such continued hardships and fatigues, will make this voyage remarkable in the opinion of every benevolent person, when the disputes about a southern continent shall have ceased to engage the attention and to divide the judgment of philosophers.”

In concluding this account of Captain Cook’s second voyage round the world it is well, while admitting the value of the discoveries made, and admiring the perseverance and general prudence and kindness of the discoverer, to express deep regret that the scrupulous and unremitting care exercised over the physical health of the crew was not, with equal assiduity and anxiety, manifested in respect of their spiritual health. Those were not the days in which the souls of sailors were much cared for; but it may be supposed that the character of this expedition, together with the unusual number of educated gentlemen on board, furnished facilities for Christian exertion which certainly were not improved. So far, indeed, as the existing records of this voyage inform us, we are led to the conclusion that instead of setting an example of morality and virtue to the ignorant heathen they visited, it would, in many instances, have been better for the heathen had they never known these so-called Christians.

Note 1. Among sailors, a ship is said to be crank when the rigging is too weighty for the hull, so as to risk being upset.

Note 2. It seems strange that this “horrid proceeding” should have been permitted on board the English ship; and that Captain Cook, with his well-established character, should have stood by and witnessed it, is unaccountable.

Chapter Four.

Third Voyage of Discovery, from July 1776 to October 1778.

It will be remembered that Captain Cook landed in England on July 30, 1775. He at once received well-merited acknowledgments of the services he had rendered to his country. On August 9 he received post rank, and three days afterwards was nominated a Captain in Greenwich Hospital, an appointment that would have enabled him to spend the remainder of his days in honourable retirement. In February of the following year he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society; and on the evening of his admission, March 7, a paper was read, in which he gave a full account of the various means he had adopted for the preservation of the health of his crew.

The importance of this paper, and the way in which it was received, will be best understood by those who have read accounts of Lord Anson’s and other voyages, where the scurvy made fearful havoc among the ship’s companies. In consequence of this paper, it was resolved by Sir John Pringle, the President of the Council of the Society, to bestow on Captain Cook the gold medal known as the Copley Annual Medal, for the best experimental paper of the year. Cook was already on his third voyage before the medal was bestowed, though he was aware of the honour intended him; and his wife had the pleasure of receiving it.

Sir John Pringle’s words are worthy of repetition. Having pointed out the means by which Captain Cook, with a company of a hundred and eighteen men, performed a voyage of three years and eighteen days, in all climates, with the loss of only one man from sickness, he proceeds! “I would now inquire of those most conversant with the study of the bills of mortality, whether, in the most healthful climate, and in the best conditions of life, they have ever found so small a number of deaths within that space of time. How great and agreeable, then, must our surprise be, after perusing the histories of long navigations in former days, when so many perished by marine diseases, to find the air of the sea acquitted of all malignity; and, in fine, that a voyage round the world may be undertaken with less danger, perhaps, to health, than a common tour in Europe.” He concludes: “For if Rome decreed the civic crown to him who saved the life of a single citizen, what wreaths are due to that man who, having himself saved many, perpetuates in your Transactions the means by which Britain may now, on the most distant voyages, preserve numbers of her intrepid sons—her mariners, who, braving every danger, have so liberally contributed to the fame, to the opulence, and to the maritime empire of their country?”

This address ought to be read by all British shipowners and ship-masters. They possess ample means of preventing the approach of the scurvy, and yet numerous vessels, even at the present day, return home with a portion of their crews suffering from that fearful scourge. The masters must exert themselves, must take some trouble in the matter, no doubt; but if they will not do so, if they will not take an interest in the welfare of their men, they are unfit to command ships; they are a disgrace to their honourable profession.

Among those who reached England in the Adventure, with Captain Furneaux, was Omai, the native of Ulietea. Captain Cook did not approve at the time of the selection Captain Furneaux had made, as Omai did not belong to the chiefs, nor to the priestly class, while in appearance and intelligence he was inferior to many of his countrymen. Oedidee, who had been received on board the Resolution, had, it will be remembered, been left behind at Ulietea, Cook fearing that he might have no other opportunity of restoring the youth to his native island. Both seem to have been inferior to Tupia, who died at Batavia. However, Omai, as the first native of the South Sea Islands who had been seen in England, was made a great deal of by people of all ranks. He was introduced to George the Third, who settled on him a pension while he remained in England. He had his portrait painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Cowper mentions him in one of his poems, while he was constantly in the society of Dr Johnson, Madame d’Arblay, Sir Joseph Banks, Dr Burney, Lord Sandwich, Lord Mulgrave, Granville Sharpe, and many other illustrious persons. The power of imitation is strong among his people, and he, therefore, very quickly copied the manners of the people with whom he associated, and became, in appearance, a polished gentleman.

He very slowly acquired a knowledge of English; indeed, he always required the aid of signs and gestures to express himself.

In vain was much trouble expended in trying to teach him to write, by Mr Sharpe, who also endeavoured, with no better success, to instruct him in the principles of Christianity. Such was Omai, a dark-minded savage, amidst civilisation and enlightenment. His great desire seems to have been to obtain the means of successfully waging war with the men of Bolabola, of expelling them from Ulietea, and of regaining possession of his hereditary property. It is with regret that we read this account of the miserable Omai, when we reflect how eagerly and how thoroughly many of his fellow-islanders in after years imbibed the principles of the Christian faith, and how steadfastly they have held to them, in all simplicity and purity. Had Omai—like the Ethiopian eunuch of other days—but embraced with all his heart the truths of the Gospel, and returned to his native land, carrying with him the glad tidings of salvation to his benighted countrymen, the light of the knowledge of the glory of God might have been spread throughout the islands of the Pacific even then.

For two centuries a strong desire had existed in England, among people interested in navigation, to discover a passage by the north-west, round the coast of North America into the Pacific, so that China and Japan and the East Indies might be reached by a route shorter than that by the Cape of Good Hope. All the early expeditions had been undertaken by private enterprise, to encourage which, an Act of Parliament was passed in 1745, securing a reward of 20,000 pounds to any ship belonging to any of his Majesty’s subjects, which should discover the passage. Often was the attempt made by numerous bold adventurers, from Frobisher, in 1576, onwards to the time of which we are writing. In the middle of the century public interest was again awakened by the exertions of Mr Dobbs, who was strongly impressed with the belief that a north-west passage could be found. Captain Middleton was sent out by Government in 1741, and Captains Smith and Moore in 1746. In 1773, at the instigation of the Hon. Daines Barrington, an influential member of the Royal Society, Lord Sandwich sent out Captain Phipps (afterwards Lord Mulgrave) with the Racehorse and Carcase. Captain Lutwidge commanded the latter vessel, and had on board a young boy—Nelson, the future naval hero. Captain Phipps returned, unable to penetrate the wall of ice which barred his progress.

Still, that a passage existed, and might be found, was the belief of many enlightened men, and the Admiralty came to the resolution of sending out another expedition, better prepared than former ones to encounter the difficulties to be met with. Lord Sandwich very naturally desired to have Captain Cook’s opinion on the subject, and his lordship accordingly invited him to meet Sir Hugh Palliser, Mr Stephens, and others at dinner, where it might freely be discussed.

The importance and grandeur of the undertaking, and, should it be successful, the great advantage it would be to navigation and science, thus completing the circuit of discoveries made by Cook, were particularly dwelt on. When it came to the point of fixing on a fit person to recommend to his Majesty to command the proposed expedition, Captain Cook started to his feet, and declared that he himself was ready to take the command.

This was probably what Lord Sandwich desired. Cook’s offer was eagerly accepted, and he was appointed to the command of the expedition on February 10, 1776. It was arranged that on his return to England he should be restored to his post at Greenwich. An Act was also at once passed, by which the officers and ship’s company of any of his Majesty’s ships discovering the north-west passage would be able to claim the reward of 20,000 pounds offered in 1745 only to persons not in the Royal Navy. The usual plan of search was to be reversed, and instead of commencing on the Atlantic side of America, and endeavouring to penetrate into the Pacific, the expedition was to proceed round Cape Horn, and then sailing north, attempt to work its way through Behring’s Straits eastward into the Atlantic.

Two vessels were fixed on for the intended service, the Resolution and the Discovery. The command of the former was given to Captain Cook, with Mr Gore as his first lieutenant, and of the other to Captain Clerke, while Lieutenant King went out again as second lieutenant of the Resolution. He had undertaken to make the necessary astronomical and nautical observations during the voyage, in conjunction with his captain, and for this purpose various instruments were entrusted to him.

Mr Bayley was again appointed as astronomer, to sail on board Captain Clerke’s ship, while Mr Anderson, the surgeon of the Resolution, took charge of the department of natural history. An artist, Mr Webber, was selected to sail on board the Resolution, and to make sketches of any scenes of interest which might be met with.

Every care and attention was paid to the fitting-out of the ships, and some months passed before they were ready for sea. The officers of the Resolution were John Gore, James King, and John Williamson, lieutenants; William Bligh, Master; William Anderson, surgeon; Molesworth Philips, lieutenant Royal Marines: those of the Discovery were James Burney, John Rickham, lieutenants; Thomas Edgar, master; John Law, surgeon. The latter vessel, which had been purchased into the service, was of three hundred tons burden.

An ample supply of all the articles which past experience had shown were likely to preserve the health of the crews was put on board these vessels, as well as an abundance of warm clothing. By desire of the King, several useful animals, which were to be left at the Society or other islands, for the benefit of the natives, were embarked, with fodder for their support. There were two cows and their calves, a bull, and several sheep. Others were to be purchased at the Cape. The captain was also furnished with a large variety of European garden seeds, for distribution among the inhabitants of newly-discovered islands. He received, besides, by order of the Board of Admiralty, many articles calculated to improve the condition of the natives of the islands of the Pacific, while, for the purposes of traffic, a large assortment of iron tools, trinkets, and other articles were sent on board. Nothing, indeed, was omitted which it was thought likely would benefit the people to be visited, or would promote the success of the voyage. As it was not probable that another opportunity would occur of restoring Omai to his native island, it was settled that he should return in the Resolution. It was supposed that this semi-civilised, and still heathen, savage had become so impressed with the grandeur and power of England, and so grateful for the patronage he had enjoyed and the presents he had received, that he would (as a writer of the day expresses it) “be rendered an instrument of conveying to the inhabitants of the Pacific Ocean the most exalted ideas of the greatness and generosity of the British nation.” How completely these hopes were disappointed the following narrative will show; nor should we be surprised at this, when we recollect how entirely superficial were all poor Omai’s accomplishments. He appears to have learned to play very well at chess; but that seems to have been the only science in which he attained anything like proficiency. The truth is, he had been made a lion of, and had been courted and petted by the rank and fashion of the day. It would not have been surprising if his head had been turned. Possibly, a man of superior mind or quicker sensibilities might have been powerfully affected by the same amount of flattery. On being told that he was to go, he could scarcely refrain from tears when he spoke of parting from his English friends, but his eyes immediately sparkled with pleasure when his native islands were mentioned.

Captain Cook received the secret instructions for his guidance on July 6, 1776. His chief object was to find a passage from the Pacific into the Atlantic. He was to leave the Cape of Good Hope early in November, and first to search for certain islands said to have been seen by the French, south of the Mauritius. He was not to spend much time in looking for them, nor in examining them if found, but to proceed to Otaheite, touching at New Zealand, should he consider it necessary to refresh his crews. Thence he was to proceed direct to the coast of New Albion, avoiding, if possible, any Spanish settlements; or should it be necessary to touch at any, to take great care not to excite the jealousy or ill-will of the Spaniards. Arrived in the Frozen Ocean, he was to examine all channels and inlets likely to lead eastward, and to take possession of any territory on which he might land, not before discovered, with the consent of the natives, in the name of the King of Great Britain. He was to winter at the Russian settlement of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Kamtschatka, and to return in the spring to the north. Each ship was supplied with a small vessel in frame, which was to be set up, if necessary, to prosecute the search for a passage along the northern coast of America.

Although numerous expeditions have since been sent out, they have mostly commenced their operations on the Atlantic side of America; and it is remarkable that the only successful one, that of Captain McClure, in the Investigator, and Captain Collinson, in the Enterprise, in the years 1850-53, entered the Frozen Sea on the Pacific side. (Note 1.) Captain McClure had, however, to abandon his ship, and to make the voyage over the ice, till he could join one of the ships sent up Baffin’s Bay to his relief; while Captain Collinson, getting his ship free from the ice, returned westward by the way he had come. The question of a north-west passage was thus solved in the affirmative; but, unless in some very exceptional case, it is shown to be impracticable and useless for all commercial purposes. It is easy to conceive what would have been the fate of Cook’s ships had they proceeded eastward, and there become beset by the ice.

Captain Cook, with Omai in his company, joined his ship on June 24, 1776, at Sheerness, and immediately sailed for Plymouth. He did not leave that port till July 11, and, owing to contrary winds, did not take his departure from the Scilly Isles till the 16th.

The Discovery remained at Plymouth, Captain Clerke not having yet arrived on board. He was directed to proceed, as soon as he was ready for sea, to the Cape of Good Hope, there to join the Resolution. Captain Cook touched at Teneriffe, where he found an abundance of supplies, and sailed again on August 4. On the evening of the 10th, Bonavista, one of the Cape de Verde Islands, was seen bearing south, little more than a league off, though at the time it was supposed that the ship was at a much greater distance from the land. Just then breakers were discovered directly under her lee, and for a few minutes she was in great danger. She happily just weathered them, and stood for Porto Praya, where it was expected the Discovery might be. As she was not there, the Resolution did not go in, but continued her course to the Cape. On September 1 the line was crossed, and the usual ceremonies were observed; on October 18 the ship anchored in Table Bay. Here arrangements were at once made to obtain a supply of fresh bread and other provisions, which, as soon as ready, were conveyed on board, while the tents were set up on shore, and astronomical observations diligently carried on. Meantime, the ship was caulked, which she much required. On the evening of the 31st a fearful gale tore the tents to pieces, and some of the instruments narrowly escaped serious injury. No communication with the Resolution was possible for those on shore.

She was the only ship in the harbour which rode out the gale without dragging her anchors.

On November 10 the Discovery entered the bay. She had sailed on August 1, and would have come in a week sooner but had been blown off the coast by the late gale. She also required caulking, which detained the expedition some time.

On November 30 the two ships sailed together. The Resolution had now on board, in addition to her former stock of animals, two bulls and two heifers, two horses and two mares, two rams, several ewes and goats, and some rabbits and poultry—all of them intended for New Zealand, Otaheite, and the neighbouring islands, or other places where there might be a prospect of their proving useful. The course steered was about south-east. Before long a heavy squall carried away the Resolution’s mizzen-topmast; and a mountainous sea made the ship roll so much that it was with difficulty the animals on board could be preserved. Owing to this, and to the cold, several goats and sheep died.

On December 12 two islands were seen about five leagues apart. These, with four others which lie in the same latitude, about nine degrees of longitude more to the east, were discovered by two French navigators in 1772. Cook now bestowed the name of Prince Edward’s Island on the two he had just discovered, and those of the French officers on the four others. They were mostly covered with snow, and where the ground seemed free from it lichen or a coarse grass was the only herbage.

On leaving Prince Edward’s Island a course was shaped to fall in with Kerguelen’s Land. On the evening of the 24th an island of considerable height and the next day other islands were seen. As the ships ranged along the coast a terrific sea rolled in on the shore, placing them in great danger, and both had considerable difficulty in weathering the points and reefs they met with. Though it was midsummer the weather was as cold as it is generally during the winter in the British Channel. At last a harbour was discovered, into which the ships beat and found good anchorage, an abundance of water, innumerable penguins and other birds, as also seals, which were so unacquainted with human beings that they allowed themselves to be knocked on the head without attempting to escape. The casks were immediately landed to be filled up with water, while a supply of seals was secured for the sake of their oil. Not a tree nor shrub was to be found in this inhospitable region. A bottle was brought to Captain Cook, containing a document left by Kerguelen, who had discovered this land at the end of 1773, and had taken possession of it in the name of the King of France. The harbour in which the ships lay was called Christmas Harbour, in commemoration of the day on which they entered it. The ships left this harbour on the morning of the 28th, and continued to range along the coast, in order to discover its position and extent. They brought up in another harbour just in time to escape a heavy gale, and then proceeded to the south, towards Cape George, to determine the shape of the land. On finally leaving it, on December 30, the ships steered east-by-north for New Zealand. Captain Cook came to the conclusion that the land he had just left was a large island, seventy or eighty miles from north to south, and a much greater distance from east to west. Captain Furneaux had, in 1773, passed across the meridian of this land, only seventeen leagues to the south of Cape George, thus settling the point of its being an island.

It seems to have been a mistake to send the ships into these inclement regions with cattle on board, as many died, among them two young bulls and a heifer, two rams, and several more of the goats.

The weather continued so thick that for many days together the ships did not see each other, though by constantly firing guns they managed to keep in company. At length Captain Cook determined to put into Adventure Bay, in Van Diemen’s Land, where Captain Furneaux had touched on the former voyage. The land was made on January 24, and on the 26th the ships brought up in the bay. They expected to obtain a supply of wood for fuel, and of grass for the cattle, of which they stood greatly in need. A supply of fish was caught, and plenty of grass brought on board. While the party on shore were cutting wood some natives appeared. They came forward with perfect confidence, only one having a lance in his hand. They were entirely without clothes, their skin and hair black, their stature about the ordinary height, their figures rather slender. Their features were not disagreeable, as they had neither very thick lips nor flat noses, while their eyes and teeth were good. Most of them had their heads and beards smeared with a red ointment, while some had their faces painted with the same composition. They seemed indifferent to all the presents offered them; even bread and fish they threw away, till some birds were given them, at which they expressed their satisfaction.

A boar and sow had been landed for the purpose of being left in the woods, but no sooner did the natives see them than they seized them by the ears, evidently with the intention of carrying them off and killing them. Captain Cook, wishing to know the use of the stick one of them carried, the native set up a mark and threw his stick at it. He missed it, however, so often, that Omai, to show the superiority of the white men’s arms, fired his musket. This very naturally made the whole party ran off, and drop some axes and other things which had been given to them. They ran towards where the Adventure’s people were cutting wood, when the officer, not knowing their intention, fired a musket over their heads, which sent them off altogether. The boar and sow were carried to a thick wood at the head of the bay, where it was hoped that they would conceal themselves and escape the natives; but some cattle which it had been intended to leave there were returned on board, as it was clear that the natives would immediately kill them.

A calm kept the ships in harbour, and the next day, notwithstanding the fright which the natives had received, a party of twenty or more, men and boys, made their appearance. Among them was one terribly deformed, who seemed to be the acknowledged wit of the party, as he and his friends laughed heartily at the remarks he made, and seemed surprised that the English did not do the same. Their language was different from that of the tribes met with in the north. Some of these people had bands of fur passed several times round their necks, and others of kangaroo-skin round their ankles. They seemed to be unacquainted with fishing, by the way they looked at the English fish-hooks, and their rejection of the fish offered them; though near their fires quantities of mussel shells were found, showing that they lived partly on shell-fish. Their habitations were mere sheds of sticks covered with bark, and there were indications of their taking up their abodes in trees hollowed out by fire or decay. From the marks of fires it was evident that they cooked their food, but they did not appear to have the slightest notion of cultivating the land. The people here described have disappeared from the face of the earth. The last remnant, who had become exceedingly ferocious and mischievous, were collected and carried to an island in Bass’s Straits, where they were allowed to roam at large, it having been found impossible to tame them. It is believed that they finally died out. Mr Anderson records the beauty of the scenery and of the climate, though he remarks that not one single natural production could be found fit for the food of man.

The ships left Adventure Bay on January 30, when soon afterwards the mercury in the barometer fell, and a furious gale began to blow from the south. At the same time the heat became almost insupportable, the mercury in the thermometer rising from 70 degrees to near 90 degrees. This high temperature, however, did not last long.

On February 12 the ships anchored in Queen Charlotte’s Sound. That no time might be lost, the tents for the observatory, with the usual guard and the water-casks, were landed, and operations were immediately commenced. Before long several canoes came alongside, but few of the people in them would venture on board, the greater part being evidently afraid that the English would punish them for their murder of the Adventure’s people. Captain Cook recognised several of those with whom he was well acquainted during his former visits. They must also have seen Omai, and remembered that he was on board the Adventure at the time, and thus known that Captain Cook could no longer have been ignorant of what had occurred. He, however, did his best to make them understand that he was not come to punish them for that act, and that he wished to be friends with them as before. In consequence of this the natives very soon laid aside restraint and distrust. After the fearful experience he had had of their treachery, however, the captain took extra precautions to prevent a surprise. While the people were engaged in their various occupations on shore, a guard was posted for their protection, while all the men worked with their arms by their sides, Mr King and two or three petty officers being constantly with them. No boat was sent to a distance unless well armed, and under charge of an officer who could be depended on. Captain Cook thinks that the precautions were probably unnecessary though he felt it his duty to take them. The natives showed no fear, and came and built their huts close to the ship, and many employed themselves in fishing, exchanging the fish they caught for the usual articles of barter.

Besides the natives who settled near them, chiefs from other parts frequently visited the ship. Among them came a chief called Kahoora, who was pointed out as the leader of those who attacked the crew of the Adventure’s boat, and was said actually to have killed Mr Rowe, the officer in command. Greatly to the surprise of the natives, as also to that of Omai, who entreated that he might at once be killed, Captain Cook declined seizing him, saying that he had granted an amnesty, and that no one should be punished. Kahoora, trusting to the captain’s promise, came frequently on board, though by thus doing he placed himself entirely in the hands of the English. Once only, when Omai accused him in the cabin of having killed Mr Rowe, he hung down his head and folded his arms, expecting instant death, but was soon reassured by the captain, who told him that he wished to forget the circumstance, though should a similar one occur the natives must expect the fearful vengeance of the English. He says that had he listened to the suggestions and requests of the chiefs and others to kill their enemies, he should soon have extirpated the whole race. In no country could life be much more insecure. Tribes, and even families living in the same neighbourhood, were constantly fighting with each other, and war was carried on with the utmost cruelty and ferocity. If a man was unable to revenge an injury inflicted on himself or any member of his family, it was the duty of his son to take up the quarrel, and often many years elapsed before an opportunity occurred of wreaking his long-delayed vengeance. When such an opportunity arrived he and his companions stole on their unsuspecting enemies in the night, and if they found them unguarded they killed every one indiscriminately, not even sparing women or children. When the massacre was completed they either made a horrid banquet of the slain on the spot, or carried off as many dead bodies as they could, and devoured them at home, with acts of brutality too shocking to be described. As they never gave quarter nor took prisoners the defeated party could only save their lives by flight. More powerful chiefs made war in the same barbarous way, on a larger scale, and depopulated whole districts if the people offended them. On the introduction of firearms the bloody work went on with still greater rapidity. In the time of George the Fourth a chief who was taken to England and received at Buckingham Palace, and was looked upon as a highly civilised person, on his return exchanged at Sydney all the articles which had been given him for firearms and ammunition, and immediately commenced a war of extermination against all the surrounding tribes, and feasted without scruple on the bodies of his foes. It is not surprising that, under such circumstances, two-thirds of the inhabitants of New Zealand have been, within the last century, swept away by warfare. The process of extermination had, indeed, commenced long before Cook visited those shores, and it would probably ere now have completed its ravages had not the Christian Church been roused to a sense of its responsibilities, and conveyed to New Zealand, as to other lands, the knowledge of Him who teaches us by His Word and Spirit to love our enemies, to bless those who curse us, and to do good to those who despitefully use us and persecute us.

The wandering propensities of the New Zealanders were shown by the desire expressed by several youths of embarking on board the ships. One, named Taweiharooa, eighteen years of age, the son of a dead chief, was selected to accompany Omai, who had been desirous of having a companion. That Taweiharooa might be sent off in a way becoming his rank, a boy, Kokoa, of about ten years of age, to act as his servant, was presented by his own father with as much indifference as he would have parted with a dog. It was clearly explained to the youths that they would probably never return to their native country, but, as Cook observes, so great was the insecurity of life in New Zealand at that time, that he felt no compunction in the matter, as the lads could scarcely fail to improve their lot by the change.

The ships left Queen Charlotte’s Sound on February 25. No sooner had they lost sight of land than the New Zealand adventurers were seized with sea-sickness, which, giving a turn to their thoughts, made them bitterly lament what they had done, while they expressed their feelings in a sort of song which they continued to sing till they got better. By degrees their lamentations ceased, and in a short time their native country and friends seemed to be forgotten, and they appeared as firmly attached to their new friends as if they had been born among them.

On March 29, 1777, the Discovery made the signal of land in the north-east. It was soon found to be an island of no great extent, and the night was spent standing off and on, in the hope that the next day a landing-place might be found. No landing nor anchorage, however, appeared practicable, on account of the heavy surf which broke everywhere, either against the island or the reef which surrounded it. Before long a number of people appeared on the shore or wading to the reef, most of them nearly naked, except the usual girdle, brandishing spears and clubs. Some of them had mantles of native cloth over their shoulders, and turbans or wrappers round their heads. After a time a canoe was launched, and came off with two natives to the ship. When presents were offered, they asked for some for their Eatooa before they would accept any for themselves. Omai spoke to them in the tongue of Otaheite, which they perfectly understood. The principal man said that his name was Monrooa, and that the island was called Mangaia. His colour was that of most southern Europeans; he was stout and well made, and his features were agreeable. The other man was not so good-looking. Both of them had strong, straight black hair, tied at the crown of the head. They wore sandals, to protect their feet from the coral rocks.

The men would not venture on board, but when the boats were lowered and stood towards the shore to find a landing-place, Monrooa stepped into Captain Cook’s of his own accord, and took his seat by his side. No landing could be found without the risk of swamping the boats; they therefore returned, and Monrooa came on board. He was, evidently, too anxious about his safety to ask questions. At last he stumbled over one of the goats, when he inquired eagerly of Omai what strange bird that was! The boat conveyed him just outside the surf, when he leaped overboard and swam through it, his countrymen being seen eagerly gathering round him to receive accounts of what he had seen. Cook says he left that fine island with regret, as it seemed capable of supplying all their wants. (Note 2.)

Mangaia was left on March 30, and the next day, at noon, two islands were seen—a large and a small one. The following day the shore of the larger island was reached, and boats at once put off to try and find a landing-place. At the same time several canoes came from the shore, with one man in each. The natives stepped on board without showing fear, but seemed to value very little any of the gifts bestowed on them. After the first party had gone, a man arrived in a canoe, bringing a bunch of plantains as a present to Captain Cook, whose name he had learned from Omai. This present had been sent by the principal chief. The bearer went away, well contented, with an axe and a piece of red cloth. Not long after a double canoe approached the Resolution, with twelve men in her, who chanted in chorus, and when their song was finished they came alongside and asked for the chief. On the captain’s showing himself a pig and some cocoanuts were handed up the side, and the natives coming on board presented some pieces of matting in addition. Though the natives expressed surprise at some of the things they saw, nothing seemed to fix their attention. They were afraid of the horses and cows, and inquired, when they saw the goats, as the native of Mangaia had done, what sort of birds they were.

The following day Mr Gore and Mr Barney, with Mr Anderson and Omai, went on shore in hope of obtaining food for the cattle. The boats approached the surf, when some canoes came off and took the party through it. The day passed on, and as they did not return Captain Cook became somewhat uneasy; his only comfort being that the natives continued to come off to the ship as before, bringing cocoanuts, and taking anything given them in return. Late in the day the boats returned; it then appeared that the party had been conducted, amid a vast crowd, up an avenue of cocoa palms, till they reached a body of men drawn up in two rows, armed with clubs resting on their shoulders. In the middle row was a chief, sitting cross-legged on the ground, and having bunches of red feathers in his ears. They were then introduced to two other chiefs, one, though a young man, excessively corpulent, also distinguished by the red feathers, and they were then entertained by a dance, performed by twenty girls, all of whom wore red feathers. The dancers did not leave the spot where they stood, for though their feet moved up and down the dance consisted of various motions of the body and hands. The visitors were next entertained by a sham fight between the men armed with clubs. They now found themselves separated from each other, and pressed on by the crowd, while they had their pockets picked of every article they possessed, the chiefs not interfering. Their position was sufficiently embarrassing, for whenever they tried to get back to the boats they were stopped. Omai, meantime, who was by himself, surrounded by a crowd of natives, and equally anxious with the rest, described, in exaggerated terms, the power of the English guns, which, he affirmed, could blow the whole island to pieces. He had some cartridges in his pocket, and to prove his assertion he let several of them off together. The sudden flash and report seem to have produced a great effect on the minds of the natives, as the party were sent off with a large supply of cooked plantains as a gift; and a bag containing a pistol, which Mr Anderson particularly required, was restored.

Omai found on this island three of his own countrymen who had arrived there, eleven years before, in a canoe. They were the survivors of a party of twenty persons who had been driven before the wind from Otaheite, distant at least two hundred leagues. They declined a passage offered to them to return to their native island. The circumstance was interesting as giving an example of the way the islands of the Pacific have been peopled. The name of this island was Wateeoo. The language was equally well understood by Omai and the two New Zealanders.

Though the visit was an interesting one, the chief object in calling off the island (that of procuring provender for the cattle) was not attained, as nothing was sent off. From the small island which had been seen three days before, and to which the ships now steered, all that was required was obtained, consisting of grass and leaves of young cocoanut trees and of the pandanus. Though the island, called Ota Kootaia, was uninhabited, still, as it was occasionally visited by the natives of the neighbouring island, Mr King left an axe and some nails in payment for what he took away.

Captain Cook next sailed for Hervey Island, which he had supposed, when he discovered it in 1773, to be uninhabited. As he now approached, however, a number of canoes came off, but the people on board behaved in a very wild and disorderly manner. They were of a darker colour than the neighbouring islanders, and of a fiercer expression of countenance. As no anchorage was found for the ships they stood away for Palmerston’s Island, which was found to be thickly covered with cocoanut trees, pandanus, cabbage palm, and grass. The ships stood off and on for three days, while four or five boats’ crews were busily employed in cutting food for the cattle, and in collecting two thousand cocoanuts for the crews of the two ships. On leaving Palmerston’s Island a course was steered for Annamook, and on the night between April 24 and 25, Savage Island was passed.

On the evening of the 28th the ships anchored off Komango, and the next morning canoes came off with all sorts of provisions. Mr King, who went on shore, was treated very civilly by the inhabitants, and by two chiefs, Taipa and Toobou. As it was important to find a good harbour, and no other, after two days’ search, having been discovered, Captain Cook came to anchor in the spot where he had been three years before. Here the chief Toobou received him, and offered a boat, and also a house to serve as a tent; at the same time he promptly selected a spot where the observatories might be set up and other arrangements made. He conducted the captain and Omai to his house. Round it was a fine grass-plot, which he explained was for the purpose of enabling people to clean their feet before entering the house. The floor was covered with mats, and no carpet in an English drawing-room could be kept cleaner. Taipa, the chief, who had been among the first to introduce himself, that he might be close to his new friends, had a house brought on men’s shoulders, full a quarter of a mile, and placed near the shed they occupied. The greatest man, however, had not as yet appeared, and on May 6 a chief arrived, it was understood, from Tongataboo, who was introduced by Taipa as Feenou, King of all the Friendly Islands. That he was of great power there could be no doubt, as the natives ordered out to meet him bowed their heads as low as his feet, the soles of which they touched, first with the palm, and then with the back of each hand. He appeared to be about thirty years of age, tall, but thin, and had more of the European features than any native of the South Seas yet met with. He showed his power by recovering a large axe which had been stolen out of the ship. The people of these islands were great thieves; even the chiefs stole. One was caught, when he was sentenced to receive a dozen lashes, and was not set free till he had paid a hog for his liberty. This put a stop to the practice among the chiefs.

At Feenou’s invitation Captain Cook agreed to go to Hapaee. During the passage the great chief came on board and remained all day, but in the evening took his departure with Omai, while the ship remained under sail in a somewhat perilous position, no anchorage having been found. Several times during the day the smoke from the burning mountain of Toofoa was seen; at night the flames were observed bursting forth, but to no great height.

Hapaee consists of four islands, of inconsiderable elevation. Immediately the ships came to an anchor, on the 17th, they were crowded with natives, who brought off all sorts of provisions. A house had been brought down to the beach, and on Captain Cook’s going on shore, he and Omai, with Feenou, took their seats within it, the other chiefs and people forming a circle outside. Feenou then directed Taipa to proclaim to the people that the strangers were going to remain five days, and that they were to bring hogs, fowls, and fruit to the ships; that they were not to steal, but to behave in every way politely and courteously. After this, it was suggested by Taipa that a present should be made to Earoupa, the chief of the island.

Omai seems to have been greatly taken with Feenou, and scarcely ever quitted him. The next day this chief came off, requesting the captain’s presence on shore, when a hundred men appeared, laden with bread-fruit, plantains, yams, cocoanuts, and sugar-canes, with several pigs and fowls, and two turtles, which were deposited in two heaps, Earoupa seating himself near one heap, and another chief near the other. A number of men then appeared, armed with clubs made out of the green branches of the cocoanut tree. They formed two parties, and numerous single combats took place, the victors being highly applauded by the spectators. These were succeeded by wrestling and boxing matches, much in the English fashion. In the latter several young women took part. One of the first pair gave in within a minute, but the second fought on till separated by two old women. The greatest good humour prevailed, however, though many severe blows were received. Feenou now explained that one-third of the presents were for Omai, and the others for Captain Cook, who made the handsomest returns he could. There was enough to fill four boats; indeed, no chief in any part had ever made a present at all equal to it.

At the desire of the chief the marines were exercised on shore, and in return a sort of dance was performed by a hundred and five men, who had each a paddle in his hand. Nothing could exceed the beautiful precision and the variety of graceful movements of the performers. When it grew dark their visitors greatly pleased the natives by a display of fireworks. After this the people collected in an open space among the trees, where a circle was formed by lights, and just outside the circle a number of dances were performed, some by men, and others by women, many of the principal people taking a part. The performances appear to have been very graceful and perfect in every way, the natives evidently priding themselves on them.

Making an excursion on shore, Captain Cook formed a high opinion of the state of cultivation of Lifooga. On his return on board he found a large double canoe, with the silent chief who had been met with at Tongataboo, and was supposed to be the king of the island. Feenou was on board, but neither great man took the slightest notice of the other. Feenou now announced that business required his absence, and begged Captain Cook to await his return. He had not been gone long when a large sailing-canoe arrived, in which was a person named Poulaho, and whom the natives on board affirmed to be the real King of Tongataboo and of all the neighbouring islands. He was a sensible, sedate man, enormously fat, and about forty years of age. He was, of course, invited into the cabin, but his attendants observed that that could not be. On this the captain sent Omai to say that he would give directions that no one should approach the part of the deck above the cabin. The king, however, settled the question by going below without making any stipulation. Omai seemed much disappointed at discovering that the chief he had taken to be king was no king after all. Feenou was, however, a very powerful chief, generalissimo of the army, and head of the police of all the islands, so that he was held in general awe.

The king was much pleased with the presents he received, and when he went on shore ordered two more hogs to be sent off, in addition to two he had brought with him. On landing he was taken up to the house erected for his accommodation, on a board resembling a hand-barrow. On Feenou’s return he looked rather confused on finding that the king had paid the voyagers a visit; and he then acknowledged who and what he really was. After this, on one occasion, Poulaho and Feenou accompanied the captain on board. Feenou, however, did not presume to sit with the king, but, saluting his foot with head and hands, retired out of the cabin. It appeared, indeed, that he declined to eat and drink in the royal presence, though there were persons of much inferior rank who did so.

At the request of Poulaho the captain paid a visit to Tongataboo, where the ships were in considerable danger of driving on a low, sandy island, but escaped. At Tongataboo the English were entertained much in the same way that they had been at Hapaee.

The king had a son, Fattafaihe, to whom great respect was paid. His mother was the daughter of an old chief, of large possessions and great influence, called Mareewagee, and Feenou was his son. That chief was, therefore, brother-in-law to the king, and uncle to the heir-apparent.

On June 19 Captain Cook invited the chiefs and others to a meeting, that he might present them with the animals he proposed to leave on the island. To the king, Poulaho, he gave a young English bull and cow; to Mareewagee, a Cape ram and two ewes; and to Feenou, a horse and mare; and he instructed Omai to explain their use, and that they must be careful not to injure them, but to let them increase till they had stocked the island. Some goats and rabbits were also added. It soon appeared, however, that the chiefs were dissatisfied with this allotment, and early next morning it was found that a kid and two turkey-cocks were missing. On this the captain put a guard over the king, Feenou, and some other chiefs, whom he found in the house which the English occupied on shore, and told them that they should not be liberated till the animals and other articles lately stolen had been restored. On the captain inviting them to go on board to dinner they readily consented. Some objected to the king’s going, but he jumped up and said that he would be the first to go. They were kept on board till four, and on their return on shore the kid and one of the turkey-cocks were brought back, and the other was promised the next day. After this a party of officers from both ships made an excursion into the interior, with muskets and ammunition, and a number of articles for barter, but the natives stripped them of everything. The officers made application, through Omai, for restitution, and this caused the king, Feenou, and other chiefs hastily to go off. Omai, however, persuaded Feenou that nothing would be done to them, when he, and afterwards the king, returned, and were apparently on as good terms as ever.

Captain Cook even ventured to attend a grand ceremony, held for the purpose of introducing the young prince to certain royal privileges, the principal of which was to be that of eating in the society of his father. There seemed to be great distinctions of rank among the people. There were some who had greater honour shown to them than even to the king himself. His father had an elder sister, of equal rank to himself, and she married a chief who came from Fejee. By him she had a son, the silent chief Latoolibooloo, who was looked upon as a madman, and two daughters. The king met one of these women on board the Resolution, and would not venture to eat in her presence. On afterwards encountering Latoolibooloo, the king bent down and touched the silent prince’s feet with the back and palms of his hand, as he was accustomed to be treated by his subjects.

Captain Cook here observed the taboo system. If applied to places, they may not be entered or approached; if to persons, they may not be touched, or may not feed themselves; if to things, they may not be touched. The system, however, did not appear to be so rigidly observed in Tonga as in some other groups of the Pacific.

With regard to the religion of the people, Captain Cook gained very little information, and Omai, who seems to have been especially dull of apprehension, and never to have made inquiries of his own accord, was very little able to help him. That great cruelty was exercised by those in authority was evident by two or three occurrences witnessed by the English. On one occasion, when Feenou was on board the Resolution, an inferior chief ordered all the people to retire from the post occupied on shore by the English. Some ventured to return, when the chief took up a stick and beat them most unmercifully. He struck one man with so much violence on the side of the face that the blood gushed out of his month and nostrils, and after lying for some time motionless he was removed in convulsions. The chief laughed when told that he had killed the man, and seemed perfectly indifferent to the matter.

All classes, from the highest to the lowest, were found to be thieves; and when the chiefs themselves did not steal they employed their servants to pilfer for them. To check this propensity Captain Clerke suggested a plan, which was adopted with good effect. Whenever any of the lower orders were caught stealing he had their heads completely shaved, so that they became objects of ridicule to their countrymen, and did not again venture on board the ships.

It appeared that the larger portion of the land belonged to certain great chiefs, and that the inferior chiefs held their estates under them, while the mass of the population were mere serfs, who tilled the soil for their masters, and received but a scanty remuneration for their labour.

Captain Cook heard of the Fejee Islands, distant about three days’ sail, and of the savage and cannibal propensities of the inhabitants, some of whom he saw at Tonga. The inhabitants of Tonga held them in great dread, on account of their prowess in war, and always endeavoured to keep on friendly terms with them. He concluded that the Friendly Islanders had not, till lately, kept up any intercourse with those of Fejee, because dogs, which are very common in the latter group, had only been introduced into Tonga since his last visit, and to none of the other islands.

All was ready for sailing, when the king invited Captain Cook and his officers to the ceremony which has already been mentioned, and which took place at Mooa, where the king resided. During its performance they had to sit, as did the natives, with their shoulders bare, their hair hanging down loose, their eyes cast down, and their hands locked together. None but the principal people, and those who assisted at the celebration, were allowed to be present. These circumstances, Captain Cook says, were sufficient evidence to him that the people considered themselves as acting under the immediate inspection of a Supreme Being. He was told that in about three months there would be performed, on the same account, a far grander solemnity, on which occasion not only the tribute of Tongataboo, but that of Hapaee, Vavaoo, and of all the other islands, would be brought to the chief, and ten human beings from among the inferior sort of people would be sacrificed to add to its dignity: “a significant instance,” Captain Cook remarks, “of the influence of gloomy and ignorant superstition over the minds of one of the most benevolent and humane nations upon earth.” King Poulaho warmly pressed his guests to remain, that they might witness a funeral ceremony, which was to take place the next day.

During their stay in the island they had suffered from a succession of violent storms. The wind raged fearfully amongst the forest trees, the rain fell in torrents, the lightning flashed, and the thunder pealed with an awful fury of which we, in these more temperate regions, have little idea. Now, however, the wind had become fair and moderate; Captain Cook and his officers, therefore, hurried on board, and as soon as possible the ships got under way. As, however, they could not get to sea before it was dark, they had to bring up for the night under Tongataboo. The next day they reached Eooa, where the English were well received by Captain Cook’s former acquaintance, the chief of the island, Taoofa, or, as he then called him, Tioony. An abundant supply of yams and a few hogs were obtained, and the ram and two ewes of the Cape of Good Hope breed of sheep were entrusted to the chief, who seemed proud of his charge.

Captain Cook made an excursion into the interior, and as he surveyed, from an elevation to which he had ascended, the delightful prospect before him, “I could not,” he says, “help flattering myself with the pleasing idea that some future navigator may, from the same station, behold these meadows stocked with cattle, brought to these islands by the ships of England; and that the completion of this high benevolent purpose, independently of all other considerations, would sufficiently mark to posterity that our voyages had not been useless to the general interests of humanity.” The great navigator here gives utterance to the genuine feelings of his heart, for such were undoubtedly the principles which animated him. He little dreamed that those friendly natives, of whom he had thought so highly, and whom he had praised as among the most humane people on earth, had, headed by Feenou, laid a plot for his destruction, and that of all his followers. Providentially, the conspirators could not agree as to the mode of proceeding; but all were equally eager to possess themselves of the stores of wealth the ships were supposed to contain. Probably Feenou’s pretended friendship for the foolish Omai was in the hope that he would thus have a ready tool in his hands. He had offered to make Omai a great chief if he would remain in Tonga, but Cook advised him not to accept the offer.

Captain Cook had settled to sail on July 15, but, pressed by Taoofa, who promised more presents, he consented to remain a couple of days. During this period a seaman was surrounded by a number of people, and, being knocked down, had every particle of clothing torn from his back; but, by seizing on a couple of canoes and a fat hog, the English obtained the restoration of some of the articles.

The captain kept to his purpose of sailing, but when still not far from the land a canoe with four men came off, saying that orders had been sent to the people of Eooa to supply the ships with fat hogs, and that if they would return to their former station the king and a number of chiefs would, in a couple of days, be with them. As, however, there was an abundant supply of provisions on board, Captain Cook declined the offer, and continued his coarse.

It is scarcely necessary to remind the reader that more fearful massacres of the crews of various ships were perpetrated by the inhabitants of these islands than by any other natives of the Pacific, from the time of the visit just recorded till they were formed into a civilised community under their present government.

After the ships had left the Tonga group they did not see land till August 8, when they fell in with a small island, having on it hills of considerable elevation, covered with grass; tall trees, and numerous plantations on a border of flat land, ran quite round it, edged with a white sandy beach. A number of people were on the shore, and two canoes came off with a dozen men in them, but could not be persuaded, by all Omai’s eloquence, to venture alongside. They spoke the language of Otaheite, and called their island Toobouai. It was at this island that Christian and the mutineers of the Bounty tried to form a settlement, in 1789. It is the scene, also, of Lord Byron’s poem of “The Island,” though he altered the name to Toobouia. Some of the people were dressed in native cloth, but the great mass had only girdles. One continued to blow a conch-shell most of the time the ships lay off their island, while his companions made signs, inviting the strangers to land. It is worthy of remark that no weapons were seen among them.

On the 12th Maitea was seen, and soon after Otaheite hove in sight, and the next day the ships anchored in the Bay of Oheitepeha. Some common people came off in canoes, but Omai took no notice of them, and they did not seem to recognise him as a countryman. At length his brother-in-law, Ootee, appeared, but there was no exhibition of regard or affection till Omai took the other into the cabin and showed him the drawers in which he kept his red feathers. This instantly changed the face of affairs, and Ootee begged that they might be tayos, and change names.

Soon after the ships anchored Omai’s sister came on board, and the meeting was marked with expressions of the most tender affection, evidently not feigned. Afterwards, on going ashore with Captain Cook, Omai met a sister of his mother. “She threw herself at his feet, and bedewed them plentifully with tears of joy,” says the captain, adding, “I left him with the old lady, in the midst of a number of people who had gathered round him.”

Cook found that since his last visit two Spanish ships had twice visited the bay; that a house had been built, and that several persons had been left in the interval, of whom some had died, and the rest went away when the ships came back. They had presented the islanders with a bull, some hogs, goats, and dogs, and had taken away four people, two of whom died, and two came back from a place which Cook conjectured to be Lima. The house, which stood close to the beach, was made of planks, and as these were all numbered they had evidently been brought ready to be set up. It was divided into two small rooms, and in the inner one were a bedstead, a table, a bench, some old hats, and other trifles, of which the natives seemed to be very careful, as also of the house itself, which had suffered no hurt from the weather, a shed having been built over it. There were scuttles all round which served as air-holes, and perhaps they were intended to fire from with musketry, should it have become necessary. At a little distance from the front stood a wooden cross, on the transverse part of which was only the inscription Christus vincit, and on the perpendicular part Carolus Tertius, imperat 1774. On the other side of the post Cook preserved the memory of the prior visits of the English by inscribing, Georgius Tertius, Rex, Annis 1767, 1769, 1773, 1774, and 1777. The natives pointed out the grave of the commodore of the two ships who died there during their first visit.

The expeditions of the Spaniards to Otaheite and the neighbouring islands had been undertaken in consequence of the jealousy of the Spanish Government at the visits of the English to the South Seas. The first was under the command of Don Domingo Bonechea, in the Aguila frigate, in 1772. He gave so favourable a report of the islands that he was again sent out in 1774, having on board two monks of the order of Saint Francis, a linguist, a portable house, sheep, cattle, and implements. Having landed them at Oheitepeha Bay, as soon as the house was up he set sail to make further discoveries. He then returned to the bay, and six days afterwards died, and was buried, with becoming ceremonies, at the foot of the cross, which was erected with great pomp, amid the chanting of masses and the discharge of musketry.

In 1775 a third visit was paid by the Aguila, sent from Callao, to ascertain the fate of the missionaries. They were found to be utterly disappointed, and determined to abandon their task, having made no progress in the conversion of the natives, and were so alarmed at the human sacrifices constantly taking place that they would only consent to remain under the protection of a Spanish garrison.

In God’s providence, the people of Otaheite were destined to receive, from Protestant missionaries, a simpler and purer faith than that taught by the priests of Rome. To that faith they have held fast, in spite of all the efforts and machinations of the Romanists.

While in this bay, as an abundant supply of cocoanuts could be obtained, Captain Cook proposed to his crew that, as it was important they should economise their spirits, they should give up their grog, except on Saturday nights, and drink cocoanut milk instead. To this, without a moment’s hesitation, they consented, as did Captain Clerke’s crew. On their first arrival in this place red feathers were looked on as of great value, but as everybody had them on board they soon became a drug in the market. Poor Omai began very soon to exhibit his want of judgment. He had prepared a crown or cap of yellow and red feathers for Otoo, the king of all the islands, which the captain recommended him to present himself. Instead of so doing, his vanity induced him to exhibit it before Waheiadooa, the chief of that part, who thereupon kept the crown himself and sent only a few tufts to the king.

On August 23 the ships moved to Matavai Bay. The following morning the captain landed with Omai and several officers, to pay his respects to the king, who was attended by his father, his two brothers, three sisters, and a large number of people. Omai, who was becomingly dressed, kneeled and embraced the king’s legs, but very little notice was taken of him. He made the king a present of some red feathers and three yards of gold cloth; and the captain gave him a suit of fine linen, a gold-laced hat, some more red feathers, and some tools. Captain Cook’s wish had been to leave Omai with Otoo, as he thought of landing all his animals here, and supposed that Omai would assist in looking after them, and show their various uses. He therefore encouraged the friendship of Omai with the chiefs, even though it might have depended much on his supposed wealth. Omai, however, rejecting his kind friend’s advice, conducted himself in so imprudent a manner that he soon lost the friendship of Otoo, and of every other person of note in Otaheite. He associated with none but vagabonds and strangers, whose sole object was to plunder him; and had not the captain interfered they would not have left him a single article worth carrying from the island. Of course, this drew on him the ill-will of the chiefs, who found that they could not procure such valuable presents as Omai bestowed on the lowest of the people, his companions.

After dinner the captain and a party of officers accompanied Otoo to Oparree, taking with them the poultry with which they were to stock the island. They consisted of a peacock and hen, a turkey-cock and hen, one gander and three geese, and a drake and four ducks; all left with the king. A gander was found there, left by Captain Wallis, several goats, and a fine Spanish bull, which was kept tied to a tree near Otoo’s house. Three cows and a bull, some sheep, and the horse and mare were also landed, greatly to the captain’s satisfaction, and to that of everybody else on board, probably, when it is considered what care and attention it must have required to keep them alive for so many months. A piece of ground was also cleared for a garden, and in it, among other things, were planted several shaddock trees, which had been brought from the Friendly Islands, two pine-apple plants, some melons and potatoes. The Spaniards had left a vine, which flourished, but before the grapes were ripe the natives tasted them, and finding them sour, nearly destroyed it. It was, however, pruned, and cuttings were taken from it, and the natives were advised to wait till the fruit was ripe another season.

The youth called Oedidee, whose real name was Heeteheete, who had been seven months with Captain Cook, was here met with. The captain gave him a chest of tools, and some clothes had been sent out for his use; but after a few days he declined wearing them. One of the natives who had been on board one of the Spanish ships had also resumed his native garments, and “perhaps,” Captain Cook observes, “Omai, who has almost entirely assumed English manners, will do the same.”

While the ships lay at Matavai news was brought that the people of Eimeo had revolted, and it was resolved to send Towha, with a fleet, against them. Before the fleet could sail it was necessary that a grand human sacrifice should be offered. The unhappy victim—one of the common people—had already been knocked on the head for the purpose. Captain Cook, wishing to ascertain the truth of the accounts he had received, accompanied Otoo to witness the ceremony, and with him Mr Anderson and Mr Webber, followed by Omai in a canoe. Every facility was given them for witnessing the barbarous and disgusting rite. The English were allowed to examine the victim, who was a man of middle age, and had been killed by a blow on the right temple. Forty-nine skulls were counted in one heap, which, as they had suffered little change by the weather, had belonged to people evidently not long killed.

On the captain’s return he met Towha, who became very angry because he positively refused to assist him in his proposed expedition.

Omai gave an entertainment on shore about this time, at which the king condescended to attend; and the following day a party dined with their old shipmate Oedidee; among other dishes, admirably dressed, was a hog weighing about thirty pounds, which an hour or two before was alive. Some fireworks, let off before a large concourse of people, frightened some of them so much that they could scarcely be kept together. On the return of Otoo, on September 13, from assisting at another human sacrifice, the two captains mounted the two horses, and took a ride round the plains of Matavai, to the astonishment of a large number of people. The ride was repeated every day, and seemed to convey to the natives a better idea of the greatness of the English than any of the other novelties brought to them by their European visitors.

Most of the chiefs and other people of importance who were known to the English during their former visit were still alive, and as the island had enjoyed the blessings of peace, it seemed to be in a very flourishing condition. Omai received here one present from Towha in return for the many he had given away; this was a handsome double canoe, ready for sea; but when he exhibited himself on board in a suit of chain armour, so unpopular had he become that the people would not look at him. He had all along entertained the idea that Captain Cook would take him back to Ulietea, and reinstate him by force of arms on his father’s property. This made him refuse to remain at Otaheite.

On leaving that island, on September 30, the ships proceeded to Eimeo. Omai, in his canoe, had arrived some time before. An excellent harbour was found, in which the ships lay close to the shore. The Resolution was much infested by rats, and, as an expedient to get rid of them, she was hauled as close in with the shore as the depth of water would allow, and some stout hawsers were fastened to the trees to afford them a bridge to cross over. The natives would scarcely have thanked their visitors for the gifts intended for them, but whether any rats were thus got rid of is not known. The natives managed, however, to carry off a goat, which, as it was of value for the purpose of stocking other islands, it was necessary to recover. This, however, was not done till several canoes and some houses had been burned.

The island is described as rising in one hill, with very little level ground, and the people, especially the women, were said to be inferior in appearance to those of the neighbouring islands. Another day’s sail brought the ships to the entrance of the harbour of Owharre, on the west side of the island of Huaheine. As Omai refused to attempt the recovery of his property in Ulietea, except by force of arms, Captain Cook determined to leave him here, making the best terms with the chief that he could. The English were received on shore by a large concourse of people, many of whom appeared to be people of consequence; the king was, however, only a child. It is painful to read the following account given of the meeting:—“Omai began with making his offering to the gods, consisting of red feathers, cloth, etcetera. Then followed another offering, which was to be given to the gods by the chief: each article was laid before a priest, who presented it with a prayer dictated by Omai, who did not forget his friends in England, nor those who had brought him safely back. The King of England, Lord Sandwich, Cook, and Clerke were mentioned in every one of them.”

Finally, the chief agreed to give Omai a piece of ground extending about two hundred yards along the shore of the harbour, and reaching to the foot of the hill. Here observatories were set up, and the carpenters of both ships were set to work to build a house for Omai, in which he might secure his European commodities. At the same time some hands were employed on shore, making a garden for his use, planting shaddocks, vines, pine-apples melons, and other seeds, many of which were in a flourishing state before the English left the island. Omai here found a brother, a sister, and a brother-in-law, but they were not people capable of affording him any protection. Cook, therefore, advised him to make handsome presents to some of the chiefs, that they might be induced to protect him. To increase his security, Captain Cook took every opportunity of impressing on the inhabitants that he purposed returning, and that should he not find Omai in the state of security in which he left him, his enemies might expect to feel the weight of his resentment.

On the 22nd a man found means of carrying off a sextant from Mr Bayley’s observatory. Omai fixed on the culprit, who was a Bolabola man, a hardened scoundrel. He confessed that he had taken the instrument, and would show where it was. This did not save him, however, from having his head and beard shaved, and both his ears cut off, as a terror to the rest.

Omai’s house being nearly finished on the 26th, many of his movables were carried on shore. Among a variety of other useless articles was a box of toys, which seemed greatly to please the multitude; but his plates, dishes, mugs, and glasses he saw would be of no use to him, and he therefore exchanged them with the crew for hatchets and other iron tools. He is said to have had an electrical machine, a portable organ, a coat of mail, and a helmet. He had also a musket and bayonet, a fowling-piece, two pairs of pistols, and two or three swords or cutlasses. The possession of these made him quite happy, though Cook was of opinion that he would have been better without them. A horse and mare, a boar and two sows, and a goat with kid were likewise given to him.

The following inscription was cut on the outside of Omai’s house:—

Georgius Tertius, Rex, 2 Novembris, 1777.

Naves Resolution, Jacobus Cook, Pr. Discovery, Carolus Clerke, Pr.

On bidding his friends farewell Omai sustained himself with firmness, till he came to Captain Cook, when his utmost efforts failed to conceal his tears, and he wept all the time of going on shore. Even at last he would have remained on board the Resolution. The two New Zealand youths were very anxious to remain with the English, and the younger, who was a witty, smart boy, and consequently much noticed, had to be carried on shore by force.

Deep interest was often expressed in England as to the fate of the “gentle savage” who had been brought from the South Seas, and so soon learned the manners of civilised life. Had he devoted his talents to the instruction of his countrymen, and raised their condition to a state somewhat resembling what he had seen existing in England?

Many years passed before the truth was known, and yet who that has read the account given of him by Cook, and remembers that he remained to the last a dark idolater, could have expected otherwise from him? Mr Ellis, in his Polynesian Researches, gives the account:—

“Soon after the departure of his friends he assumed the native dress, and at the same time gave himself up to the vices, indolence, and barbarism of his countrymen. The only use he made of the horses left with him was to ride about the country for the purpose of astonishing or frightening the more ignorant natives; and so far from lamenting the barbarous condition of the people, and endeavouring to raise them in the social scale, his great delight consisted in exhibiting the superiority which his English weapons enabled him to assume. As his firearms, especially, had rendered him a powerful subject, he married the daughter of a chief who made himself king, and was invested with the high title of Patiri (wise and instructed). He had now gained the position his philosophical friends in England had desired for him, and had a favourable opportunity of acquiring the title of his country’s benefactor, which they had hoped he would deserve. But how did he employ his advantages?

“From thenceforth,” adds the narrator, “he continued the inglorious tool of the king’s cruel and wanton humour, assisting him with his musket in time of war, and in peace frequently amusing the monarch by shooting at his subjects at a distance, or gratifying his revenge by despatching, with a pistol, those who had incurred his wrath.

“He died within three years after his celebrated voyage, and the New Zealanders did not long survive him. His name is now rarely mentioned, except with contempt or execration. The site of his dwelling is, by the natives, still called Beritain (Britain); and amid the ruins of the garden they show a dark and glossy-leaved shaddock tree, which they love to tell was planted by the hands of Cook. The horses which he left did not long survive; but the breeds of goats and pigs yet remain; many of the trinkets, part of the armour, and some of the cutlasses are also preserved; and the numerous coloured engravings of a large quarto Bible are objects of general attraction.

“There is, perhaps, no place in the island to which greater interest is attached; for besides its association with the name just mentioned, on this spot was reared the first building in which the true God was publicly worshipped in Huaheine; and here, also, was erected the first school for the instruction of the benighted inhabitants in the knowledge of letters and the principles of Christianity.”

On leaving Huaheine the ships stood over to Ulietea, and the following day, November 3, entered the harbour of Ohamaneno. Here they hauled close in with the shore, and made another attempt to get rid of their troublesome guests the rats. The captain’s old friend, Oreo, chief of the island, and his son-in-law, Pootoe, at once came off to visit him; the visit was returned, and amicable relations were soon established. In spite of this, however, thefts were continually committed; and other circumstances arose which seemed to threaten a rupture of this friendship.

One of these events was the desertion of a marine, who, being on duty, went off, carrying his arms with him. Captain Cook, with a few of his people, instantly pursued the man, fearing that he would have escaped to the mountains. He was soon discovered, however, among the natives, who readily delivered him up to the captain. But a more serious case of desertion took place a few days afterwards—that of a midshipman and a seaman. The captain, thereupon, set off with two armed boats, but could not find the fugitives, hearing only that they had gone over to the neighbouring island of Bolabola.

The next morning, the chief, his son and daughter, and his son-in-law came on board the Resolution, and the three last-mentioned were invited to the Discovery, with a view to their detention there till the deserters should be brought back—an act of high-handed injustice of which, one would suppose, no amount of condescension and familiarity on the part of the English was likely to efface the remembrance.

At any rate, the step thus taken caused great consternation among the natives, many of whom, including many women, came off in canoes under the stern of the ship, and bewailed the captivity of the king’s daughter. Oreo, on his part, quickly aroused himself, and sent off canoes to Bolabola and elsewhere to find the fugitives. The natives, in the meantime, in a spirit of natural retaliation, formed a plan for seizing Captain Cook while bathing, as was his custom every morning. Failing in this, they attempted to make prisoners of Captain Clerke and Mr Gore. News, indeed, was brought off to the ships that they had been captured; and Mr King, with several armed boats, was immediately despatched to rescue them, when it was found that they had escaped the plot, probably owing their safety to the fact that Captain Clerke carried a pistol in his hand. Oreo must have been aware of the plot, for he more than once asked Captain Cook why he did not go and bathe as usual.

The chief at length set out for Bolabola, it being arranged that the ships should follow; but a strong wind kept them in harbour, and the next day he returned with the two deserters, who had gone from Bolabola to the small island of Toobaee, where they were taken by the father of Pootoe. The three captives were then released. Before leaving the island, Captain Cook presented Oreo with an English boar and sow and two goats. Oreo and several chiefs took a passage on board the English ships to Bolabola, which was reached the day after they left Ulietea. A large concourse of people, with the great chief Opoony in their midst, were ready to receive the English.

One object Captain Cook had in putting in here was to obtain one of the anchors which Monsieur Bougainville had lost at Otaheite, and which, having been taken up by the people there, had been sent as a present to Opoony. That chief, with remarkable honesty, positively refused to accept any present till the anchor had been seen, not believing it worth what was offered. Cook’s object was to manufacture it into tools and nails, of which he had run short. He insisted on his presents being taken, and was glad to get the old iron for the object he had in view. Very many years afterwards the missionary Williams was, in the same manner, thankful to find an old anchor, out of which he manufactured the ironwork required for the missionary vessel he was building, the Messenger of Peace.

As a ram had before been conveyed to the island, the captain made a present of a ewe to Opoony, hoping thus that the island might be stocked in time with a breed of sheep.

He now prepared to take his departure for the north; and as this was the last visit paid by Cook to these islands his opinion may be quoted,—that it would have been better for the people of the Pacific Islands had they never been discovered by Europeans, than once having become acquainted with them and their goods to be afterwards left to their own resources. “When their iron tools are worn out, and the use of their stone ones is forgotten, how are they to get others?” he asks; and adds, “it is incumbent, therefore, on Europeans, to visit them once in three or four years, in order to supply them with those conveniences which we have introduced to them.”

The minds of those enlightened and civilised visitors were occupied with the glory of their achievements as discoverers of hitherto unknown lands; their remaining thoughts, which they would have called patriotic, were principally occupied with the question how these discoveries might be turned to account for the profit and honour of England; and if a nook remained for a benevolent wish for “the savages,” the wish was limited to the improvement of their material condition. Otherwise, as the English discoverer found them, so he was willing that they should remain, satisfied with the idea that he had increased the productive powers of the different lands he visited.

Thus, also, in the case of the wretched Omai, whose end we have seen. It seems scarcely to have entered the minds of those who, in England, petted and spoiled him, that he had a soul as valuable, or rather as invaluable, as theirs; and that he needed, as all need, the transforming influences of Divine grace to make him a future blessing, instead of a curse, to his poor countrymen. We are told, indeed, of his being slow to receive Christian instruction; and we read also that, among his goods and chattels collected in England, he had a large quarto Bible, with coloured engravings—a book, however, which was a sealed book to him and his countrymen.

The ships now stood north, and, on December 24, discovered an uninhabited island, with a lagoon. It was hoped that turtle would abound here; they therefore came to an anchor. The voyagers were not disappointed, and a considerable number were taken. Two men, while thus employed, lost themselves in different parts of the island, and as there was not a drop of water to be found, they suffered greatly from thirst, especially one who would not drink turtle’s blood. They were both happily recovered. The telescopes were landed, and on December 30 an eclipse of the sun was observed. Not a trace of any inhabitants having ever been on the island could be discovered. There were about thirty cocoanut trees, but the fruit was of an inferior quality. Three hundred turtle were taken, and as many fish as could be consumed; but not a drop of fresh water could be found. As Christmas was spent here, the name of Christmas Island was given to the new discovery. It lies in latitude 1 degrees 41 minutes North and longitude 157 degrees 15 minutes East. Some cocoanuts and yams were planted on the island, and some melon-seeds; while a bottle was deposited, with the names of the ships and the date of the visit. The ships sailed thence on January 2, 1778, and proceeded northward. The wind blew faintly at first, and then freshened, and albatrosses, with other birds, were seen increasing in number—all indications of land being near, though none was seen till the 18th, when first one high island and then another hove in sight. On the 19th the first seen bore east, several leagues distant, and being to windward could not be approached. On standing towards the other, a third island was discovered in the direction of west-north-west. At first it was doubtful whether the islands were inhabited, but that question was soon solved by the appearance of several canoes, which came alongside; but the people in them would not at first venture on board, though they willingly exchanged a few fish and some sweet potatoes for nails and other articles offered them. They spoke the language of Otaheite and of the other islands lately visited. They were of a brown colour, of an ordinary size, and the cast of their features was not unlike that of Europeans. Some wore their hair long, others short, but all had stained it of a brown colour. Some were slightly tattooed, and all wore the usual girdle, stained red, white, and black. As the ships sailed along the coast, looking for a harbour, numerous villages were observed, with plantations of sugar-canes and plantains, while vast numbers of people crowded the shore, or collected in elevated places, to watch the ships.

The next day, the ships again standing in, several natives ventured on board, and showed by the wild looks and gestures with which they regarded everything on board that they had never before been visited by Europeans. They knew the value of iron, however, when they saw it, and it was supposed that they had gained their knowledge of it from the fact that the masts and spars of a ship with iron attached, and casks with iron hoops, had been cast on their shore. They soon proved themselves to be daring thieves, and unhappily, a boat being sent on shore, on their attempting to seize the oars they were fired at, and one man was killed. Of this circumstance Captain Cook was not informed at the time.

As soon as Captain Cook landed, the people assembled fell flat on their faces; nor would they rise till by expressive gestures he urged them to do so. He understood that this was the way they paid respect to their own great chiefs. Having arranged about getting a supply of water, he walked with Messrs Anderson and Wilder into the country, to visit an obelisk of wickerwork, fifty feet high, standing in a morai. A native had been selected as a guide, and wherever they went the people fell prostrate before the captain. The morai was similar to those seen at Otaheite. In and about it were a number of idols, one having on its head what resembled an ancient helmet. They ascertained, without doubt, that human sacrifices were offered up at these morais. On the wickerwork were pieces of grey cloth, such as was generally offered to idols, and a piece of which had been pressed on the captain on landing. The next day, among other articles brought off, were some beautiful cloaks of red and other feathers, and helmets and caps of the same.

Captain Cook, in his journal, expresses his belief that the people were cannibals. This arose from seeing a man on board who had a piece of salted meat done up in a cloth, and which he said that he ate to do him good. It seems to have been highly dried and seasoned, and to have been taken as a stimulant.

The natives called their island Atooi, and Captain Cook gave the name of the Sandwich Islands to the whole group. The friendly disposition of the natives was shown on all occasions, especially when three boats went on shore, and, bad weather coming on, were detained for several days. Five islands were seen on this occasion, and were distinguished by the names of Woahoo, Atooi, Oneeheow, Oreehoua, and Tahoora. The islands were mostly high, well watered, and apparently thickly populated.

It was found that the taboo existed with even greater vigour than at Tongataboo, for the people constantly asked, with signs of fear, whether anything they desired to see, and the English were unwilling to show, was taboo, or, as they pronounced the word, tafoo.

On February 2, 1778, the ships left the Sandwich Islands, and stood towards the coast of America.

On March 7, early in the morning, the long-looked-for coast of New Albion, so-called by Sir Francis Drake, hove in sight. The ships stood along the coast, now off and now on again, with uncertain weather, till at length, on March 29, an inlet appeared in latitude 49 degrees 15 minutes North, and longitude 126 degrees 35 minutes East. The ships sailed up this inlet for several miles, when they cast anchor. Natives came off in three canoes, shaped like Norway yawls. Having drawn near, a person stood up in one of them and invited the strangers, in a speech and by gesture, to land, at the same time strewing handfuls of red feathers towards them, while his companions threw red dust in the same way. The next day a large number of people came off, who all behaved in the most peaceable manner, and offered for sale a number of skins of bears, foxes, wolves, deer, racoon, polecats, martens, and sea otters. The difficulty was to find articles to exchange for these really valuable commodities, for the natives would receive nothing but metal, and, at last, insisted on having brass. To supply them, whole suits of clothes were stripped of their buttons, bureaus of their handles, and copper kettles, tin canisters, and candlesticks went to wreck. The ships required a great deal of repairs, and even some fresh masts, and for this purpose they were hauled close into the shore and securely moored. The natives called this inlet Nootka Sound, but Captain Cook gave it the name of King George’s Sound.

Two persons were on board the ships at this time whose names afterwards became well-known—Mr Vancouver, then a midshipman of the Resolution, who afterwards, as Captain Vancouver, made many important discoveries on the coast then visited, and gave his name to a valuable island, now a colony of Great Britain; and Corporal Ledyard, whose travels in Siberia were of a very extraordinary character.

The clothing of the people of Nootka Sound consisted of a dress of flax, fringed with fur, and reaching to the feet; and over it a cloak of the same substance, with a hole cut in it, through which the head was thrust, and which hung down over the shoulders and arms as low as the waist. The head was covered with a hat like a truncated cone of matting, with a knob or tassel at the top, and strung under the chin. A large cloak of bear or wolf skin was occasionally worn over all. They also, at times, wore wooden masks. Their habitations were made of planks loosely put together, about seven or eight feet in height in front, and higher at the back. Several families resided in each, with a very slight division between them. Each had its own bench, and in the centre was the fire, without hearth or chimney. At the ends were seen trunks of trees, carved into hideous images, and rudely painted, supposed to be their gods, though but little veneration was paid them. Two silver spoons, of old Spanish manufacture, were obtained here from a native, who wore them as ornaments round his neck.

The progress of the ships along this coast can be but briefly described. Although the mercury in the barometer fell very rapidly, Captain Cook was so anxious to put to sea that he kept to his purpose of sailing on April 26. A perfect hurricane came on ere long, in which the Resolution sprang a serious leak. When the weather moderated one pump kept it under. The ships proceeded along the coast, and several islands and headlands were seen and named.

The voyagers landed at several places, and had some intercourse with the natives. One inlet, where the ships brought up, was named Prince William’s Sound. Here the natives made a daring attempt to plunder the Discovery, a mob of them getting on board, evidently under the impression that she was feebly guarded. But before they had time to carry out their nefarious design, the crew came on deck with their cutlasses, and the plunderers went off in their canoes.

Captain Cook, believing that it was too late in the year to do anything of importance in the way of fresh discoveries, resolved to return to the south, and wait at the Sandwich Islands till the next season.

From Prince William’s Sound the ships proceeded along the coast, steering south-west, and passing many more capes, till the mouth of a large river was found, up which they sailed. A volcano was here seen, emitting smoke, but no fire.

A number of natives, of no very prepossessing appearance, now came off the banks of the river to the ships, and a considerable quantity of skins were obtained from them. It was held by some on board that this river might be a strait, leading to Hudson’s Bay; and to settle this question Captain Cook sailed up it nearly seventy leagues from its mouth, at which distance it still seemed to be a river, and nothing more, upon which the explorers returned. On June 1, Lieutenant King was sent on shore to display the royal flag, and to take possession of the country, as in former instances, in the name of the King of Great Britain. In describing this inlet Captain Cook left a blank in the chart, and therefore the Earl of Sandwich directed that it should be called Cook’s Inlet.

Leaving Prince William’s Sound, the next place reached was the island of Oonolaschka. Here, at different times, some canoes came off with natives, who had bows of the European fashion, and delivered two Russian letters, the purport of which could not be understood.

During the stay of the ships at this island a canoe was upset, and the occupant, a fine young man, was brought on board the Resolution, when, without hesitation, he entered the captain’s cabin, and exchanged his wet garments for a European suit of clothes, which he put on with perfect ease.

Soon after this the expedition suffered a very great loss in the death of Mr Anderson, the surgeon of the Resolution, who had long been suffering from consumption. The ships were proceeding northward at the time, along the coast of Asia, but were compelled to return on account of the shallowness of the water. An island in sight was called Anderson’s Island, to perpetuate the memory of that gentleman.

On the 9th the ships anchored under a point of land to which the name of Cape Prince of Wales was given, and which was considered the most western point of America. It is only thirteen leagues distant from the eastern cape of Siberia. Thence they stood over to the coast of Siberia to the country of Tschutski. Again sailing, the ships steered to the east, and on the 18th fell in with the ice, which, in latitude 70 degrees 44 minutes, was as compact as a wall, and ten or twelve feet high, being much higher farther to the north. It was covered with sea-horses, a number of which were caught, and, in spite of the prejudices of some of the crew, were found to be superior to salt pork. Cook continued to traverse the Arctic Sea, beyond Behring’s Straits, in various directions till the 29th, when the ice beginning to form rapidly he abandoned all hope of attaining his object that year.

On October 3 the ships anchored in the harbour of Samganoodha, in the island of Oonolaschka. The carpenters at once set to work to repair the ships. While they lay here, each of the captains received the present of a well-known Russian dish. It consisted of a salmon, highly seasoned, and baked in a coating of rye bread like a loaf. The loaves were accompanied by notes in Russian. A few bottles of rum, wine, and porter were sent in return by Corporal Ledyard, who was directed to make the Russians understand that the strangers were English and their friends, and to gain all the information in his power. On the 14th a visit was received from a Russian of considerable ability. Cook entrusted to his care a letter and chart for the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, which were duly delivered. The natives of this island were the best behaved and most peaceably disposed of any yet met with, while not one of them was found guilty of an act of dishonesty. They were, however, far from moral in their conduct.

Samganoodha Harbour was left on October 20, and the ships proceeded south towards the Sandwich Islands. Cook’s intention was to spend the winter there, and to return to Kamtschatka by the middle of May. In case of separation he directed Captain Clerke to meet him at the Sandwich Islands for the first place of rendezvous, and the harbour of Fetropaulowska, in Kamtschatka, for the second. The rigging of the ships had now become very bad; on board the Discovery the main-tack gave way, killed one man, and wounded the boatswain and two others.

On November 25 one of the Sandwich Islands, called by the natives Mowee, hove in sight. Several canoes came off, belonging to a chief named Terreeoboo; but as another island was discovered, called Owhyhee, (now altered in spelling to Hawaii) which it was found possible to fetch, the ships stood towards it, and their visitors accordingly left them. On the morning of December 2 the summits of the mountains of Owhyhee were seen, covered with snow. On the evening an eclipse of the moon was observed. For several weeks the ships continued plying round the island, bartering with the natives, who came off with hogs, fowls, fruit, and roots. On January 16, 1779, a bay being discovered, the masters were sent in to examine it, and having reported favourably, the ships, on the next day, came to an anchor in Karakakooa Bay.

The ships were crowded with visitors, but not a single person had a weapon of any sort. There must have been at least a thousand about the two ships, and one of them took the rudder out of a boat and made off with it. Cook ordered some muskets and four-pounders to be fired over the canoe which was escaping. The multitude, however, seemed more surprised than frightened.

Besides those who had come off in canoes the shore of the bay was covered with spectators, and many hundreds were swimming round the ships, like shoals of fish. Few of the voyagers now regretted that they had been unable to find a north-west passage home in the summer, as they “thus had it in their power to revisit the Sandwich Islands, and to enrich the voyage with a discovery which, though the last, seemed in many respects to be the most important that had hitherto been made by Europeans throughout the extent of the Pacific Ocean.”

This paragraph concludes Captain Cook’s journal; they were probably the last words he ever wrote. Captain King is our chief authority for the remaining transactions of the voyage.

Among the chiefs who attached themselves to the English was a young man named Pareea, who introduced himself as an officer of the king of the island, then gone on a military expedition to Mowee. That he had great influence among his people was evident, for so large a number of people had collected on one side of the Discovery that they made her heel over; Captain Cook pointed out the fact to him, and he immediately cleared the ship. Another chief, the next day, cleared the Resolution in the same way; and one man loitering behind, he took him up in his arms and threw him into the sea. They brought on board a third chief, once a warrior, now a priest, named Koah, a little old man of emaciated figure, his red eyes and scaly skin showing he was a hard drinker of cava. Not far from the shore was a temple, or morai. It was a square, solid pile of stones, about forty yards long, twenty broad, and fourteen in height. The top was flat and well-paved, and surrounded by a wooden rail, on which were fixed the skulls of the victims sacrificed on the death of their chiefs. At one end was a kind of scaffold, and on the opposite side, towards the sea, two small houses with a covered communication. At the entrance were two large wooden images, with features violently distorted, and on the head of each was a large piece of carved wood, of a conical form, inverted. The lower part was without form, and wrapped round with a red cloth. Not far off, in a retired grove by the side of a pool, was a collection of huts, inhabited by priests who attended this temple, of which Koah was the chief. There were two villages on the shores of the bay—one on the north point, called Kowrooa, and at the bottom of the bay one still larger, called Kakooa.

Our narrative is now drawing near to the tragic scene which terminated both the labours and life of Captain James Cook. But, to understand what led to that event, a preliminary explanation must be given.

The natives of Owhyhee had a legend to the effect that a certain god, Rono, or Orono, formerly lived near Karakakooa Bay, and that, having killed his wife in a fit of jealousy, remorse drove him from the island. He set sail in a strangely shaped canoe, promising that he would return on a floating island, furnished with all that man could desire. When, therefore, the English ships appeared, their commander was supposed to be the long-absent Rono, come to restore peace and prosperity to the country.

The priest Koah having dined on board the Resolution, accompanied Captain Cook and Mr King on shore—Mr King being taken for the son of the former. They were met by four men, having wands tipped with dog’s hair, and who shouted a short sentence in which the word Orono was plainly distinguishable and frequently repeated. During this progress the crowd either rushed away as in fear, or fell prostrate on the ground around the party. Koah led the way into the morai, and, chanting a hymn, took the captain to a sort of altar, on which were arranged twelve idols in a semicircle, while on a table, before the centre one, which nearly resembled the idols of Otaheite, lay a putrid hog. A tall young man, with a beard, Kaireekeea by name, having presented Cook to the idols, old Koah put the putrid hog to his nose, and then let it drop. At this time a procession approached, bearing a hog and red cloth. Kaireekeea went forward to meet them, when they all prostrated themselves. The hog then was offered to the captain by Koah, who wound the red cloth round him. Chanting followed. Captain Cook, meanwhile, had considerable difficulty in keeping his seat upon the rotten scaffolding. They then descended, and as Koah passed the images he snapped his fingers at them, and said something in a sneering tone. He, however, prostrated himself before the centre figure, and kissed it, and induced the captain to do the same. The captain and Mr King were then led to another division of the morai, where, in a sunk space, three or four feet deep, they took their seats between two wooden idols, Koah holding up one of the captain’s arms, and King the other. While here another procession arrived, with a baked hog and vegetables. Cook put an end to the ceremony as soon as he could, and returned on board.

No doubt the proceedings of the old priest and the people were in some measure incomprehensible to Captain Cook; but it is certain that, in bearing a prominent part in the mummery just narrated, he must have been aware that he was encouraging heathen idolatry and hero-worship in its grossest forms. It is not to be supposed that he was acquainted with the legend of Rono; but the conduct of the people must have shown him their utter debasement, and he can scarcely have failed to perceive that by submitting to their ceremonies, and taking a part in them, he was lowering himself to their level.

It is probable that Captain Cook expected, by yielding to the superstitions of the natives, to obtain greater facilities for trading, and keeping up amicable relations with them. If so, the subsequent events prove how baseless were these anticipations, while the reader will scarcely fail to be reminded of the striking Scripture narrative of the king of whom the people shouted, “It is the voice of a god, and not of a man!” and who “gave not God the glory.”

The day following that on which the events described took place, Mr King, with a company of marines, landed, and erected an observatory near the morai, the ground being marked off by the priests. For some unknown reason—but one probably connected with the previous exhibition—the entire bay was tabooed for a day or two, and no canoes ventured off with provisions. The priests, however, sent to the observatory, and also to the ships, a regular supply of hogs and vegetables for Orono, as if they were discharging a religious duty, and would take nothing in return. Whenever, too, after this, Captain Cook went on shore, he was attended by one of the priests, who gave notice to the people to prostrate themselves; and inferior chiefs often requested to be allowed to make offerings of hogs, which they did with evident marks of fear in their countenances.

On January 24, 1779, the bay was again tabooed on account of the arrival of the king, Terreeoboo, who soon came off privately in a canoe, with his wife and children. He was found to be the same infirm old man who had come on board the Resolution when the ships were off Mowee. The next day the king came off in state, on board a large canoe, attended by two others.

In the first he himself came, dressed, as were his attendant chiefs, in rich feathered cloaks, and armed with long spears and helmets. In the second were Kaoo, the chief of the priests, and his brethren, with idols of wickerwork of gigantic size, covered with feathers of different colours and red cloth. Their eyes were large pearl oysters, with a black mark fixed in the centre; while their mouths were marked with double rows of dogs’ fangs. The whole had a most hideous appearance. In a third canoe were hogs and vegetables. The visitors, however, did not go on board, but, inviting the captain on shore, returned. Mr King, who was at the observatory, ordered out the guard to receive the party. The king then threw a superb cloak over the captain’s shoulders, and placed a helmet on his head; he then spread at his feet six other cloaks, all exceedingly beautiful; and his attendants brought four hogs, with sugar-canes, bread-fruit, and cocoanuts. The ceremony was concluded by the king exchanging names with Cook.

An old seaman, greatly attached to Captain Cook, died here, and was buried in the morai, with the usual funeral service read over him; but the priests thought they ought to do their part, and threw a dead hog and plantains into the grave, and for several nights sacrificed hogs, and chanted their hymns.

When the ships were about to sail a magnificent present of provisions was made to the captain; and Terreeoboo and Kaoo waited on him and entreated that he would leave his supposed son, Mr King, behind. On February 4 the ship sailed, but met with very bad weather, during which they picked up two canoes, driven off the land, the people in them nearly exhausted. In this gale, also, the Resolution sprang her foremast, and fearing that, should the weather continue, another harbour might not be found, Cook returned, on the 10th of the month, to Karakakooa Bay.

It was observed by some of the explorers on this occasion that the conduct of the natives had now undergone an ominous change. The bay was found to be under taboo, and several circumstances occurred which gave evidence that, from some cause or other, the English were regarded by the natives with suspicion. And this breach was unhappily widened by some of the common causes of dispute. For instance, some people from the island visiting the Discovery, after the taboo was removed, went off with several articles they had stolen, whereupon the ship opened fire on the fugitives, and a chief on shore was killed. The stolen articles were soon returned, but an officer commanding a party on shore not knowing this seized a canoe belonging to Pareea. In a squabble which ensued that chief was knocked down. Captain Cook, also, not knowing that the articles had been brought back, followed the supposed thieves for several miles in the interior, when, on its getting dark, he returned unmolested on board.

The next morning the Discovery’s cutter was found to have been carried off, and Captain Cook resolved to seize the king, and hold him captive till the boat was returned. For this purpose, loading his double-barrelled gun, he went on shore with Mr Phillips and nine marines. Mr King ordered the marines to remain within the tents, to load their pieces with ball, and not to quit their arms. He then went up to the huts of the priests, and endeavoured to quiet their alarm, assuring them that no one would be hurt. Captain Cook, meantime, proceeded to the king’s house, and found him just awake. He easily persuaded the old man to come on board with two of his sons; but as they were embarking, one of his wives came down and entreated him not to go off.

A vast number of people now began to collect, armed with all sorts of weapons and their war mats. Captain Cook held the king’s hand, and pressed him to come on; but finding that the lives of many natives might be sacrificed if he persisted in the attempt, he abandoned it, and only now thought of how he might best draw off his party. Unfortunately, the boats stationed in the bay had fired at some canoes trying to get out, and killed a chief of the first rank. This news quickly reached the hostile natives. Mr Phillips, on this, withdrew his men to some rocks close to the water-side.

The natives now began to throw stones, and one man, especially, threatened the captain with his dagger. In defence he fired. As the barrel was only loaded with small shot it killed no one. The other barrel had a ball in it, with which a man was killed. By this time the marines had begun to fire, and the captain turned round, either to order them to cease or to direct the boats to come in, when a tall man struck him on the back with a long club, and he fell forward on his hands and knees, letting his fowling-piece drop. A chief with a long dagger now plunged it into his back; he fell under the water, and the natives, who crowded round, prevented him from rising. Nothing more was seen of him. All was now horror and confusion. The natives pressed on the marines, four of whom were killed before they could reach the boats, and another, who could not swim, remained struggling in the water, when Lieutenant Phillips, with heroic gallantry, leaped overboard, and though badly wounded himself brought the man safely on board the pinnace. Though the boats still kept up a hot fire, the chiefs were seen plunging their daggers in the body of Cook, seemingly with the idea that they were consecrated by the death of so great a man. It was said that old Koah, who had been long suspected, had been seen going about with a dagger hid under his cloak, for the purpose, it was supposed, of killing Captain Cook or some of his officers.

All this time Lieutenant King, with a party of men, had remained on shore, at the observatory near the morai. Before long the natives began to attack them, but met with so warm a reception that they willingly agreed to a truce. As soon as the murderers of Cook had retired, a party of young midshipmen pulled to the shore in a skiff, where they saw the bodies of the marines lying without sign of life; but the danger of landing was too great to be risked.

Mr King went on shore to try and negotiate for the body of Cook. On the 15th a man who had been his constant attendant came off with some human flesh, saying that the rest had been burnt, but that the head and bones and hands were in possession of the king. The natives even now would not believe that Rono was killed. When they saw him fall they cried out, “This is not Rono!” Others inquired when he would come back, and whether he would punish them. An order had been given to fire some houses, but unfortunately the flames communicated to the priests’ dwellings, all of which were consumed, though they had been the best friends to the English. Several people were shot, attempting to escape. On the 18th King Terreeoboo sent a chief with presents to sue for peace; and on the 20th the hands and various parts of the body of Cook were brought on board, wrapped in a quantity of fine cloth, and covered with a cloak of black and white feathers. The feet and other parts were returned the next day, and being placed in a coffin they were committed to the deep, with the usual naval honours.

We may imagine the feelings of the members of the expedition as they witnessed the ceremony, and thought that he who had been so long their chief, and who had led them successfully through so many dangers, was no more. The officers might have felt many vain regrets; they might have asked themselves whether all had been done that could have been done to save the valuable life which had been so cruelly sacrificed, and whether the object which had been attempted was adequate to the risk that had been run. So furious was the rage of the crews of the two ships that they almost mutinied against their officers, when prevented from going on shore, as they desired, to wreak their vengeance on the heads of the natives. It is remarkable that Captain Clerke had received orders to go on shore and seize the king; but, suffering from the consumption which was rapidly hurrying him to his grave, he was too weak to leave his cabin; and, on hearing this, Cook immediately exclaimed that he would go himself.

Captain Cook was in the fifty-first year of his age when he was thus suddenly cut off. He was a man of great intelligence, perseverance, energy, and determination. He possessed a calm judgment and cool courage under the most trying difficulties. As a seaman he was probably unsurpassed. By employing every moment he could snatch from his professional duties, with the aid of such books as came to his hand, he made himself a good mathematician and a first-rate astronomer, while few officers of his day could have equalled him as a marine surveyor and draughtsman. All subsequent navigators, who have visited the regions he traversed, have borne evidence to the great accuracy of his surveys, and the exactness with which he laid down on his charts the numerous lands he discovered.

Various opinions have been expressed as to Captain Cook’s temper. That he was, at times, hasty and irritable, there seems to be no doubt; but this fault was greatly counterbalanced by his kind-hearted and humane disposition. He seems to have had the power of attracting both officers and men to his person; hence many who had accompanied him in his first voyage volunteered to serve under him again in his subsequent expeditions. At the same time he was stern and determined, though always just; and he considered it his duty, when necessary, to carry out to the full the rigid discipline of the Navy in those days. He was a kind and affectionate husband and father, and it is said that his portrait at Greenwich Hospital, from which numerous copies have been made, does not convey a satisfactory idea of the ordinary expression of his countenance. It was painted, at the earnest desire of Sir Joseph Banks, by Sir Nathaniel Dance, just before Cook left England on his last expedition, and as the mind of the navigator was probably far away on board his vessels, the grave and preoccupied expression which the portrait exhibits is fully accounted for.

His ability as a seaman, and his calmness in danger, inspired the most perfect confidence in all who served under him, so that in times of the greatest trial he could always reckon on being implicitly obeyed; it is said that, placing reliance on his officers, after he had given his directions, he would retire to rest, and sleep as soundly as though no danger were near. Such is the character drawn of the great navigator by those who knew him; but we shall form a more just estimate of him if we consider the work he accomplished. We have only to compare a chart of the Pacific before Cook’s time, and to note the wide blanks and the erroneous position of lands, with one drawn from his surveys, to see at a glance the extent of his discoveries; but a still higher estimation will be formed of them if we judge of them by their value to the present generation. Let us consider the importance of his admirable survey of the whole eastern coast of New Holland, showing its vast size and insular character. Not less important was his survey of the islands of New Zealand, which, with New Holland, or Australia, are now among the most valuable possessions of the British crown. He discovered New Caledonia, and surveyed most of the islands of the New Hebrides, and other islands in the Austral Ocean. He made known to the world the larger portion of the Friendly Islands, or Tonga group, as also of the Marquesas. Nothing can surpass the general accuracy of his description of the habits and customs of the inhabitants of Otaheite. He completed the discovery and survey of the Society Islands. He was successful in his search for Easter, or Davis Island, which had in vain been looked-for by several previous navigators. He visited the groups of the Low, or Coral Archipelago, and discovered the numerous separate islands of Norfolk, Botany, Palmerston, Hervey, Savage, Mangaia, Wateeoo, Otakootaia, Turtle, Toobouai, and Christmas. His most important discovery was his last—that of the Sandwich Islands—since become an independent and semi-civilised kingdom. He sailed along the North American coast, where, from unavoidable circumstances, his surveys were less accurate than usual. They were, however, completed, many years after, by his follower Captain Vancouver. He ascertained the breadth of the strait between America and Asia to be eighteen leagues, a point left unsettled by Behring, and many years passed before any navigator penetrated farther to the north than he had done. His explorations in the Antarctic Ocean showed a hardihood and determination seldom surpassed. He brought to light Sandwich Land, settled the position of Kerguelen’s Land, as also the Isle Grande of La Roche, while he made a survey, long unsurpassed, of the southern shores of Tierra del Fuego. Such is a rough and rapid sketch of the discoveries made by Cook daring his three voyages; but what he, with justice, chiefly prided himself on was the means by which he successfully maintained his crews in perfect health during his second and third voyages; and it is satisfactory to know that his successor in the command of the expedition, by following his system, brought home his ships’ companies with few or no sick among them. (Note 3.)

As soon as the remains of Captain Cook had been committed to the deep the taboo which had been placed on the bay by the chief Eappo was removed, at the request of Captain Clerke, who said that, as the Orono was buried, the remembrance of what had passed was buried with him. As soon as it was known that the people might bring their provisions as usual the ships were surrounded by canoes, and many chiefs came on board, expressing great sorrow at what had happened, and their satisfaction at the reconciliation which had taken place. Several friends, who did not come themselves, sent presents of large hogs and other provisions. Among the rest came the treacherous old Koah, but he was refused admittance.

Captain Clerke was anxious to visit the islands to leeward before the news of the events which had occurred at Owhyhee could reach them, and a bad effect be produced. He therefore gave orders to unmoor, and every preparation was made for quitting the bay. In the evening all the natives were sent on shore, and Eappo and the friendly Kaireekeea took an affectionate farewell. As the ships stood out of the bay the natives collected in great numbers on the shore, and received the last farewells of the English with every mark of affection and goodwill.

The first island visited was that of Woahoo, which was found to be high and picturesque, and thickly populated; the next was the island of Atooi. A party was here sent on shore to fill the casks with water, when the natives collected in great numbers, threatening to attack them, and it was with difficulty that they were enabled to reach the boats and return on board ship. The next day, however, some chiefs arrived on the spot; and the day after Mr King, who commanded the party, going on shore, found the whole distance to the watering-place marked with little white flags, and the English were not in the slightest degree molested. While the ships were at this island it was ascertained that some goats which were left there at the first visit of the English soon increased in number, and had bidden fair to stock the island, when a quarrel took place about them, and the animals were killed. A contest between two tribes or families was still going on about the matter, in which several people had lost their lives.

It was now March 12, and preparations were made for quitting the islands and proceeding on the search for a passage, through Behring’s Straits, into the Atlantic. There was, from the first, very little prospect of its success. Captain Clerke was sinking rapidly with consumption, and every one but himself knew that his days were numbered. Still, in spite of his weakness, he kept up his spirits in a wonderful manner, and though fully aware that the cold climate he was going to encounter would prove injurious to his health, this did not prevent him from attempting to carry out the instructions of his late chief to the utmost of his power.

On March 15 the ships left the Sandwich group, and steered for the harbour of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. The ships encountered very severe weather on approaching the coast of Siberia. The rigging and decks were so completely coated with ice that it was not without great difficulty the ropes could be handled, and the crew sensibly felt the change from the warm temperature to which they had been so long accustomed. To add to their difficulties, the Resolution sprang a serious leak, and split her second suit of sails. As the decks below were deluged with water, the only place in which the sail-makers could work was in the cabin of their dying captain. At length, on April 28, the harbour of Saint Peter and Saint Paul was reached. The town was found to consist of about thirty miserable log huts, and small conical buildings raised on poles. The commandant was a sergeant, with a few men under him. The appearance of the expedition at first caused great consternation among the inhabitants. This arose from the circumstance that the celebrated Polish exile Beniowski had, a short time before, made his escape from Bolcheretsk with a couple of vessels and a considerable number of men. It was supposed that the exploring squadron was in some way connected with him. Another opinion was that the strangers were French, at that time enemies of the Russians. Fortunately, a German, of the name of Port, was at the place, and as Mr Webber spoke German well, the intercommunication was speedily established, and as soon as the Russians were convinced that their visitors were English nothing could exceed their kindness and hospitality. As provisions were, however, very dear here, Captain Clerke despatched Captain Gore and Mr King, with Mr Webber and the German, to visit Major Behm, the Governor of Bolcheretsk, in order to obtain a supply through him. They travelled partly in boats and canoes, and partly in sleighs drawn by dogs, and were well wrapped up in skins to protect them from the cold.

On their arrival at Bolcheretsk, they were received with the greatest kindness and hospitality by Major Behm and the officers of the garrison. These kind-hearted and liberal men would not allow the English to pay for such stores as the town could produce. Among other things, they presented the ships’ companies with three bags of tobacco, of a hundredweight each, and loaf-sugar for the officers, while Madame Behm sent several delicacies to poor Captain Clerke. Major Behm accompanied the English officers to the ships, and made arrangements that stores should be sent from Okotsk to meet them on their return, should they fail to discover the passage of which they were in search. It is worthy of remark that when the English seamen received the tobacco which had been sent them from Bolcheretsk, they begged that their own allowance of grog might be stopped, and that it might be presented to the Russian garrison, who, they understood, were in want of spirits. Knowing the value a sailor sets on his grog, the feeling of gratitude which prompted the proposal will be the better appreciated. The generous Russian would, however, accept but a very small portion of what was offered.

As Major Behm was on the point of returning to Saint Petersburg, Captain Gierke, feeling sure that he was a man of the strictest honour, resolved to entrust him with a copy of the journal of the voyage, and an account of all transactions up to the arrival of the ships in the harbour of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. Mr Bayley and Mr King also sent home an account of all the astronomical and other scientific observations made during the voyage. These were duly delivered, within a few months from the time of their being entrusted to Major Behm.

It is remarkable that on the arrival of the expedition in the harbour of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, the whole Russian garrison of the place were found to be suffering more or less from scurvy, many of the men being in the last stage of that disease. They were immediately placed under the care of the English surgeons, and, by a free use of sour-krout and sweet-wort, they nearly all quickly recovered. Through the exertions of Major Behm, a supply of rye-flour was furnished to the ships, and a bullock was sent on board, which was served out to the men on Sunday. It was the first fresh beef they had tasted since leaving the Cape of Good Hope, two years and a half before. Twenty head of cattle were afterwards sent on board, with other supplies, and the English themselves caught with their nets an abundance of fine fish.

On June 12 the ships were unmoored for the purpose of putting to sea, but it was not till the 16th that they were able to get clear of the bay. The eruption of a neighbouring volcano took place at this time, which covered the decks with cinders and small stones. From the first the ships encountered bad weather. The intense cold severely tried the crews. The men had taken no care of their fur jackets and other warm clothing, but they had been collected by their officers, and cased up in casks, to be produced when most required.

The expedition passed through Behring’s Straits on July 5, and having run along the coast of Asia, stretched across to that of America, with the intention of exploring it between the latitudes 68 degrees and 69 degrees. In this attempt, however, the explorers were disappointed, being stopped, on the 7th, by a large and compact field of ice connected with the land. They therefore altered their course to the westward, in the hopes of finding some opening, and thus being able to get round to the north of the ice. They continued sailing in that direction till the 9th, for nearly forty leagues, without discovering an opening. Still their dying chief persevered in his efforts till the 27th, although unable to penetrate farther north than 70 degrees 33 minutes, which was five leagues short of the point which had been gained the previous year. In the attempt the Discovery was nearly lost, and received very severe damage. She became so entangled by several large pieces of ice that her way was stopped, and immediately dropping bodily to leeward she fell broadside on to the edge of a considerable mass. At the same time, there being an open sea to windward, the surf made her strike violently on it. The mass of ice, however, at length either so far removed, or broke, as to set the ship at liberty, when another attempt to escape was made; but, unfortunately, before she gathered sufficient way to be under command she again fell to leeward on another fragment. The swell now making it unsafe to lie to windward of the ice, and there being no prospect of getting clear, the ship was pushed into a small opening, the sails were furled, and she was made fast with ice-hooks. In this dangerous position she was seen at noon by her consort, a fresh gale driving more ice towards her. It is easy to conceive the anxiety felt on board the Resolution, which was kept in the neighbourhood, firing a gun every half-hour. At last, towards evening, there was a shift of wind, and by nine o’clock the Discovery appeared, having, by setting all sail, forced her way out of the ice. She had, however, lost a considerable amount of sheathing from the bows, and had become very leaky from the blows received.

While in these latitudes several sea-horses were killed, which the seamen were persuaded, without much difficulty, to eat in preference to their salt provisions. Two white bears were also killed, which, though having a somewhat fishy taste, were considered dainties. Finding that all prospect of carrying the ships through any passage which might exist to the eastward was utterly hopeless, Captain Gierke announced his intention of returning to Awatska Bay to repair damages, and thence to continue the voyage in the direction of Japan. Joy brightened every countenance as soon as these resolutions were made known. All were heartily tired of a navigation full of danger, in which the utmost perseverance had not been repaid with the slightest prospect of success. Notwithstanding the tedious voyage to be made, and the immense distance to be run, every one seemed to feel and speak as though they were once again approaching the shores of Old England.

There was one, however—the gallant commander of the expedition, Captain Clerke—who was destined never again to see his native land. On the 17th he was too weak to get out of bed, and therefore gave directions that all orders should be received from Mr King. On the morning of August 22 he breathed his last, to the deep regret of all who served under him. He had spent the whole of his life at sea, from his earliest boyhood. He had been in several actions, and in one, between the Bellona and Courageux, having been stationed in the mizzen-top, he was carried overboard with the mast, but was taken up unhurt. He was a midshipman in the Dolphin, commanded by Commodore Byron, on his first voyage round the world, and afterwards served on the American station. In 1768 he made his second voyage round the world, in the Endeavour, under Captain Cook, and returned a lieutenant. His third voyage of circumnavigation was in the Resolution, and on her return, in 1775, he was promoted to the rank of Master and Commander. When Captain Cook’s third expedition was determined on he was appointed to command under him.

On the 23rd the ships again anchored in the harbour of Saint Peter and Saint Paul. No sooner had they brought up than their old friend the sergeant came on board, and all were greatly affected when he announced that he had brought some fruit for their captain.

The charge of the expedition now devolved on Captain Gore, who took command of the Resolution, while Captain King was appointed to the Discovery. Captain Gore immediately sent off an express to Bolcheretsk, requesting to be supplied with sixteen head of cattle. The stores from the Discovery being landed, attempts were made to repair the damages she had received. On stripping off the sheathing, three feet of the third strake under the wale were found to be stove in, and the timbers within started. The farther they proceeded in removing the sheathing, the more they discovered the decayed state of the ship’s hull. The chief damage was repaired with a birch tree, which had been cut down when they were there before, and was the only one in the neighbourhood large enough for the purpose; but Captain King gave orders that no more sheathing should be ripped off, being apprehensive that further decayed planks might be met with which it would be impossible to replace. This condition of his ship could not have been a pleasant subject of contemplation to the commander, when he considered that he had yet more than half the circuit of the world to make before he could reach home.

Large quantities of salmon were now caught with the seine, and salted for sea stores, and the sea-horse blubber was also boiled down for oil, all the candles having long been expended.

On Sunday, the 29th, the remains of Captain Gierke were interred with all the solemnity possible, under a tree, in a spot which the Russian Papa, or priest of the settlement, said he believed would form the centre of a new church it was proposed shortly to build. The officers and men of both ships walked in procession to the grave, attended by the Russian garrison, while the ships fired minute guns, and the service being ended the marines fired three volleys.

The remainder of the time in the harbour was spent in waiting for stores, in further repairing the ships, in two or three bear-hunting expeditions, in entertaining the garrison and natives in return for the hospitality which had been received, and in receiving a visit from the Acting Governor and other Russian officers.

On October 9, the ships having cleared the entrance of Awatska Bay, steered to the southward for the purpose of examining the islands to the north of Japan, and then proceeding on to Macao. The condition of the ships’ hulls and rigging rendered it dangerous to make any more prolonged explorations. Even the larger part of this plan it was found impossible to follow, for, strong westerly winds blowing, they were driven off the land, and after passing Japan they anchored at Macao. Here, not without some delay and difficulty, they procured the stores they required; Captain King having to make an excursion to Canton for the purpose. He here sold about twenty sea otter and other skins, belonging chiefly to their deceased commanders, for the sum of eight hundred dollars. On returning, he found that the larger portion of those on board had been sold, and had realised not much less than two thousand pounds. The large profits on the skins, which had been looked upon as of little value beforehand, had so excited the minds of the men that two of them made off with a six-oared cutter, for the purpose of returning to North America; and as they were not overtaken, they probably very soon perished.

The reports brought home by the expedition probably set on foot that trade in furs with the west coast of North America which afterwards became of considerable importance. In consequence of hearing, at Macao, of the war which had broken out between England and France, the ships mounted all their guns; but Captain Gore being informed, at the same time, that the French had issued orders to their cruisers that the ships under the command of Captain Cook should be treated as belonging to neutral or friendly powers, resolved himself to preserve, throughout the remainder of the voyage, the strictest neutrality.

The expedition left Macao on January 12, 1780, and on the 20th anchored in a harbour of Pulo Condore. Here a supply of buffaloes was obtained. They were large animals, and very wild. Two were kept on board the Discovery by Captain King, who intended to take them to England. They soon became perfectly tame, but, unfortunately, one of them suffered a severe injury, and both were killed.

On leaving Pulo Condore the ships passed through the Straits of Banca, in sight of the island of Sumatra. The Resolution brought up off the island of Cracatoa, in the Straits of Sunda, and filled up her casks with water, which the Discovery was unable to do, in consequence of being becalmed. On reaching Cape Town the English were treated with the same kindness and attention which they had received on their former visits. Here they obtained confirmation of the intelligence that the French had given directions to their cruisers not to molest them. Having taken their stores on board, they sailed out of Table Bay on May 9, and on June 12 passed the equator for the fourth time during their voyage.

The ships made the coast of Ireland on August 12, but southerly winds compelled them to run to the north. On October 4 the ships arrived at the Nore, after an absence of four years, two months, and twenty-two days. During that time the Resolution had lost but five men by sickness, three of whom were in a precarious state of health when leaving England, while the Discovery did not lose a man. It is remarkable that during the whole time they were at sea the ships never lost sight of each other for a day together, except twice; the first time owing to an accident which happened to the Discovery off the coast of Owhyhee, and the second to the fogs that were met with at the entrance of Awatska Bay. A stronger proof cannot be given of the skill and vigilance of the subaltern officers, to whom the merit of this entirely belonged.

The death of Captain Cook was already known in England by means of the despatches sent home through Major Behm. All that a nation could do was done to testify respect for his memory. His widow received a pension of 200 pounds a year, and each of his children had 25 pounds a year settled on them. Other sums were granted to his widow, and medals were struck to commemorate his achievements, while a coat of arms was granted to his family.

Of his six children, three died in their infancy, and the other three were cut off in their early manhood. The second, Nathaniel, a promising youth, was lost, when a midshipman, on board the Thunderer, in a hurricane off Jamaica on October 3, 1780. The youngest, Hugh, was intended for the ministry, and died at Oxford, in the seventeenth year of his age. The eldest, James, who was in the Navy, commanded the Spitfire sloop-of-war. He was drowned, in 1794, at the age of thirty, when attempting to push off from Poole, during a gale of wind, to rejoin his ship.

It is said that the bereaved mother, on receiving tidings of the death of her last surviving son, destroyed all the letters she had received from her husband, in the vain hope of banishing recollection of the past. She survived, however, to the year 1835, when she died, at the age of ninety-three.

A handsome piece of plate was presented to Major Behm, in acknowledgment of the attention and liberality with which he treated the English in Siberia; while gold medals were offered to the French king for his generous orders with regard to the ships of the expedition, as also to the Empress of Russia, as it was in her dominions, and by one of her officers, that they had been so liberally treated.

Note 1. It should be mentioned that Lieutenant Pickersgill was sent out, in 1776, with directions to explore the coast of Baffin’s Bay, and that in the next year Lieutenant Young was commissioned not only to examine the western parts of that bay, but to endeavour to find a passage on that side from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean. Both officers returned without effecting anything. The first was severely censured for his conduct; but we who know the difficulties he would have had to encounter may readily excuse him.

Note 2. Amongst the presents left by Cook at Mangaia was an axe, roughly fashioned, on the ship’s arrival, out of a piece of iron. It is still treasured in the Island as a relic of his visit.

Note 3. A promotion of officers necessarily followed the death of Captain Cook. Captain Clerke, having succeeded to the command of the expedition, removed to the Resolution. By him Mr Gore was appointed Captain of the Discovery, and the rest of the lieutenants obtained an addition of rank in their proper order.

Chapter Five.

Subsequent History of Polynesia.

In the concluding pages of this work it is proposed to give a brief sketch of the progress of Christianity and civilisation in the islands of the Pacific visited by Captain Cook. (Note 1.)

The accounts brought home by the discoverers of the degraded moral condition of the islanders, stirred up the hearts of Christians in England, and when, in 1795, the London Missionary Society was formed, one of its first proceedings was to send to those distant lands the Gospel of Christ’s salvation.

They began their labours upon an extensive scale. They purchased a ship, and sent out twenty-five labourers to commence missions simultaneously at the Marquesan, Tahitian, and Friendly Islands.

The following is the account given of the reception of this band of Christian evangelists:—

“On March 7, 1797, the first missionaries from the Duff went on shore, and were met on the beach by the king, Pomare, and his queen. By them they were kindly welcomed, as well as by Paitia, an aged chief of the district. They were conducted to a large, oval-shaped native house, which has been but recently finished for Captain Bligh, whom they expected to return. Their dwelling was pleasantly situated on the western side of the river, near the extremity of Point Venus. The islanders were delighted to behold foreigners coming to take up their permanent residence among them, as those they had heretofore seen had been transient visitors.

“The inhabitants of Tahiti, having never seen any European females or children, were filled with amazement and delight when the wives and children of the missionaries landed. Several times during the first days of their residence on shore large parties arrived from different places, in front of the house, requesting that the white women and children would come to the door and show themselves. The chiefs and people were not satisfied with giving them the large and commodious ‘Fare Beritani’ (British house), as they called the one they had built for Captain Bligh, but readily and cheerfully ceded to Captain Wilson and the missionaries, in an official and formal manner, the district of Matavai, in which their habitation was situated. The king and queen, with other branches of the royal family, and the most influential persons in the nation, were present; and Haamanemane, an aged chief of Raiatea, and chief priest of Tahiti, was the principal agent for the natives on this occasion.

“Whatever advantages the king or chiefs might expect to derive from this settlement on the island, it must not be supposed that any desire to receive moral or religious instruction formed a part. A desire to possess European property, and to receive the assistance of the Europeans in the exercise of the mechanical arts or in their wars, was probably the motive by which the natives were most strongly influenced.

“Having landed ten missionaries at Tongataboo, in the Friendly Islands, Captain Wilson visited and surveyed several of the Marquesan Islands, and left Mr Crook, a missionary, there. He then returned to Tahiti, and on July 6 the Duff again anchored in Matavai Bay. The health of the missionaries had not been affected by the climate. The conduct of the natives had been friendly and respectful, and supplies in abundance had been furnished during his absence. On August 4, 1797, the Duff finally sailed from the bay. The missionaries returning from the ship, as well as those on shore, watched her course, as she slowly receded from their view, under no ordinary sensations. They now felt that they were cut off from all but Divine guidance, protection, and support, and had parted with those by whose counsels and presence they had been assisted in entering upon their labours, but whom, on earth, they did not expect to meet again.

“Their acquaintance with the most useful of the mechanic arts not only delighted the natives, but raised the missionaries in their estimation, and led them to desire their friendship. This was strikingly evinced on several occasions, when they beheld them use their carpenters’ tools, cut with a saw a number of boards out of a tree, which they had never thought it possible to split into more than two, and make with these chests and articles of furniture. When they beheld a boat built, upwards of twenty feet long and six tons burden, they were pleased and surprised; but when the blacksmith’s shop was erected, and the forge and anvil were first employed on their shores, they were filled with astonishment. When the heated iron was hammered on the anvil, and the sparks flew among them, they fancied it was spitting at them, and were frightened, as they also were with the hissing occasioned by immersing it in water; yet they were delighted to see the facility with which a bar of iron was thus converted into hatchets, adzes, fish-spears, fish-hooks, and other things. Pomare, entering one day when the blacksmith was employed, after gazing a few minutes at the work, was so transported at what he saw that he caught up the smith in his arms, and, unmindful of the dirt and perspiration inseparable from his occupation, most cordially embraced him, and saluted him, according to the custom of his country, by touching noses.” (Abridged from Polynesian Researches, by the Rev. W. Ellis.)

It is not to be wondered at that the favourable reports sent home by these missionaries encouraged those who received them to believe that almost all difficulties had already been, or were in a fair way of being speedily overcome, and that these distant islands were, to use the figurative language of Scripture, “stretching out their hands unto God.” They did not know—it was wisely and mercifully hidden from them—that a long night of toil had yet to be passed before the dawn of that better day they longed to see, and for which they prayed and strove.

“Decisive and extensive as the change has since become,” says the writer just quoted, “it was long before any salutary effects appeared as the result of their endeavours; and although the scene is now one of loveliness and quietude, cheerful, yet placid as the smooth waters of the bay, it has often worn a very different aspect. Here the first missionaries frequently heard the song accompanying the licentious areois dance, the deafening noise of the worship, and saw the human victim carried by for sacrifice. Here, too, they often heard the startling cry of war, and saw their frightened neighbours fly before the murderous spear and plundering hand of lawless power. The invader’s torch reduced the native hut to ashes, while the lurid flame seared the green foliage of the trees, and clouds of smoke, rising up among their groves, darkened, for a time, surrounding objects. On such occasions, and they were not infrequent, the contrast between the country and the inhabitants must have been most affecting; appearing as if the demons of darkness had lighted up infernal fires in the bowers of paradise.”

These representations probably did not reach England until after the missionaries had been some time in the islands, and meanwhile the ship Duff was sent out a second time, with a strong reinforcement of thirty additional labourers.

“God, however, for a time, appeared to disappoint all their expectations; for this hitherto favoured ship was captured by the Buonaparte privateer. The property was entirely lost, and the missionaries, with their families, after suffering many difficulties and privations, returned to England.” In addition to this trial “the Marquesan mission failed. At Tongataboo some of the missionaries lost their lives, and that mission was, in consequence of a series of disastrous circumstances, abandoned.” More discouragements were in store, for “those settled at Tahiti, under such favourable auspices, had, from fear of their lives, nearly all fled to New South Wales; so that, after a few years, very little remained of this splendid embassy of Christian mercy to the South Seas. A few of the brethren, however, never abandoned their posts; and others returned after having been a short time absent.”

In addition to all other disappointments, these returned missionaries and their brethren appeared to be labouring in vain and spending their strength for nought. “For sixteen years,” we are told, “notwithstanding the untiring zeal, the incessant journeys, the faithful exhortations of these devoted men, no spirit of interest or inquiry appeared, no solitary instance of conversion took place; the wars of the natives continued frequent and desolating, and their idolatries abominable and cruel. The heavens above seemed to be as brass, and the earth as iron.

“At length,” continues the Christian historian, “two native servants, formerly in the families of the missionaries, had received, unknown to them, some favourable impressions, and had united together for prayer. To these many other persons had attached themselves, so that, on the return of the missionaries to Tahiti, at the termination of the war, they found a great number of ‘pure Atua,’ or ‘praying people’; and they had little else to do but to help forward the work which God had so unexpectedly and wonderfully commenced.

“Another circumstance, demanding special observation in reference to the commencement of the great work at Tahiti, is that, discouraged by so many years of fruitless toil, the directors of the Society entertained serious thoughts of abandoning the mission altogether. A few undeviating friends of that field of missionary enterprise, however, opposed the measure.” Their persuasions prevailed, and after special and earnest prayer to God, instead of a recall, “letters of encouragement were written to the missionaries. And while the vessel which carried these letters was on her passage to Tahiti, another ship was conveying to England not only the news of the entire overthrow of idolatry, but also the rejected idols of the people. Thus was fulfilled the gracious promise, ‘Before they call I will answer, and while they are yet speaking I will hear.’” (Williams’s Missionary Enterprises in the South Sea Islands.)

Among the converts of Tahiti was the king, Pomare, who, having been severely tried by the rebellion of some part of his subjects, became deeply impressed with the insufficiency of his idol gods to help him, and, after having recalled the banished missionaries, listened to their instructions, and embraced the faith of Christianity. His example being followed by a majority of his people the idols were renounced, as already mentioned; and, as soon as he was firmly re-established on his throne, he built a Christian church, which was opened in the year 1819; and the first baptism of a native Tahitian was administered within its walls, in the presence of upwards of four thousand spectators, the king himself being the subject of the rite.

Thus inaugurating a new era in his reign, Pomare introduced a code of useful laws, and brought about many much-needed reforms in his kingdom. He not only proved himself a warm friend of the missionaries, but gave them valuable assistance in the important work of translating the Scriptures into the Tahitian tongue—a fact which proves Pomare to have been a man of no ordinary natural abilities. He did not live long enough, however, to see the completion of this design, but, dying in 1821, he left it to his daughter, who succeeded him in his sovereignty, taking her father’s name Pomare.

Among the laws passed in Tahiti at this time was one prohibiting the importation and sale of ardent spirits, which had been so great a bane to the people; and the law was found to be beneficial to the prosperity and moral character of the country, though the foreign traders, who had made a large profit by its importation, were enraged when this source of gain was cut off.

In 1835 the translation of the Bible was completed, and its publication was attended and followed by happy accompaniments and results. At this time the number of natives in communion with the Christian churches throughout the island numbered over two thousand; and among the candidates for Church fellowship were the queen herself, her husband, and her mother.

And now arose a dark cloud which, for a time, brought great distress upon the faithful followers of Christ in Tahiti, and was permitted to try their constancy, while, at the same time, the freedom, and liberty, and prosperity of the island were grievously threatened. It may be stated, in few words, that Louis Philippe, at that time King of the French, had set his eyes on Tahiti, and had introduced his agents into the country that an excuse might be found for taking possession of the island. First, the consuls insisted that, as the law prohibiting the introduction of liquor interfered with trade, it should be rescinded. This was firmly refused. Then, two French Roman Catholic priests were landed, but were ordered by the queen to quit the country. They complied; but one shortly returned with a companion, and the French admiral, appearing directly afterwards, insisted, with his guns bearing on the town, that they should be allowed to remain, and demanded 400 pounds for the injury they had been supposed to suffer when compelled to quit the island.

French ships continued to be sent, at frequent intervals, and French troops were landed; the queen fled to a neighbouring island; the people fought bravely, but were defeated; the mission-houses and stations were destroyed; the missionaries were driven out of the country, and Mr Pritchard, who had been a missionary, and was now British consul, was imprisoned and otherwise ill-treated.

The Protestant missionary societies throughout Europe and America were indignant at this conduct of a civilised nation. In consequence of the representations of England, France desisted from her attacks on the other islands, but Tahiti fell into her power in 1846. The French, however, could not turn the people from the simple faith they had learned from the English missionaries. They chose ministers from their own people, and continued to meet and worship God with the simple forms to which they had been accustomed, and it is a remarkable fact that Romanism, notwithstanding its gorgeous ceremonies and corrupt practices, did not captivate them.

One only of their beloved missionaries was allowed to remain, the Rev. William Howe, as chaplain to the British consul, and who was ever ready to give the native pastors the benefit of his advice and assistance, though opposed by the Romish bishop and the priests. At length, through his earnest representations to the French Protestant missionary societies, an appeal was made to the Emperor Napoleon, who permitted French Protestant missionaries to go out. They were cordially received by Mr Howe and the native preachers, and the greater part of the Romish priests were subsequently withdrawn.

In the words of a recent report of the British and Foreign Bible Society, (that of 18 8) “The Bible still continues to supply the inhabitants of the Tahitian group of islands with a safe guide amidst all the errors to which they are exposed, and a sure ground of hope in the prospect of eternity. The sale and distribution of the Scriptures progresses steadily, and the strong attachment of the people to the truths of the Gospel remains unabated, and forms a security against the seductions of Popery which it is not easy to over-estimate. Games, and sports, and feasts are all alike tried to seduce the natives from their allegiance to Him whom they have learnt to love and to serve; and though, through the weakness of the flesh, some are attracted and drawn aside, yet, for the most part, they soon become convinced of the emptiness and folly of these things, and return to the sound and wholesome food which they had been tempted to forsake.”

After leaving Tahiti, the first place at which Captain Cook touched was the lovely and fertile island of Huaheine. This became the refuge of the first party of missionaries when, in 1808, they were driven from Tahiti; and it was afterwards visited by John Williams, Ellis, and others, accompanied by some chiefs from Eimeo, who purposed forming a mission there. As this place became, in a certain degree, the centre of operations, that particular missionary enterprise in the Society Islands is generally known as the Huaheine Mission.

While Mr Williams was residing at Huaheine, Tamatoa, the King of Raiatea, who had, while visiting Eimeo and Tahiti, learned something of the principles of Christianity, arrived with several chiefs, entreating that missionaries might be sent to instruct their people in the truth. Messrs Williams and Threlkeld promptly responded to the call, and accompanied the king back to Raiatea. The population of the island was at that time only thirteen hundred, though the island is the largest of the group, and, from its reputed sanctity, and from being the centre and headquarters of all the idolatries and abominations of the neighbouring islands, its chiefs exercised great authority over them.

Tamatoa, instructed by the Holy Spirit, and aided by others who had learnt something of the truths of Christianity, had for some time been labouring among his fellow-islanders. He had himself been converted by what might well be considered a providential circumstance. Two years before, a small vessel, having on board the king, Pomare, Mr Wilson, the missionary, and several Tahitians, had been driven by a storm from her anchorage at Eimeo down to Raiatea. Here they were hospitably received, and continued three months, the whole of which time was employed by Mr Wilson and the king in preaching the Gospel to the inhabitants. The chief, Tamatoa, was among their principal converts.

After their teachers had departed, Tamatoa and his fellow-inquirers felt an earnest desire to learn more of the truth. They built a place of worship, met together for mutual instruction, kept holy the Sabbath, and put away their idols and heathen practices. Several times the heathens laid plots to destroy them, but were each time signally foiled in their wicked plans.

At length, Tamatoa paid that memorable visit to Huaheine which resulted in Messrs Williams and Threlkeld taking up their abode at Raiatea. Having collected the hitherto scattered inhabitants into villages, he built a substantial mission-house as a model, which was readily imitated. Places of worship and schoolhouses were also built; and though many years elapsed before the abominations of heathenism were eradicated, the great mass of the people became not only well educated and moral, but earnest and enlightened Christians. The satisfactory progress made by the inhabitants of the islands where Mr Williams resided was owing, humanly speaking, to the wonderful rapidity with which he had acquired their language, and was able to preach to them, in it, the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Soon after the mission at Huaheine was established Mr Ellis set up a printing-press, from which quickly issued the Gospel by Luke, eight hundred copies of which were sent to Raiatea. Small school-books were also printed in the native language. The desire for instruction became general wherever missionary stations were established. Not only the children, but adults became scholars. During the hours of instruction other engagements were suspended, and the various scenes of busy occupation throughout the settlements forsaken.

Such was the picture to be seen at that time in several islands of the Society group. Borabora, or Bolabola, whose inhabitants in Cook’s time had been the fiercest warriors of the neighbouring islands, yielded to the benign influence of the Gospel. The history of the last island visited by the great navigator before he left the eastern side of the Pacific for New Zealand, called by him Oheteroa, but known generally as Rurutu, is of great interest. It is situated about two hundred and fifty miles to the south of Raiatea. A destructive pestilence having visited the island, two chiefs, one named Auura, built two canoes, and, with as many of the people as they could convey, left their native shores in search of a happier land, and to escape from their infuriated deities.

After touching at Tubuai, they were cast on the reef surrounding Maurua. Here, instead of being murdered, as might once have been their fate, the starving voyagers were received with all kindness and charity. How was this? Through the agency of native teachers the people had learned the blessed truths of the Gospel, and were trying to obey its precepts. Auura and his companions, hearing that the white men, who had brought to their seas that beautiful religion the practical fruits of which they had just experienced, were living in the islands the summits of whose mountains they could see, set sail once more, with the desire of hearing from their own lips a fuller account of the religion they taught. They missed Borabora, but reached Raiatea. Here they remained rather more than three months. When they were landed they were ignorant savages, wild in appearance and habits. Before they left Auura could read the Gospel of Matthew, had learned the greater part of the catechism drawn up for the natives, and could write correctly. Several others could do nearly as well, though previously ignorant that such an art as writing existed.

But these earnest men were not content to go back to their people alone; they entreated that some missionaries would accompany them. Two native deacons at once offered themselves, and were accepted. Auura’s great fear was that many of his countrymen would have been carried off by the pestilence before the glad tidings of salvation could be preached to them. At that time a vessel belonging to a friend of the mission touched at Eaiatea, and the captain agreed to carry Auura and his companions, with the missionaries, to their home.

Within fifteen months after this, Rurutu was visited by Dr Tyerman and G. Bennet, Esquire, who had been sent out by the directors of the London Missionary Society to visit their stations in the Pacific. When they reached it they were not certain what island it was, but were greatly surprised at seeing several neat-looking white houses at the head of the bay. A pier, a quarter of a mile in length, had been constructed of vast coral blocks, affording a convenient landing-place. Besides the two comfortable mission-houses, there was a large place of worship, eighty feet by thirty-six, wattled, plastered, well floored and seated, built within a twelvemonth, under the direction of the two native missionaries, who performed much of the work with their own hands. Many of the chiefs were dressed in European clothing, and all were attired in the most decent and becoming manner. Not a vestige of idolatry was to be seen, not an idol was to be found in the island.

Mr Turnbull, in his account of a voyage he made to the Pacific in 1804, describes the way in which the then savage inhabitants of Raiatea attempted to cut off the ship in which he sailed. See the contrast in the conduct of the people of Rurutu shortly after they had embraced Christianity. Captain Chase commanded the Falcon, an American trader, which was cast away on a reef off their island. He says; “The natives have given us all the assistance in their power from the time the ship struck to the present moment. The first day, while landing the things from the ship, they were put into the hands of the natives, and carried up to the native mission-house, a distance of half a mile, and not a single article of clothing was taken from any man belonging to the ship, though they had it in their power to have plundered us of everything that was landed. Since I have lived on shore, I, and my officers and people, have received the kindest treatment from the natives that can be imagined, for which I shall ever be thankful.”

Aitutaki, one of the Hervey group, was another of the islands discovered by Captain Cook. It contained about two thousand inhabitants, described as especially wild and savage. Mr Williams heard of it from Auura, and on a voyage to Sydney, which he was compelled to take on account of the health of his wife, he landed on its shores two native missionaries, Papeiha and Vahapata. On first landing they were led by the people to the morai and given up to the gods; but their lives were spared and they were left at liberty. Wars broke out in the island, and all their property was stolen; but they persevered in preaching the Gospel, and, by degrees, gained converts. The king, Tamatoa, became a Christian; but his old grandfather refused to give up his gods. While holding a high festival in their honour, a beloved daughter was taken ill. In vain he besought his gods to restore her to health; she died. In his rage, he ordered his son to set fire to his morai, and to destroy it with his idols; two others caught fire near it, and the son was proceeding to burn others, when the people dragged him away, expecting to see him struck down by the vengeance of the outraged gods. As no evil consequences followed, the idolaters began to call in question the power of their deities.

Shortly after a vessel arrived from Raiatea, bringing another missionary, with many books, and several pigs and goats, which Papeiha and his companion had promised the people. This raised the missionaries in their estimation, and they with one accord threw away all their idols, and resolved to listen to the teaching of the Gospel. On his return from Sydney, Mr Williams, calling at Aitutaki, found that all the inhabitants had nominally embraced Christianity, while a chapel, two hundred feet long, had been built for the worship of the true God. They have now the entire Scriptures in their own language, and their desire after and reverence for the Word of God are very remarkable.

The description given of the inhabitants of Aitutaki applies equally to numerous other islands of the Pacific, which have been for some time under missionary instruction, provided there are no ports where the crews of foreign vessels remain any length of time, and set a bad example to the surrounding population.

Rarotonga, one of the Hervey group, about seven hundred miles south of Tahiti, and discovered by Williams, in 1823, when the people were in the most savage condition, is now the chief missionary station in the Pacific. In 1839 a missionary college was established, the buildings consisting of a number of separate neat stone cottages, in which the married students and their wives could reside, a lecture-room, and a room for female classes. Up to 1844 thirty-three native missionaries, male and female, had received instruction, and six of the young men had gone forth as pioneers to Western Polynesia. Up to 1860 two hundred students had been admitted, a considerable number of whom were married, and the institution had been greatly enlarged in many respects. The course of instruction embraces theology, Church history, Biblical exposition, biography, geography, grammar, and composition of essays and sermons. The students are also taught several mechanical arts, and for two or three hours every day are employed in the workshop. At the printing establishment on the island a variety of works have been translated, printed, and bound. In three months, ending March 1859, Bogue’s Lectures, the Pilgrim’s Progress, twelve hundred copies of Voyages of Mission Ship, hymn-books, Scripture lessons, and several other works were turned out of hand. The press-work of these various books, comprising nearly three hundred thousand sheets a year, had all been performed by young men, the first-fruits of missionary labours before their fathers had any written language.

We must now describe the present state of other solitary islands and groups discovered by Captain Cook. In the course of his second voyage (1774) he fell in with a low, solitary island, which, from the ferocity of the inhabitants, he called Savage Island. The inhabitants, numbering between three and four thousand, for very many years remained in the condition in which Cook found them. The first attempt to leave native missionaries was made by the Rev. John Williams, in 1830. But the natives refused to receive them. In 1840, and in 1842, other attempts were made. In the latter year the Rev. A. Buzacott nearly lost his life.

Still these visits had a good effect on the younger part of the population, who desired to see more of the strangers. Several found their way to Samoa, where they embraced the Gospel, and two of them, after a course of instruction at the training college in Samoa, were found well fitted to return, and to spread its glad tidings among their benighted countrymen. They were accordingly conveyed to Savage Island in the John Williams, missionary ship, but were received with a good deal of suspicion by the natives, and only one remained. He narrowly escaped being put to death, but undauntedly persevered, and, by degrees, gathered converts around him. When visited in 1852 by the Rev. A.W. Murray, he had upwards of two hundred sincere believers gathered into a church, and many heathen practices had been abandoned by others.

In 1861 the John Williams conveyed Mr and Mrs Lawes to Savage Island. They were the first European missionaries appointed to labour there. Hundreds of men and women, all well clothed, were assembled on the shore to receive them. Outwardly, not a vestige of heathenism remained among them. There were five good chapels in the island, one of which held eleven hundred, but it was too small for the congregation. Prayer meetings were frequently held, at which all the people in the district attended. On each occasion when they were held by Mr Lawes not less than eight hundred were present. The whole of the inhabitants are now professing Christians, and a very large proportion are earnest and enlightened believers.

The reader will call to mind the incidents of Captain Cook’s visit to the Tonga, or Friendly group, the high state of cultivation in which he found the islands, the apparently friendly reception he met with from the chiefs, and their treacherous purposes to cut off the ship, as they shortly afterwards did a merchantman which visited their shores, murdering most of the crew.

In consequence of Captain Cook’s too favourable report, a number of missionaries were sent out by the London Missionary Society, in the ship Duff, already mentioned, under the command of Captain Wilson. These pious men landed on the islands in 1797, but they made no apparent progress, and war breaking out, three of them lost their lives, and the rest escaped to Sydney. This was in the year 1800.

In 1802, Mr Lawry, of the Wesleyan Missionary Society, commenced a mission at Nukualofa, in Tongataboo. Though compelled for a time to abandon it, he returned in 1826, and, through his instrumentality, Tubou, the king, and many of his chiefs and people embraced Christianity. It is worthy of remark that, just before this time, the London Missionary Society had commenced a mission on the island; but they yielded up the field to the Wesleyans, while the latter retired from Samoa, where they had commenced a mission. The Wesleyans have since then laboured exclusively, and with most encouraging success, in the Friendly and Fiji Islands and New Zealand, leaving to the London Missionary Society the wide scope of the Pacific.

In 1827 the Revs. Nathaniel Turner and William Cross took up their residence at Nukualofa. At that time Josiah Tubou was king in Tonga. Taufaahau, now King George, was king only of Haabai, and Feenau was king of Vavou. The first became a Christian, as did his queen, and was baptised on January 10, 1830. He died in 1845, Feenau having previously died; thus George became king in chief, and reigns over the three groups, Tonga, Haabai, and Vavou, or the whole of the Friendly Islands. The labours of the two zealous missionaries just mentioned were largely blessed, and when Tubou was baptised the congregation amounted to six hundred professing Christians.

King Josiah’s reign was not altogether free from difficulties. The heathen party was strong, and took up arms against him, being supported by some French Roman Catholic priests who had settled in the islands. They tried to embroil him, as they had already done Queen Pomare, of Tahiti, with their own government, but were unsuccessful, and with the assistance of King George the rebels were put down.

King George had himself become a Christian and a preacher, and contributed greatly to the spread of the Gospel among his countrymen. He is thus described by Mr Lawry, after he had become sovereign of the whole group; it was in the large chapel of Nukualofa: “The king was in the pulpit. The attention of his audience was riveted while he expounded the words of our Lord, ‘I am come that ye might have life.’ The king is a tall, graceful person; in the pulpit he was dressed in a black coat, and his manner was solemn and earnest. He held in his hand a small bound manuscript book, in which his sermon was written, but he seldom looked at it. His action was dignified, his delivery fluent and graceful, and not without majesty. His hearers hung upon his lips with earnest and increasing interest. Much of what he said was put interrogatively, a mode of address which is very acceptable among the Tongans. It was affecting to see this dignified man stretching out his hand over his people, and to observe that one of his little fingers had been cut off: this was formerly done as an offering to a heathen god, a custom among his people before they became Christians. But while he bore this mark of Pagan origin, he clearly showed that to him was grace given to preach among the Gentiles the unsearchable riches of Christ.”

The Tongans have been especially blessed in having had several missionaries of high character, abilities, and zeal sent among them. There are schools sufficient for the wants of the whole population, under native teachers, and overlooked by the missionaries, whose duties are somewhat arduous. There is a training institution at Nukualofa, for missionaries, and for masters and mistresses of schools. There are also schools, or colleges, for the upper classes; indeed, many of the wants of a civilised and intelligent community are supplied in the Tonga Islands. The population of the whole group is supposed to amount to between thirty and forty thousand.

The islands of Western Polynesia—New Hebrides, Loyalty, and Britannia—were little-known, or, at all events, little thought of, till the year 1839, when they were brought into melancholy prominence by the distressing tragedy which occurred in one of them, the island of Erromanga.

The Rev. John Williams, after his return from England in the previous year, sailed in the Camden missionary vessel, resolved to convey the Gospel message to the inhabitants of these remote islands, hitherto sunk in the deepest heathen darkness. It is not too much to say that there was no species of wickedness practised by heathens in any part of the world which could not have found its parallel in those countries. Barbarous rites, nameless abominations, and cannibalism in its most fearful forms characterised the whole population. Mr Williams was accompanied by several European, and a considerable number of native missionaries, who were to be landed as opportunities might offer, to preach the Gospel.

Having landed missionaries at the island of Tanna and elsewhere, with every prospect of success, the Camden proceeded to Erromanga, off which island she arrived on November 20, 1839. Here Mr Williams, Mr Harris, Mr Cunningham, and Captain Morgan landed, and while the two former were at a distance from their companions, the natives attacked and killed them. The murder had been provoked, not by the crew of the Camden, but by that of some other ship, who had ruthlessly shot down several of the natives and carried off their provisions. Thus the innocent suffered for the guilty, and while the life of one eminent missionary was sacrificed, that of another was cut off at the commencement of what might have been a course of similar usefulness. Let it be added, as an interesting fact, that the murderer of John Williams was afterwards converted to God, and lived as a sincere and consistent Christian.

Notwithstanding the sad commencement of this missionary enterprise, it was resolved to pursue it with vigour. At Aneiteum, the first island of the New Hebrides visited by the missionary ship in 1841, two Samoan missionaries were landed. These devoted men had much to endure, and it was not till after years of toil that they saw any really satisfactory results from their labours. By degrees many came to seek instruction, some of whom abandoned their heathen practices; and subsequently other native teachers were introduced; but when, in 1848, the Rev. J. Geddie arrived at Aneiteum, he still found the great mass of the people fearfully degraded, and addicted to the most horrible cruelties. Soon after his arrival eight women were strangled—one, an interesting young woman whose husband he had been attending till he died; he attempted to save her, and was very nearly clubbed to death by her relatives in consequence.

A wonderful change is now evident. In 1858 there were sixty villages on the island, each of which had a school-house or a chapel, with a resident teacher. Nearly the whole of the New Testament, and some books of the Old, had been translated, and a large number of these lately degraded heathens could both read and write.

Fatuna is a small island, containing about a thousand inhabitants. Here Williams touched just before his death; but no teachers were left there. A couple of years afterwards, however, two Samoan evangelists, Samuela and Apela, were landed, the former accompanied by his wife. They laboured for four years with some success, when a severe epidemic breaking out among the inhabitants they were accused of being its cause, and were killed and eaten. Samuela’s faithful wife was offered her life if she would become one of the wives of the chief. She replied, “I came to teach you what is right, not to sin amongst you.” No sooner had she uttered the words than she fell beneath the club of a savage. Notwithstanding this tragedy, missionaries from the lately heathen Aneiteum have gone to Fatuna, and many of the savages have been converted.

At Tanna, supposed to possess fifteen thousand inhabitants, Mr Williams left three missionaries the day before he was murdered at Erromanga; but two of them soon died, the climate being more injurious to the natives of Eastern Polynesia than to Europeans. In 1842 Messrs Turner and Nisbet were sent to occupy the island, but were driven away by the savages, and sought shelter in Samoa. Native teachers from Aneiteum, however, took their places, and met with some success; and in 1858 several European missionaries landed on the island; and the larger part of the people have come to the truth.

With Erromanga the name of Williams will always be associated. After his death, native evangelists from Samoa and Rarotonga landed on its shores, but died, or were compelled to leave, from the effects of the climate. In 1857 the Rev. G.N. Gordon, and his wife, took up their residence on the island. They laboured on with considerable success, Oviladon, the chief of the district, being among the first-fruits of their toils. The greater number of the inhabitants of his district also became Christians.

An epidemic, however, broke out in 1860, and the heathen inhabitants of another district, believing that it was caused by the Christians, attacked the settlement, and killed Mr and Mrs Gordon. The day after they were buried, amidst the tears and lamentations of the people; the native teacher, who had escaped, stood beside the grave, and delivered an address which powerfully affected the bystanders.

In the large island of Faté or Vaté, Christian teachers have been landed at different times, but some have been killed and eaten, and others have died of disease. In 1858, however, three teachers, with their wives, were landed under encouraging circumstances. From Nina, a small island near Tanna, several of the natives, hearing of the wonderful things taking place on the latter island, proceeded thither to procure a teacher. In consequence of their application, in 1858, the John Williams took them two from Aneiteum, who are now labouring successfully among them.

The Loyalty group must be briefly noticed. Native teachers were landed in 1841, and after they had induced many natives to abandon heathenism, Messrs Jones and Creagh arrived in the island in 1854. Their labours have been blessed; the Gospels and other parts of the Scriptures have been printed in the Nengonese language, and upwards of three thousand of the inhabitants are under Christian instruction, although a large number of the natives still follow their heathen customs.

The mission in Lifu was not commenced till 1843, when native evangelists were landed, and in 1858 two European missionaries arrived to take charge of the work. The inhabitants amount to about ten thousand, and of these very few, if any, now remain heathens, though it is to be feared that the great mass of the converts can only be looked on as nominal Christians.

The small Britannia group, near New Caledonia, has been occupied by teachers from Rarotonga and Mars since 1837, but Roman Catholic priests have arrived on the principal island, sent, they say, by the French governor of New Caledonia. They have built a capital, called Porte de France, but it is a penal colony, and free emigrants have not been attracted to its shores.

The last islands visited by Captain Cook were those to which he gave the name of the Sandwich Islands, and which now form the small but independent kingdom of Hawaii, having a capital called Honolulu, with a population of eleven thousand, not less than a thousand of whom are white foreigners. With its well-paved, lighted streets, its king’s palace, its houses of parliament, its cathedral church, its numerous hotels, its police, and other accompaniments of high civilisation, it is difficult to imagine that a hundred years ago this was the home of tattooed savages. To Englishmen in advanced years, indeed, the murder of Captain Cook at Owhyhee seems like an event that happened in their own childhood. And, in truth, not fifty years ago the natives of Hawaii were ignorant and idolatrous heathens, while it is but as yesterday that a refined, elegant, and well-educated lady, the queen of those islands, was visiting England.

When Cook was killed Kalampupua was king. He was succeeded by his nephew, Kamehamea the First, who made himself sovereign of the entire group. When visited by Captain Vancouver, in 1793, it is said that he requested that Christian missionaries might be sent to him. Whether Captain Vancouver delivered the message to the English Government or not, no attention was paid to it. Captain Vancouver, however, returned the next year with some horned cattle and sheep, which he presented to the king, obtaining a promise that none should be killed for the space of ten years. This promise was faithfully kept; but so rapidly did the animals increase that they became exceedingly troublesome to the natives by injuring their fences and taro plantations. They were accordingly driven into the mountains, where they now form a source of considerable wealth to the nation.

Kamehamea was about to abolish the taboo system when he died in 1819, and was succeeded by his son Liholiho, who took the name of Kamehamea the Second. He carried into effect his father’s intention, and also destroyed his temples and gods.

In that very year the American Board of Missions resolved to send to the Sandwich Islands an efficient band of missionaries with three native youths who had been educated in the States. Joyful and totally unexpected news awaited them on their arrival. Idolatry was overthrown, and the king and most of his chiefs were ready to afford them protection and support. They had, however, an arduous task before them in their efforts to impart instruction to a population numbering at least one hundred thousand, dwelling in eight islands, with a superficial area of seven thousand square miles; Owhyhee alone, now written Hawaii, being four hundred and fifteen miles in circumference.

In 1824 there were fifty native teachers and two thousand scholars, and so rapidly did education advance, that in 1831 there were eleven hundred schools, in which fully seventeen hundred scholars had obtained the branches of a common education, and were able to read, write, and sum up simple accounts. The prime minister, seven leading chiefs, and the regent were members of the Christian Church; and a very decided change was manifest in the general population.

Within a few years the language was reduced to a written form, and two printing-presses were at work at Honolulu. A large edition of the Gospels in the Hawaii language, printed in the United States, was in circulation and there were no less than nine hundred schools and forty-five thousand scholars. In 1853, after a great awakening, there were above twenty-two thousand church members, and there were chapels at all the stations. One at Lahaina could hold three thousand persons.

In 1853 the mission of the American Board was dissolved, their object having been fully realised in Christianising the people, planting churches, and making them self-supporting. Kamehamea the Third, the brother and successor of the king, who died in England, reigned well and wisely till 1854. On his death, Prince Alexander Liholiho, a well-educated and religiously disposed young man, became king. His wife is the Queen Emma who once visited England. They lost their only son in 1862. This so affected the king that he never recovered from the shock.

He was succeeded by his brother who reigned over the kingdom for some years, under the title of Kamehamea the Fifth. His uncle had established a too democratic constitution; he has given the people one more suited to their ideas and the state of the country. The chamber of nobles and that of the representatives of the people are convoked every two years. It is their duty to make the laws and to vote supplies. Several foreigners are employed in the government, and the foreign population of English, Americans, French, and Germans is increasing rapidly.

The Hawaiians own a considerable number of vessels, which trade to China, California, British Columbia, and other parts of the Pacific. The national flag is composed of coloured stripes with the Union-Jack of old England quartered in the corner. The independence of the island kingdom is guaranteed by England, France, and America, and it will probably continue, as it is at present, in advance of all the other states which may arise in the Pacific. With these signs of prosperity, it is no wonder that Romish priests are doing all in their power to spread their tenets through the Sandwich Islands. But the Bible and a free press will, it is devoutly to be hoped, triumph.

Among other publications constantly issuing from the Hawaiian press are several newspapers, both in English and the native language, which have a wide circulation. That there is a steady increase in the commerce of the country is shown by the exports of sugar, coffee, and other produce, while several manufactures have been introduced to give employment especially to the women. The port of Honolulu has long been the chief resort of whale ships in the Pacific, and now many others, trading between the coasts of America and Asia, call there for supplies.

Other islands and shores visited by Cook remain in much the same condition as in his day. The sorrowful history of the attempt to convey the Gospel to the inhabitants of Tierra del Fuego, by Captain Allan Gardiner, is too well-known to require further mention. Java has been restored to its original masters, the Dutch; and the Cape of Good Hope is now a British colony. The great southern land of which Cook went in search has been found to exist, though its approach is guarded by immense barriers of ice; and the great problem of a north-west passage has been solved by the sacrifice of some of England’s bravest sons.

Not much need be added in the closing paragraphs of this volume. In following the interesting narrative of the voyages of the eminent discoverer whose name is a household word in English biography, the reader, while he sees some things to regret, will award to him a well-deserved tribute of admiration for his courage and skill, his perseverance and enterprising spirit. One thing was set before him, and that one thing he did. His main object was scientific; his first voyage was undertaken to observe the transit of the planet Venus, the Royal Society having represented that important service would be rendered to the interests of astronomical science by the appointment of properly qualified individuals to observe that phenomenon. The second was in search of a southern continent, which, at that time, was a favourite object of geographical speculation. The third and last was to endeavour to find a passage from the Pacific into the Atlantic Ocean. These objects were praiseworthy, yet they were not the highest aims of the truest and purest ambition. To be a martyr for science was earthly glory; but to be a willing martyr for God is glory, honour, immortality, and eternal life.

The discoveries made by Captain Cook were barren of any results beyond those which are necessarily doomed to perish when the world and all that is in it shall be dissolved, until God was pleased, in His own good time, and by the influence of His gracious Spirit operating on the minds of His servants, to make them show forth His praise. Then was made manifest His almighty power, His infinite wisdom, and His amazing love, in the triumphs of the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ in the very strongholds of Satan and sin; conveying to His waiting people the assurance also that He had listened, and still listens, to their aspirations and prayers.

Note 1. Australia, Tasmania, and New Zealand, having become parts of the British empire, and colonised by British subjects, are not included in this sketch; their history belongs to that of the mother country. The wonderful progress they have made is due to the influx of European settlers, not to the elevation of the native races.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Captain Mugford"

Chapter One.

Introductory.

We belong to a Cornish family of the greatest respectability and high antiquity—so say the county records, in which we have every reason to place the most unbounded confidence. The Tregellins have possessed the same estate for I do not know exactly how long; only I suppose it must have been some time after Noah disembarked from the ark, and, at all events, for a very long time. The estate of which I speak was in a wild part of the country, and not at that time very productive; but I believe that my father would not have parted with it for ten times its market value. It contained between four and five hundred acres of hill and dale, and rock and copse, and wood; its chief feature a lofty cape, which ran out for a considerable distance into the sea. On one side it was exposed to the almost unbroken sweep of the Atlantic Ocean; on the other it was washed by the tranquil waters of a deep bay, which formed a safe and picturesque harbour for numerous small craft which frequently took shelter there from press of weather when running up channel.

That headland, where the happiest half-year of all my boyhood’s days was passed, is now dotted with several pleasant summer residences; its acres are marked off by fences and walls, and variegated with the diverse crops of well-tilled fields, and on its bay-side are occasional small wharves for pleasure-boats. Fifty years ago it was very different, and, (though, perhaps, I may be an old fogey and have that grey-hair fashion of thinking, with an expressive shrug, “Ah, things are not as they were when I was a boy!”) I must say, far more beautiful to my eyes than it is now. You have seen a bold, handsome-bearded, athletic sailor-fellow, with a manner combining the sunniness of calms, the dash of storms, and the romance of many strange lands about him. Now, if our admired hero should abandon his adventurous profession, and settle down quietly into the civilised career of an innkeeper, or village constable, or shopman, or sedate church clerk, and we chanced to meet him years after his “life on the ocean wave,” it would probably be to find a sober-faced gentleman, with forehead a little bald, with somewhat of a paunch, with sturdy legs and gaiters, perhaps with a stiff stock and dignified white collar—altogether a very respectable, useful citizen. But the eye and the heart could not find in our excellent acquaintance the fascination which so charmed us in our friend the brave sailor. So with our cape: fifty years ago, in all its natural wildness; in the beauty of its lonely beaches strewn with pieces of shivered waterlogged spars and great rusty remnants of ship-knees and keels; in the melancholy of those strips of short brown heath on the seaside, disappearing in the white sand; in the frowning outlines of the determined rocks that like fortresses defied their enemy the ocean; in the roll of crisp pasturage that in unbroken swells covered the long backbone of the cape; in the few giant old trees, and, more than all, in its character of freedom, loneliness, and isolation, there was a savage charm and dignity that the thrift and cultivation, the usefulness and comfort of civilisation’s beauty can never equal.

My first sight of the old cape was when I was about nine years of age. My father took me with him in a chaise from Bristol—two days’ journey in those times; and I do not think now that my year’s tour of Europe, fifteen years after, was half as full of incident and delight as that my first expedition of a few hours. I can recall how the man at the toll-gate hobbled to us on his crutch; how my father chatted with him for a few moments; how, as we drove off, the man straightened himself on his crutch and touched the brim of his hat with the back of his hand. How well I remember the amazement with which I then heard my father say, “Robert, that man lost his leg while fighting under the great Duke in the Peninsula.” I thrust my head far out of the chaise to look well at my first live hero. That sight was romance enough for an hour. Then the first glimpse of the top of the high cape, and my father’s telling me that where I saw the haze beyond was the ocean, were sources of further reverie and mystery, dispelled, however, very suddenly when directly afterwards a wheel came off the chaise and pitched me into the road, with my father’s small valise on my stomach. I remember the walk to the nearest house, which happened to be an inn, and how my father took off a large tumbler of ale, and gave me some biscuits and a glass of water. It occurred to me, I recollect, whether, when I became a man, I should be able to drink a full glass of ale and not be a drunkard, and whether my son would take biscuits and water and I not be conscious that he wanted to taste the ale. A thousand things more I remember—mere trifles in reality, but abounding in great interest to me on my first journey, which really then seemed of as much importance as Captain Cook’s voyage around the world or Mungo Park’s travels in Africa. It was a delightful day, the most interesting chapter in my life up to that time—brimful of novelty, thought, and excitement—but I shall not write its events in detail. What I have already mentioned will do as a sample. Late in the afternoon—it was the afternoon of a September day, the first fine one after a three days’ storm—we reached the cape, just as the short sombre twilight of an autumn day settled down on land and sea. As the horse trudged laboriously along through the heavy piece of sand connecting the cape and the mainland, I was almost terrified by the great sound of waves, whose spray tossed up in vast spouts from every rocky head before us. The rush of waters, the rumbling of great stones receding with the current, the booming as of ships’ broadsides—all these united to awe a little boy making his first acquaintance with the ocean.

When we drove up to the house, which was the only habitation on the point, not a light was to be seen, and the dark stone walls were blacker than the night that had settled down so quickly on the land. My father said there was no use to knock, for that old Juno lived in the back part of the house and was too deaf to hear us. So he led the horse round, and we went to the back windows. Through them we saw our old black castellan nodding, pipe in mouth, over the fireplace. She had not heard the noise of our wheels, and it required a vigorous pounding on the heavy back-door before old Juno, in much trembling, opened it to us.

“Oh my, Massa Tregellins, is dat you dis dark night! And Clump, de ole nigger, gone to willage. Lor, massa, how you did frighten me—and, oh my! thar’s young Massa Bob!”

Juno had often come up to Bristol to see us, and felt an engrossing interest in all of the family. She now led me into the house, and went as briskly to work as her rheumatic old limbs would allow, to make a good fire—piling on logs, blowing with the bellows, and talking all the while with the volubility of a kind old soul of fully sixty years of age. My father had gone to tie up the horse under the shed until Clump should return and take care of him. Clump was Juno’s husband, and her senior by many years. The exact age of negroes is always of unreliable tradition. The two had charge of the house, and were, indeed, rulers of the entire cape. Clump cultivated vegetables sufficient for his wife and himself, and was also a skilful fisherman. His duties were to look after the copses and fences and gates, and to tend the numerous sheep that found a living on the cape; in which tasks Juno helped him, besides keeping the old house free from ghosts and desolation—indeed, a model of neatness and coziness.

I must now pause for a minute and describe how it happened that the two old negroes were living on that out-of-the-way farm in Cornwall. My father had been a West Indian proprietor, and had resided out in the West Indies for many years. It was in the days when Wilberforce and true and noble philanthropists who fought the battle of emancipation with him first began to promulgate their doctrines. My father, like most other proprietors, was at first very indignant at hearing of proceedings which were considered to interfere with their rights and privileges, and he was their strenuous opponent. To enable himself still more effectually to oppose the emancipists, he sent for all the works which appeared on the subject of emancipation, that he might refute them, as he believed himself fully able to do. He read and read on, and got more and more puzzled how to contradict the statements which he saw put forth, till at length, his mind being an honest and clear one, he came completely round to the opinion of the emancipists. He now conscientiously asked himself how, with his new opinions, he could remain a slaveholder. The property was only partly his, and he acted as manager for the rest of the proprietors. They, not seeing matters in the light in which he had been brought to view them, would not consent to free the slaves and, as they believed, not unnaturally, ruin the property as he desired. Then he proposed having the negroes educated and prepared for that state of freedom which, he assured his partners, he was certain they would some day ere long obtain. They replied that slaves were unfit for education, that the attempt would only set them up to think something of themselves, and certainly spoil them, and therefore neither to this proposition would they agree. They were resolved that as the slaves were theirs by right of law—whatever God might have to say in the matter—slaves they should remain. At length my father determined, after praying earnestly for guidance, to have nothing personally to do with the unclean thing. Had he been able to improve the condition of the slaves, the case would have been different; but all the attempts he made were counteracted by his partners and by the surrounding proprietors, who looked upon him in the light of a dangerous lunatic. He therefore offered to give up his share in the property, provided he might be allowed to emancipate some of the slaves. To this even they would not consent, as they were afraid he might select the most able-bodied, and thus deprive the ground of some of its best cultivators. He did his best for the poor blacks, but the law was on the side of his partners, and, to do them justice, they, blinded by their interests and the contempt in which they held the negro race, considered they were right, and that he was wrong. All they would do was to allow him to select ten negroes from among a certain number whom they pointed out, and they agreed to pay him over a sum of money for his share of the land. To this proposal he was compelled to agree, and as West India property was at that time considered of great value, he received a very handsome sum, yet it must be owned not half what he might properly have claimed. With this he returned to England, and, as he was a man who could not bear to be idle, he commenced business as a general merchant at Bristol. Shortly after that he married, and my brothers and sisters and I in due course came into the world. Among the negroes he set free were Clump and his sable partner Juno, and so attached were they to him that they entreated that he would take them with him to England. Clump was, properly speaking, a free man; for having in his younger days, after he had married Juno, gone a short trip to sea, he was wrecked, and after meeting many adventures, finally pressed on board a man-of-war. He saw a good deal of service, (about which he was very fond of talking, by the by), and at last obtaining his discharge, or rather taking it, I suspect, with French leave—ever mindful of his beloved Juno, he returned voluntarily to a state of slavery, that he might enjoy life with her. The navy in those days was not what it now is, and he had not been in the enjoyment of any large amount of freedom. He had, indeed, being a good-natured, simple-hearted fellow, been sadly put upon both in the merchant service and navy. It was always, he used to say, “Clump, you don’t want to go on shore, you stay and take care of the ship;” or, “Clump, you stay in the boat while we just take a run along the quay for five minutes;” or, “Clump, leave is no use to you, just let me have it instead of you;” or, “Clump, rum is a bad thing for niggers. I’ll drink your grog to-day, and if you just tip me a wink I’ll take half of it to-morrow, and let you have the rest, or Bill Noakes’ll have the whole of it, and you’ll get none.” Clump and Juno being intelligent, trustworthy people, my father, as I have said, put them in charge of the farm on the cape, which they in a short time learned to manage with great judgment. Two other negroes he took into his service at Bristol. One of them became his butler, and it would have been difficult to find his equal in that capacity.

Now a lesson may be learned from this history. My father did what he considered right, and prospered; his partners, neglecting to enlighten themselves as they might have done, persisted in holding their black fellow-creatures in abject slavery, refusing one of the great rights of man—a sound education. Emancipation was carried, and they received a large compensation, and rejoiced, spending their money extravagantly; but the half-savage negroes whom they had neglected to educate refused to work. Their estates were left uncultivated for want of labourers, and they were ruined. My father, managing his mercantile affairs wisely, was a prosperous man.

His business on this visit was to see an adjoining property which had once belonged to the family, and which, being in the market, he hoped to repurchase.

The house had been built as long back as 1540-1550. It was of stone—the rough stone, as it had been taken from the beaches and cliffs, of different shades and kinds. Above the ground floor was only an attic storey; and the main part of the ground floor consisted of four large low rooms, panelled in wood, and with ceiling of dark, heavy beams. Adjoining the rear of these, my grandfather had built a comparatively modern kitchen; but every fireplace in the old house preserved the generous cheerful style of ample spread and fire-dogs. From the great door of the main floor a narrow stairway, like cabin steps, led up, with quaintly carved banisters, to five real old-fashioned bedrooms, rising above to the ridge of the steep-sloping roof and its uncovered but whitewashed rafters. The windows were at least five feet above the floor, and had the many small panes we sometimes yet see in very old houses. No doubt it was a house of pretension in its day. When I was a boy it remained a precious ark of family legends and associations. How splendid it is to possess a house nearly three hundred years old. To-day nothing could induce me to exchange the walls of that dear old house for the handsomest residence in Belgravia. A house can be built in a few months; but to make a home—that is beyond the craft and quickness of masons, carpenters, and architects.

Alone on that bold, sea-beaten cape, so sturdy, dark, and time-worn, it looked out always with shrewd, steady little window-eyes on the great troubled ocean, across which it had watched the Pilgrim Fathers sailing away towards the new home they sought in the Western world, and many a rich argosy in days of yore go forth, never to return. It might have seen, too, the proud Spanish Armada gliding up channel for the purpose of establishing Popery and the Inquisition in Protestant England, to meet from the hands of a merciful Providence utter discomfiture and destruction. With satisfaction and becoming dignity, too, it seemed on fresh sunny mornings to gaze at the hundreds of sails dotting the sea, and bound for all parts of the globe, recalling, perhaps with some mournfulness, the days of its youth and the many other varied scenes of interest which it had witnessed on those same tossing billows from its lofty height.

All through our supper, which was laid in the largest of the first floor rooms, did Juno stand by, repeating the refrain—

“Oh dat nigger, dat Clump,—why he no come? And here’s Massa er waitten and er waitten; but Clump, ole mon, he get berry slow—berry, berry slow. Now Massa Bob, vy you laff at ole Juno so?—hi! hi!”

However, Clump came at last; and when he beheld us, great and comical was his surprise. He dropped his basket to the floor, and, with battered hat in hand and both hands on his knees, stood for a moment and stared at us, and then his mouth stretched wide with joy and his sides shook with delight, while the tears trickled down from the wrinkled eyes to the laughing ivory.

“Tank de Lord! tank de Lord! Clump lib to see his ole Massa agin; and dat young gemmen,—vy, lem’me see! vy, sure as I’m dat nigger Clump, ef dat ain’t—Massa Drake?—no,—Massa Walter?—no,—vy Juno, ole woman! dat are Massa Bob!” He took my hands and shook and squeezed them, saying over and over again, “Massa Bob am cum ter see de ole cradle. Oh! hi hi!”

Chapter Two.

The Dream confirmed by Reality.

Three years elapsed before I saw the cape again. Indeed the remembrance of that visit there, of a few days only, began to assume indistinctness as a dream, and sometimes as I thought of it, recalling the events of the journey there and back in the chaise, the wild scenery and the strange sound of the surf, the old dark house and the devoted black servants—sometimes, I say, as I thought of all these, as I loved to do when I settled myself in bed for the night, or when in summer I lay on my back in the grass looking up at the flying clouds, I would have to stop and fix my attention sharp, to be sure whether it ever had been a reality, or whether it might not be, after all, only a dream. I think my father was afraid of the fascination of the cape for us boys—afraid its charms, if we once partook of them freely, might distract our attention from the order and duties of school life. To be sure, we always went to the country with our parents for a month or six weeks, and enjoyed it exceedingly, laying up a stock of trout, squirrel, and badger stories to last us through the winter. But there was no other country, we imagined, like the cape; and as our father and mother never lived there, and rarely spent even a single night on the whole property, they thought it best, I suppose, that we should not run wild there and get a relish for what all boys seem to have, in some degree, by nature. I mean the spirit of adventure, and love of the sea.

However, the good time came at last, or a reliable promise of it first, just fifty years ago this very February. We older boys—Walter, sixteen years of age, Drake, fourteen, and I, Robert, twelve—were attending school at Bristol, and were, as usual too in the winter evenings, at work over our lessons at the library table, when, on one never-to-be-forgotten evening, our father, who was sitting in an easy chair by the fire, suddenly asked, “Boys, how would you like to pass next summer on the cape?” Ah! didn’t we three give a terrific chorus of assent? “Jolly! magnificent! splendid!” we cried, while Walter just quietly vaulted over half a dozen chairs, two or three at a time, backwards and forwards, till he had expended some of the animal vivacity stored up in abundance within him. Drake, as usual when extremely pleased, tried to accomplish the rubbing of his stomach and the patting of his head both at the same time; and I climbed into the chair with my father, and patted his cheeks and thanked him with a fierce shake of the hands.

“Bob, boy, you are the only one of my youngsters who has been at the old place, and you must have painted it as a wonderful corner of the earth, that Walter and Drake should testify their pleasure in such eccentric ways.—And look here, Walter: when you wish to turn acrobat again, let it not be in this library or over those chairs; choose some piece of green grass out of doors.—Well, boys, perhaps you can pass the summer at the cape. I do not promise it, but shall try to arrange it so if your mother is willing; but under the unfailing condition that you make good progress in your studies until that time.”

“Shall we all be there together, father, and for the whole summer, and without any school? How delightful!”

“Not too fast, Drake. Without school? What an idea! Why, in six months you would be as wild and ignorant as the sheep there. No; you shall have a strict tutor, who will keep you in harness, and help Walter to prepare for going up next year to Cambridge. But only you three will be there. I have some business in London, and I shall take your mother and Aggie and Charley with me.”

During those February evenings there were many more conversations on the same subject, full of interest to us boys, and finally it was fully decided by our father and mother that we should go in May, and stay there until autumn; that a certain Mr Clare should be our tutor, and that Clump and Juno should be our housekeepers and victuallers.

Never did a springtime appear longer and more wearisome. We counted every day, and were disgusted with March for having thirty-one of them. What greatly increased our impatience and the splendour of our anticipation was that, some time in March, our father told us that a brig had been cast away in a curious manner on the shore of the cape, and that he had purchased the wreck as it lay, well preserved and firmly held in the rocks above ordinary high-tide. He proposed, at some future time, to make use of it as a sort of storehouse, or perhaps dwelling for labourers. A shipwreck! a real wreck! and on our cape! stranded on the very shore of our Robinson Crusoe-like paradise! Just imagine our excitement.

The particulars of the wreck were as follows:—A brig of 300 tons burden, on a voyage from South America to the Thames, having lost her reckoning in consequence of several days’ heavy gale and thick weather, suddenly made the light on the Lizard, and as quickly lost it again in the fog which surrounded her. The captain, mistaking the light he had seen for some other well-known beacon, set his course accordingly. That was near nine o’clock in the evening. The wind and tide helped him on the course steered, and a little after midnight the misguided brig struck on a rock three-quarters of a mile south-west of our point of land. The wind had then increased to a gale, and was gathering new strength with every moment. In less than an hour the thumping and grating of the vessel’s keel ceased, and then the captain knew that the rising tide had set him off the rock; but, alas! his good brig was leaking badly, and the fierce wind was driving her—whither the captain knew not; and in five minutes more, by the force of the wind and suction of the shore current, she was thrown high up on a rocky projection of our cape. One sailor was washed overboard by the breakers as she passed through them, and was dashed to death, probably in an instant, by the fierce waves. The next day, when the storm had abated, the body was found far above where the brig lay fastened immovably in the vice-like fissure of enormous rocks. Twenty sovereigns, which perhaps the poor fellow had saved to bring home to his old mother, were found in a belt around his waist.

The damaged cargo was removed, and the wreck sold at auction, my father being the purchaser.

There was an old church situated on the summit of a neighbouring point of land, and to its now seldom used churchyard the body of the poor sailor was conveyed. His grave was one of the first points of interest to us when our visit to the cape commenced; and many a time that season did I sit and watch the brown headstone topping the bleakest part of the sea-bluff, and as the great voice of the sea, dashing and foaming on the stony beach beneath, sang in its eternal melancholy grandeur, I fancied long, long histories of what might have been that sailor’s life; and I wondered sadly if the poor mother knew where her son’s grave was, and whether she would ever come to look at it. On the stone was written:—

Harry Breese

Lies Here, Near Where A Cruel Shipwreck Cast Him,

March 23rd, 1814:

Aged 24 years, 2 months, and 17 days.

Rest in peace, poor body;

Thy shipmate, Soul, has gone aloft,

where thy dear captain, Jesus, is.

By the 7th May everything was prepared for our departure. On the next morning early we were to start in the stage-coach, and, what had lately added to our brilliant anticipations, Harry and Alfred Higginson, two of our most intimate friends, were to go with us—to be with us all the summer, join our studies and our fun. But we were to separate from our father and mother, and from our dear sister Aggie and the little Charley—from all those dear ones from whom we had never been parted for a day and night before. We were to leave for half a year. All this, covered at first by the hopes and fancies we had built, and by the noise and activity of preparation, appeared then, when everything was packed, and we, the evening before the journey, drew our chairs about the tea-table. The prospect of such a magnificent time as we expected to have on the cape lost some of its brilliancy. Indeed, I positively regretted that we were to go. We boys were as hushed as frightened mice.

After tea, Drake and I got very close to our mother on the sofa, but Walter lounged nervously about, trying to appear, I think, as if such an affair—a parting for six months—were nothing to such a big fellow as he. Aggie came and held my hand. When our father had taken his usual seat, he and our mother commenced to give us careful instructions how we were to regulate our time and conduct during our separation from them; we were directed about our lessons, clothes, language, and play; to be kind and patient with Clump and Juno; and very particular were our orders about the new tutor, Mr Clare, to whom we had been formally introduced a few days before, and we were required to promise solemnly that we would obey him implicitly in every respect. Besides which our father delighted us very much by the information that he had engaged an old seaman, Mugford by name, once boatswain of an Indiaman, who had taken up his abode at the fishing town across the bay from our cape, to be with us often through the summer in our out-of-school hours; that he would be, as it were, our skipper—perhaps reside with us—and that he was to have full command in all our water amusements; he would teach us to swim, to row, and to sail. That last subject cheered us up a bit, and when I saw Walter, who was still walking up and down the room, going through a pantomimic swim, striking out his arms in big circles, right and left, I commenced to smile, and Drake to laugh outright. So our conference ended in good spirits. And then we all kneeled in family prayer, and that evening before the parting, as we kneeled and heard my father’s earnest words, I realised fully, perhaps for the first time, how, more than parents or friends, God was our Father; how, though we were going away from home and its securities, yet God was to be with us, stronger and kinder than any on earth, to guard and care for us.

During the few days we had known Mr Clare, he had been with us constantly, but we had not decided whether to like him or not. He seemed pleasant, and was easy enough, both in his manners and conversation, but yet he had a calm and decided way that was rather provoking; as if to say, “I have read you through and through, boys, and can govern you as easily as possible.” Now we had no idea of resisting him; we intended to behave well, and therefore his manner rather nettled us. However, there was not much to object to. His appearance was certainly all right—a large, bright, manly face and hearty smile, and a strong, agile figure. We five boys had talked him over, and at the last balloting our votes were a tie, for Walter declined to express an opinion yet whether Mr Clare was a “screw” or a “good fellow.” Harry Higginson and Drake voted “screw,” whilst Alfred and I said “good fellow.”

We must pass over the “goodbyes” of the next morning. Let us imagine there were no wet eyes and sinking hearts. However it may have been, the big rumbling old stage-coach containing Mr Clare and five boys, and loaded well with trunks and boxes, rattled from our house in — Street at about six o’clock on that eighth morning in May, fifty years ago. Our hearts cheered up with the growth of the sun. By ten o’clock we were very talkative; by one, very hungry. The contents of a basket, well-stored by our mother, and put in just as we were starting, settled that complaint. The afternoon was tedious, and we were not sorry when the coach dropped us at the quiet little country inn where we were to sleep. I need not describe the journey of the next day. We were too eager to get to its termination to care much for the beautiful scenery through which we passed. As the evening drew on the weather became chilly. Ah! we were approaching the sea. By nine at night innumerable stars were twinkling over a dusky point of land which seemed to have waded out as far as possible into the indefinable expanse mirroring unsteadily a host of lights. A strong, damp, briny breath came up to us, and a vast murmur as if thousands of unseen, mysterious, deep-voiced spirits were chanting some wonderful religious service. “Whoa!” with a heavy lurch the yellow post-chaise, in which we had performed the second day’s journey, came to a stand. We had arrived before the old stone ark that was to be our home for half a year.

Chapter Three.

Introduction to our Salt Tutor and the Wreck.

It was on Wednesday night that we became the guests of Clump and Juno, and commenced our cape life. The next morning at breakfast—and what a breakfast! eggs and bacon, lard cakes, clotted cream, honey preserves, and as much fresh milk as we wanted—Mr Clare told us that we need not commence our studies until the next week; that we could have the remainder of this week as holidays in which to make a thorough acquaintance with our new world.

Our first wishes were to see the wreck and old Mr Mugford, whom we agreed to dub Captain Mugford; and so, immediately after breakfast, we started out with Mr Clare to find those items of principal interest. When we had got beyond a hillock and an immense boulder of pudding-stone, which stood up to shut out the beach view from the west side of the house, we saw the wreck, only about half a mile off, and hurried down to it. Mr Clare joined in the race and beat us, although Walter pushed him pretty hard.

The brig sat high up on the rocky cliff, where only the fullest tides reached it. The deck careened at a small angle, and the stern projected several feet beyond the rocks hanging over the sea. The bow pointed toward the house. The brig’s foremast only was standing, to the head of which old Mugford used to hoist, on all grand occasions, or on such as he chose to consider grand, a Union Jack or a red ensign, which had been saved from the wreck. The bowsprit was but little injured, and the cordage of that and of the foremast was there, and the shrouds—all of which had been replaced by old Mugford, who, having made the wreck his residence by my father’s wishes, restored to it some of the grace and order the good brig possessed before misfortune overtook her, and now it looked fit for either a sailor or a landsman—a curious mongrel, half ship, half house. By the stump of the mainmast there stood a stove-pipe projecting from the deck.

When near the brig, which we always afterwards called by the name she had sailed under—Clear the Track—we hailed “Brig ahoy!” In a moment the head and shoulders of the Captain appeared above the companion-hatch, and his sonorous voice answered heartily, “Ah! ahoy, my hearties: this is the good brig Clear the Track; come aboard.” He cast over the side a rope-ladder, such as is in common use on board ships, and we climbed to the quarterdeck, over the stern-board of which, and covering the companion-hatch, there had been built a roof, or open cabin, making that part of the brig answer the same purposes as the porch of a house. There were benches along the sides, a spyglass hanging overhead in beckets, and a binnacle close by where the wheel had once stood.

The Captain, as we will henceforth call him, however, just then fixed our attention more than the strangely fitted—up wreck. He was short, only about five feet four in height, with very heavy, broad, straight shoulders, immense chest, long arms, very narrow, compact hips, and short, sturdy legs, much bowed. His features were large, straight, and determined, and with something of the bulldog in them, yet stamped with kindness, intelligence, and humour—a face that might be a terror to an enemy, as it was a surety to a friend. It was well bronzed by many a storm and tropical sun, and a dark beard grew on it, as the wild moss on the sea-rocks, in a luxuriant, disorderly manner. His hair was very thick, black, and glossy, only here and there flecked with the grey of age, and hung in curls that almost made his rough and powerful head even handsome. Walter said that night that he was sure Samson and Neptune were relatives, for without doubt the Captain was descended from both of them. With the jawbone of an ass he might put to flight a thousand Philistines, and with a trident drive a four-in-hand of porpoises.

We told that to the Captain afterwards, when we got to know him well, and it tickled him greatly. He declared it was the finest compliment he had ever received, and took Walter high in his favour from that moment.

Our new friend never wore either collar or vest. When not “on duty,” as he expressed it, he went about in his shirt-sleeves. His breeches were of the ample sailor-cut, and hung from suspenders as intricate as a ship’s rigging. His shirts were spotlessly white, and of very fine linen. A short black pipe was always in his mouth, or sticking its clay stem from a waist-band pocket.

Such, my dear boys, was Captain Mugford, whom we fellows dubbed “our salt tute,” in contradistinction to Mr Clare, who was afterwards known as “our fresh tutor.”

As Mr Clare came over the brig’s side, he said, with a bow, “Captain Mugford, I believe. These boys are to be both your crew and my scholars. I am their tutor, Richard Clare.”

“I am happy to see you, Mr Clare. Give me your hand, sir. I hope our different commands will not clash.”

As the skipper shook hands, he looked Mr Clare all over at a glance, and smiled as if pleased with the inspection.

“Come here, boys; if I’m not out in my calculation, these boys will do to sail any craft on land or water! Well, my hearties, we are often to be shipmates, so let’s be friends to start with. I don’t know your different names, boys, only that three of you are sons of my old and respected friend and owner—that’s good enough—and you all look as if you hated lies and kept above-board.”

“These,” said Mr Clare, laying his hands on Harry’s and Alfred’s shoulders, “are Higginsons!”

“Higginsons? Fancy I knew your father, young gentlemen—an honest man, and a kind man, and a true man, and a brave man, if he was John Higginson; and brother of David Higginson, under whom I once served, and a better sailor never stepped. As he died unmarried, I take you to be John Higginson’s sons. And if all you boys act as honest as you look, you need not care for shipwrecks of any kind—love or money, lands or goods, by land or by water.”

Well, we thought the Captain a brick. So he was. So he proved.

We passed all the morning on the wreck. Each one of its details was a new delight. The Captain talked about the brig as if she were a human being in misfortune. An old invalid, he said—a veteran old salt laid up in a sailor’s snug harbour; laid up and pensioned for the remainder of life, where it was able to overlook, by the side and in the very spray of its well-loved brine, the billows it had often gloried in.

We went below to the Captain’s cabin and stateroom. There everything bore the marks of a sea habitation, and when hearing the dash of the waves on the shore and listening to the Captain’s talk, I could not help fancying myself on a voyage. Not a nook or hole of that vessel but we explored, and numberless questions had each one of us to ask. Mr Clare seemed as much pleased and interested as we were. When at play, indeed, he was as heartily a boy as any of us.

Great was our astonishment—Mr Clare, however, was prepared for it—upon going between decks, where the cargo had once been stored, to find ourselves in a schoolroom—a long, low schoolroom. Thick glass windows, only about eighteen inches square, had been set in on each side, and protected with dead-lights to fasten tight in case a heavy surf should dash up so high, and the entire hold—where on many and many long voyages there had been stored, in darkness, spices, coffee, sugar, and perhaps gold and jewels—was now transformed to a schoolroom.

There was a long table and there were globes and maps, shelves of books, and a blackboard. That schoolroom had, I am sure, none of the dulness and repulsiveness of other schoolrooms to us. No; it rather seemed a delightful place—an Arabian Nights’ sort of study, with a romantic salty influence pervading it to comfort us at our tasks. We could take hold there of geography and history. Mathematics in a vessel’s hold, what was it but a foreshadowing of navigation? We felt no hostility to Latin and Greek, for we were but reading of foreign lands and strange people across the ocean in old times, the occurrences of which were but storm-cast hulks like our old brig.

So low was our roof, the deck, that the crown of Walter’s cap touched it, and Mr Clare had to bend his neck when he moved about. The square, dwarf windows looked out on nothing but jagged rocks and rolling blue waves.

Away forward and aft our schoolroom was dark, and the distance between decks so narrowed that we could only explore those extremes of the hold by going on hands and knees—with the chance, too, of starting some big rat, an old grey navigator, perhaps, who, believing firmly in “Don’t give up the ship!” could not get over his surprise at seeing his once rolling and well-stored residence now stationary, and furnishing no better victuals than book-leaves, chalk, and sometimes the crumbs of a boy’s lunch. I imagined the crew of old rats assembling beneath the globes at night, when a moon streamed through the small windows; and the captain, a surly grey fellow, with long whiskers and brown, broken grinders, taking his place on a Greek lexicon, and then the speeches of inquiry and indignation shrilly uttered in the mass meeting. “Long tails!”—would commence some orator with a fierce squeak—“long tails, long tails, I say! what in the name of all that’s marine does this mean? Cheese and spices! how things are changed. Will this craft never sail, and our parents waiting for us in the New World over the sea! Where is our ‘life on the ocean wave’? where is, I say, where ‘a home in the rolling deep’? Can it be that our young are no longer to be nourished on sago, rice, or maize? Alas! if it has come to that, I myself will gnaw the beard from the old curmudgeon who thinks he sleeps here safely. Is the degradation of effeminate land rats, cheese-eaters, wharf robbers, stable vermin, to come upon us? Fates forbid it! Soon, perhaps, some fierce tabby may come to make our once brave hearts tremble. Then, then,”—but I imagined the eloquence broken off there and giving place to a furious scamper, as perhaps old Captain Mugford, arrayed in a long nightshirt and red bandanna nightcap, would fling open his stateroom door and send a boot-jack flying amid the noisy, noxious animals.

To think that our schoolhouse was on such a wild seashore—in a wrecked vessel, the same craft in which poor Harry Breese, who rested in the churchyard near by, had voyaged and been lost from—to have the smell of tar, and be surrounded by a thousand other sailor-like associations. What a glorious school-house, that old wreck by the ocean! What boy ever had a finer one!

The afternoon of that first day of novelty on the cape I remember with minute distinctness. We strolled about the beaches and climbed the rocks, everything being marvellous and delightful to us. In the evening Captain Mugford came in, and Mr Clare and he talked whilst we boys listened. After the Captain had gone, Mr Clare read the evening prayers to us, and that grand Psalm, the one hundred and seventh. The words reached us with the noise of the waves they sang of:—

They that go down to the sea in ships,

that do business in great waters.

These see the works of the Lord,

and His wonders in the deep.

For He commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind,

which lifteth up the waves thereof.

They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths:

their soul is melted because of trouble.

They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man,

and are at their wit’s end.

Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble,

and He bringeth them out of their distresses.

He maketh the storm a calm,

so that the waves thereof are still.

Chapter Four.

Captain Mugford’s Saturday Lesson.

With a new week commenced our studies—order in tasks and play taking the place of the licence and excitement of the first days of novelty.

By Mr Clare’s rule we reached our school-house in the wreck every morning at eight—that is, every morning except Saturday and Sunday. The brig’s bell was our summons. Captain Mugford struck it as punctually as if the good order and safety of a large crew were dependent on his correctness. Our school-hours continued until half-after one. The remainder of each day was our own, only subject to the general directions of Mr Clare and the instructions of Captain Mugford in boating. Of course that was no task—rather the very best sport we had. Mr Clare grew fast in our good opinions. He was strict; but boys do not dislike strictness when it is mated with justice and guided by a firm and amiable disposition, as it was with our tutor.

We soon got to see that Mr Clare, in his way, was as much of a man as Captain Mugford, and that the Captain respected him highly. The Captain always liked to have an evening smoke with our tutor, and the boating excursions were much jollier when Mr Clare made one of the party, as he often did. He was our master in school, but only wished to be our companion in play. In every athletic exercise he excelled, and I dare say that was one great reason of the powerful influence he soon gained with us—for boldness, strength, and agility are strong recommendations to boyish admiration. About two weeks after the commencement of our cape life, as we were going to bed one night, “our fresh tute” became the subject of discussion; and our first opinions were changed by a vote, in which all but Drake joined, that Mr Clare was a regular brick. Drake had a prejudice against tutors that required more than two weeks to break up. He allowed that Mr Clare seemed a very respectable sort of fellow, but then he said—

“I can’t join in all the praise you boys give him; now my idea of a ‘regular brick’ is our ‘salt tute.’ He’s the sort of man for me. If Captain Mugford only knew Latin and Greek!”

Mr Clare was from the north of England. His parents being poor, he had obtained his education under difficulties, and did not enter college until he was twenty-three years of age. His parents had emigrated when he was a child to Canada, where he had seen a good deal of wild life among the Indians. For some cause his father returned—to take possession of a small property, I believe—and brought him with him. After the common country schooling he could pick up in winter, he began to prepare himself for college in the hours he was off work on his father’s farm, or had to take from sleep. So he had a life of some difficulty and adventure; and now, in his own hours, he was studying to become a clergyman. Notwithstanding such a boyhood of labour, his manners were good and agreeable, and no one would ever have guessed that his training until he went to college had been little above that of a farm servant.

It was some time before we made acquaintance with the sailing-boat which had been provided by our father, for the first weeks of our new life were stormy and cold. What whetted our desire for a sail was that Captain Mugford would not even show us the boat. We would tease him, and guess at every mast we saw in the bay; but the Captain only laughed, and put us off with such remarks as “Keep your powder dry, my young hearties!” “Avast heaving! the skipper is dumb.”

However, one fine morning the Captain steered into our breakfast-room before all the fresh brown bread and clotted cream and eggs and bacon had been quite stowed away. “At it, ain’t you, boys, with forecastle appetites? Pitch in, old fellows; make the butter fly!” He had wished Mr Clare a good morning, sat down on a corner of a side-table, wiped his forehead with a great red silk handkerchief, and got his elbows well akimbo, before he directed the remark to us. There he sat shaking with a pleasant little interior rumble of laughter at our earnestness in the meal, and expressing his appreciation every few moments with, “Well! that’s jolly!” which remark each time portended another series of sub-waistcoat convulsions. He got through laughing as we finished breakfast, and then each of us went up for a shake of his hand.

“Your cargoes are in. When do you sail?”

“O Captain! can we sail to-day?” we all cried, for the joke and his unusually radiant face signified something better to come.

“I have a fancy that way, if Mr Clare says yes. That’s my business here this fine Saturday. Yes, Mr Clare? Thank you! the youngsters are mad for a trip under canvas. You will go with us, sir, I hope? Thank you again!—Scamper, boys, for your caps! Ha! ha! ha!—With your permission, Mr Clare, I will fill my pipe.—Juno! Juno! Ah! there you are. Do, like a good old woman, get me a coal out of your wood-fire—just such a red, round piece of oak as Clump always chooses.”

Presently Juno trudged smiling back, with a hot coal held in the tongs.

“Here, massa! here, Capting, is de berry heart of de fire!” and laying it carefully in the bowl of his pipe—“dat, sar, will keep yer terbacker gwine all day.”

“Thank you, marm Juno! We shall try and bring you home some fish for dinner. A ninety-pound halibut, eh?”

The Captain having performed that operation so very necessary to his comfort, we all sallied forth for the long-anticipated sail.

The cape was about three-quarters of a mile wide where our house stood—it being on high ground, about halfway between the ocean and bay-side. The ground fell gradually in wavelike hillocks in both directions, and its chief growth was a short fine grass on which the sheep throve well. Here and there we saw them in little companies of eight or ten, but before we could get within fifty yards they scampered off in a fright, so unaccustomed were they to strangers.

Soon we descried a boat with pennant flying at moorings just off the bay shore before us. That, the Captain told us, was our “school-ship.”

“And now come, boys,” said he, “let us see which one of you will be the best hand on watch when we sail a frigate together—let us see which one can first read the boat’s name; it is on the pennant.”

At that distance we were all baffled.

“Well, try ten yards nearer; there, halt. Now try.”

We all strained our eyes. I thought it read, Wave.

“No, Robert, it is not Wave.—Come, boys, sharpen your eyes on the sides of your noses, and try again.”

“I can read it,” shouted Harry Higginson, throwing up his hat. “Youth! Youth!—that’s it.”

“Yes, that’s it. Hurrah for you, Master Harry! I promote you on the spot captain of the maintop.”

We hurried down to a white sand-beach on which lay a punt. In that the Captain pulled us, three at a time, out to the Youth. When well under sail and standing out for more open water, our good skipper at the tiller, having filled his pipe, rolled up his sleeves, and tautened the sheet a bit, said—

“Boys, this craft is yours, but I am Commodore until each and all of you have learned to sail her as well as I can. May you prove quick to learn, and I quick to teach. But as I’m an old seadog, my pipe is out already. Give us a light, shipmate?”—I was trying with flint and steel to strike a few sparks into our old tinder-box—“there!—puff—puff—puff—that will do. I must talk less and smoke more.”

As the jolly Captain got up a storm of smoke, slapped me a stinger on the knee, and winked at the pennant, Mr Clare jumped up, and swinging his hat, cried—

“Boys, let’s give cheers, three rousing cheers, for our brave boat, the Youth, and her good master, Captain Mugford!”

And didn’t we give them!!!

Chapter Five.

Bath Bay Lesson—The Midnight Council.

June came before we had made acquaintance with all the corners of our little new world. Every day it grew in interest to us, and, with the increasing fine weather, was the most beautiful spot on earth in our eyes. Once a week one of us was allowed to go over to the town with Clump, in his rowboat, and get letters from the post-office. That opportunity was always improved to purchase stores of groceries and other requisites. Each one’s turn to be commissary only came once in five weeks.

Clump enjoyed those trips as much as we did. He would have meat or other things to get for the table, but would always reach the boat first in returning, and when he saw his “young master?”—as he called each of us boys—coming down the wharf loaded with a week’s supply of various things, the old darky would commence to grin and slap his sharp knees, the slaps growing quicker and the grin breaking into “yha! yha! yhi!” as we drew near enough to show him our different purchases.

There was always a new pipe or a paper of tobacco for Clump, which he would lay on the seat beside him, and then put out the oars and pull with long, slow sweeps for our neck, each swing accompanied by a grunt, which, however, did not break the conversation he carried on, chiefly telling us stories of my father when he came as a boy, which often lasted till we reached our destination. Many a frolic and adventure would he thus relate with great gusto, and he had generally, too, some remembrance of my grandfather to repeat.

About the twentieth of June, the water was warm enough to allow us to bathe, and then began that exercise, the most useful and most wholesome, and perhaps among the most manly that a boy can practise.

Walter and both the Higginsons could swim. Drake and I were beginners. Captain Mugford was our teacher. He chose a little bay within, as it were, the large bay on the neck end of our cape. Bath Bay, as we named it, was about two hundred and fifty yards long, and sixty to seventy yards wide. Its shores were rocks, except at its bow end, where a soft beach sloped gradually for forty feet from the shore. About fifteen feet beyond our depth the Captain had anchored a stationary staging, which was merely an old flatboat caulked and floored over. It had steps and ropes from its sides, and was intended as the first object to reach and rest on when we had learned to swim a dozen or more strokes. Farther on, halfway the length of Bath Bay, was a large flat rock, which stood at high-tide two feet above water. Its sides were almost perpendicular, and were made accessible in the same way as “Youngster’s Wharf.” By that name those who could already swim called our staging near the beach. Leander’s Rock, for we had a name for everything, had a depth of nearly thirty feet, and a finer place for diving cannot be imagined. Bath Bay was shut in by its wall-like sides and a bluff behind the sand-beach from all the severe winds, but after a storm out at sea we would get an even swell that was very pleasant to float on.

Our time for bathing was between the close of school at half-after one and our dinner-hour, three. All through the season, until early in October, we never lost a bath unless rain was falling heavily, so greatly did we enjoy it under the Captain’s care. He would not have bathing-houses for us, as he said that the sun-bath after a swim was almost as good as the salt water itself. The Captain was always near the swimmers, in his punt, that in case of accident his assistance might be immediate.

Boys, if you have ever read Benjamin Franklin’s directions to those learning to swim, you will understand the methods our Captain pursued to teach us. In his boat he was always dressed in bathing-clothes, and would often jump out to show us by example how to swim under water, how to float, how to dive, etcetera. I can assure you we enjoyed that sport as much as any we had, and before many weeks had passed we could all swim a few strokes. By the close of the season, I, the youngest pupil, could swim out to Leander’s Rock, dive from it twenty feet deep, and swim ashore again easily. But more about Bath Bay, and our adventures there, hereafter.

After our baths and Juno’s nice dinners we usually went to sail, and in a few weeks the Captain let some of us take the helm, he sitting by to instruct us, and to remedy, if need be, any mistake of the young sailor who happened to be our skipper at the time. Sometimes, instead of sailing, we would row in an excellent boat which we had for that purpose, and, four of us being at the oars, try how quick time we could make from point to point of the shore. With such practice, we made rapid improvements and by the middle of July could row a mile in twelve minutes; a month before we could only do that in twenty minutes. Sometimes Mr Clare and the captain took oars in our boat; at other times they rowed against us in the Captain’s punt. That was glorious fun, and how we fellows did strive to beat our tutors, and often came very near it too—so near that we determined, if there was any merit in Try, to do it yet.

One night—it was about the 2nd of June, if my memory serves me—when we had gone up to our rooms for bed, and got undressed, Walter, who had been very quiet ever since our row in the afternoon when our tutors contended with and beat us as usual, called us to order, that we might organise, he said, as a regular boat club. We answered, “Good!” “Good!” and each boy, putting a pillow on his footboard, took a senatorial seat—each boy arrayed in the flowing cotton nightgown. When silence ensued, Walter addressed us in his energetic, determined way, but lowered his voice that not a whisper of our deliberations might reach the ears of Mr Clare, who was only separated from us by a partition.

“Fellows, we must beat our tutes—we must beat them, that is what I say. Let’s get our boat in good order immediately—let’s call her the Pupil—let’s row every day, but not alongside of our adversary—no, no!—but where we can’t be seen, and for two hard hours each day. And I move we have a coxswain, and that Bob be the boy—he is small, quick, and cool. Let’s challenge our tutes to-morrow for a race.”

“Agreed—agreed! hurrah!” we all shouted.

“For a race, I say, on, let me see, the anniversary of the glorious battle of Waterloo.”

“Grand! splendid! hurrah!” were our interruptions again, and Drake expressed his delight by taking the pillow from beneath him, and slinging it with tremendous speed at Alf Higginson’s head, who in consequence fell off his perch like a dead squirrel from a pine-tree. Alf fell heavily on his side, and we roared with laughter; but he was up in a moment, and rushed at Drake with a bolster. Walter, our dignified chairman, swooped down from his perch in a second, and catching the incensed Alfred by the extremity of his flying robe, slung him under a bed.

“Order! Order, boys!” he cried. “Pretty fellows you are to hold a meeting. You, Drake! pitch any more pillows, and we’ll slide you out of the window. There, stop your racket! Mr Clare is up. Before he comes hurry up and say, all together, ‘We will beat.’”

“We will beat,” was responded as fiercely as if life was at stake, and, as Mr Clare opened the door to ascertain what was the disturbance, five innocent boys were under blankets and apparently sleeping the deepest slumber. Drake had even reached a regular bass snore. The moonlight streaming in the room, and which showed us a smile breaking irresistibly on Mr Clare’s face, was not more placid than we. The door had hardly closed behind Mr Clare before Harry Higginson had sprung from his bed, and, almost on the space our tutor had stood a half second before, was enacting a ridiculous and vigorous pantomime of kicking our “fresh tute” from the room. As quickly the door opened again, and before Harry could get a single limb in order, Mr Clare had him by the arm. But the whole affair was too humorous for even Mr Clare’s dignity. He could only say “So you are the noisy one, Henry Higginson. You can get in bed now as quickly as you got out of it, and to-morrow, when the afternoon’s study is done, recite to me fifty lines of Virgil—from the twentieth to the seventieth line of the first book.”

With that, Mr Clare went from the room, and Harry, with a low, long, whistled “phew,” sought his bed disconsolately.

The next day after lessons I, as coxswain, by Walter’s order, handed copies of the following note to Captain Mugford and Mr Clare:—

“Cape —, June 3, 1816.

“Messrs Mugford and Clare,

“The oarsmen of the galley Pupil would hereby challenge the gentlemen of the boat Tutor to a race on the eighteenth of June, in Bath Bay waters. The course to be from Youngster’s Wharf around Leander’s Rock, and return. Stakes to be—the championship of Bath Bay. The oarsmen of the Pupil would respectfully propose three p.m. as the hour for the race, and the firing of a gun the signal for the start. The oldest inhabitant, Clump, offers his services as umpire, referee, judge, and signalman.

“All which is submitted for the acceptance and concurrence of the gentlemen of the Tutor.

”(Signed) Walter Tregellin, Henry C. Higginson, Drake Quincy Tregellin, Alfred Higginson, Oarsmen,

“Robert Tregellin, Coxswain.”

Mr Clare, when he read it, smiled and said he would see about it, and then turned to Henry and asked him if he had learned those fifty lines yet.

Captain Mugford was presented with his copy as he entered the house for dinner. “Hu–um!” he said, as he took the note in the hand with his hat, and wiped his red, wet forehead with an immense silk handkerchief printed with the maritime flags of all nations. “A note! Who writes me notes? Some of your nonsense, boys, eh?” So he hitched up his trousers and sat down on the doorstep, placing the red handkerchief in his hat beside him. “Let’s see!”

“Good! good! that’s very good. The middies have got their courage up. The idea of such a stiff old seadog racing with you youngsters!”

“But you will though, won’t you, Captain, and make Mr Clare, too?” said Harry.

“Perhaps, boys, if Mr Clare will join, and then we will make you smart. And I tell you what, young gentlemen, if you beat I’ll give you a splendid Malay race-boat that I have had stored in my ship-loft these three years.”

“Hurrah! Captain, we shall win the boat!” we all cried.

“Ha! ha! what boys for warm weather! You talk as brave as a west wind. But I smell Juno’s cooking; let’s go in and talk it over with Mr Clare and a warm dish of stew.”

It was all settled to our satisfaction before dinner was over. Mr Clare enjoyed the thing as much as the Captain, and declared they would have to practise together once a week. As for us, we never missed our two hours’ pull every afternoon, rain or shine, blow high or blow low, until the all-important day proposed for the race.

Chapter Six.

Dissensions in Camp.

For every afternoon of those beautiful June and July days we rowed for two hours, from five to seven. Our studies were not relaxed in the morning, and our hours for swimming were regularly enjoyed, but the absorbing topic of thought and conversation was the approaching boat-race. Twice on Saturday afternoons we had seen Captain Mugford and Mr Clare pulling in their boat. They did not condescend to practise oftener, but we noticed that they worked in earnest when they did row. With the confidence of youth we feared not, feeling sanguine that we must beat them.

There was a vein of discord, however, in our little colony. Alfred Higginson and my brother Drake, who only differed by a few months in age, in other respects differed greatly, and had never been able, since our first acquaintance, to get along together. Alfred Higginson was of a nervous, sensitive disposition, quick in temper, and easily provoked. His tastes were fastidious. He was an excellent scholar, (much better than my brother Drake), and very fond of reading. He entered fully into all our sports, but preferred fishing, sailing, and swimming to our rougher harder amusements. He drew excellently, landscape and marine views and figures. He was a healthy, active boy, and could beat us all in running. I have said his was a quick temper, but it was a forgiving one. If he laughed not as loud and often as many of us, he caused us to laugh oftener than any, for he had a quick dry humour and witty tongue. When it came to chaffing, he was always conqueror.

My brother Drake was entirely unlike Alfred Higginson. He was a hardy, rough, jolly boy, overflowing with fun and animal life, what is called a “regular boy.” Never quiet—laughing, singing, whistling all the time, heels over head in everything, pitching into his studies as irrepressibly as into his games, but with more success in the latter, though he was a fair student; better in his mathematics and other English studies than in the languages. The only reading he cared for was that of travel and adventure, voyages of whalemen and discoveries, histories of pirates, Indian scenes, hunting stories, war histories, Walter Scott’s novels, “Gulliver’s Travels,” and the unequalled “Robinson Crusoe.” Everything he could find about the Crusaders he revelled in, and even went at Latin with a rush when, Caesar and Nepos being put aside, the dramatic narrative of Virgil opened to him, and the adventures of the Trojan heroes became his daily lesson. But that he had to feed his interest, crumb by crumb, painfully gathered by dictionary and grammar, made him chafe. He enjoyed it, though, with all of us, when, after each day’s recitation—after we boys had marred and blurred the elegance and spirit of Virgil’s eloquence with all sorts of laboured, limping translations, that made Mr Clare fairly writhe in his chair—our tutor would drop a word of commendation for Walter’s better rendering of the poem, and then read the lesson himself, and go over in advance the one for the next day. Then the ribs and decks of our schoolroom in the wrecked brig melted away as the scenes of the Aeneid surrounded us. The dash of the waves we heard was on the Trojan shore, or the coast of Latium, as we wandered with storm-tossed Aeneas. Or we walked the splendid court of Dido, or were contending in battle with the warlike Turnus for our settlement in Latium. Turnus and the fierce Mezentius were Drake’s favourites. He never liked Aeneas, who was always Alfred Higginson’s hero. Those readings were often disturbed by Drake’s exclamations. His overflowing, outspoken disposition could not be restrained when his interest was powerfully enlisted; and as Mr Clare read, in his clear, impassioned manner, some exciting passage, Drake would shout out an exclamation of encouragement or satisfaction with a favourite warrior, and bring down his fist on the desk, as another favourite was discomfited or came to grief. I remember very well how often Drake was reproved for such unseasonable enthusiasm, which always caused an after sarcasm or witticism from Alfred Higginson; and I distinctly recall how, notwithstanding the formality of school-hours, when we came to the single combat between Aeneas and Turnus, and the death of the latter, Drake flung his book from the table, and shouted out in an angry voice, “I’ll bet anything Virgil tells fibs!”

Those readings were treats to all of us. Drake having told Captain Mugford of them, and discussed the incidents that vexed him with the Captain, got him so interested that he asked Mr Clare to allow him to come in at the close of our recitations. Of course that favour was readily granted, and after that time the Captain always made one of the auditors. He used to laugh and shake over Drake’s excitement, and yet entered into it himself, and I have seen salt drops running down his cheeks and Mr Clare’s, as the latter rendered in a voice slightly trembling some of the pathetic passages in which Virgil is so exquisitely beautiful.

I am glad to write of those lessons in the old brig’s carcass, for they are remembered so pleasantly. Moreover, it came naturally in drawing my dear brother Drake’s character, and the effect of those heroical classics influenced, in a manner very quixotic, the crisis of the continued quarrel between Drake and Alfred Higginson, to which we are coming. The great dissimilarity in the characters of the two was a reason for their want of sympathy and agreement, one with the other, but the causes of the open warfare which existed between them were the faults of each—the irritability, slight conceit, and stinging tongue of Alfred Higginson; the teasing practices, want of toleration for the feelings and peculiarities of others, and a certain recklessness of Drake’s. And yet they were both noble boys, with nothing false or ungenerous or underhanded about either of them.

Ever since we had come to the cape, their skirmishes of words and disagreement had been continual, and several more tangible collisions, where blows had been exchanged between them, were nipped in the bud by Walter and the others of us, and once by the Captain, who, wrought up by their quarrelsomeness, separated them pretty fiercely, and, holding each at arm’s length, told them that, if there was any fighting to be done among his crew, he must have a hand in it. Then he laughed one of his bars of rollicking “ha-has,” and dropped the boys with the injunction that if they had another “mill,” he should certainly let their fathers know. “Now, boys, try if you cannot get along better, and when you have a quarrel again, bring it to Mr Clare or to me, and we will settle it better than your blows and frowns can do.”

You remember how Drake knocked Alfred from the footboard of his bed on the occasion of our night meeting to get up the boat-race. That was a good example of Drake’s reckless rudeness, proceeding merely from his boisterous disposition, but somehow those outbreaks were always directed to Alfred, just as the rough points of Alfred’s disposition were sure to be turned to Drake. That fall had hurt Alfred, and from the date of the commencement of our boat-practice, the war between the two had waxed hotter and hotter. The contest seemed only to amuse Harry Higginson, but Walter—our mentor, my conscientious, tender-hearted brother, who led us all in games as well as in lessons—worried over it, and each day he exhorted the two to govern their tempers, and, with great tact and decision, whenever he saw a storm brewing, managed to throw oil upon the waters. However, his influence did not heal up the difference, and in about a fortnight, a few days before the intended race, there occurred during our afternoon boat-practice a little row between the two antagonists, which proved a final skirmish before the severe but ludicrous battle which crowned the civil war.

We were rowing in Bath Bay as usual, Walter pulling the stroke oar, and Harry Higginson the bow, whilst Drake and Alfred held the intermediate positions, Drake sitting behind Alfred—that is, nearer the bow. I had my place at the tiller.

Alfred Higginson had made a very ridiculous blunder in a French translation that morning. Such a thing was unusual for him, and was such a comical one that it set the others of the class in a roar of laughter. Drake was so extravagantly affected by Alf’s blunder that Mr Clare had to stop his laughter, which was half genuine and half pretence, by ordering him out of the room. Even then we heard him ha-ha-ing outside. Poor Alfred was terribly mortified, and did not recover his composure even when the school-hours were over, and the first greeting he received, on emerging from the house, was from Drake, who immediately mimicked Alfred’s mistake, and performed a variety of antics supposed to proceed from convulsions of mirth. On the way to the boat, Drake continued to tease Alfred. Walter reproved him continually, and even took hold of him once to compel him to stop; but he was in one of his most boisterous moods, and was so very funny that he kept every one but Alfred in shouts of laughter. But Alfred lashed him with the bitterest satire, and, as they say, sometimes “made him laugh on the other side of his mouth,” until by the time we had reached the bay Drake had subsided into silence, and the tight closing of his lips, and quick walk, proved that Alfred’s sharp wit was more fatal than Drake’s broad fun. Both of the boys rowed sullenly, and we all felt that a storm was brewing. In the final round, when we made the course at our best and timed the performance, so as to notice what improvement we were making, Alfred caught a crab with his oar, in consequence of which the head of Drake’s oar hit him sharply in the back. The mortification of a miss stroke is enough to anger a boatman, but coming as it did after the morning’s blunder in class, and made, too, a pain of the flesh by Drake’s blow, it was too much for Alfred’s temper, and as Drake increased the irritation by calling him an “awkward lout,” and then mimicking the blunder of translation with the accompaniment of a shout of laughter, Alfred turned quickly, and hit his opponent a stinging blow in the face.

In a moment the two boys grappled each other, and in a shorter period than it takes my pen to write it, the boat was upset, and we were all in the water. The combatants still clung to one another, and disappeared together. The adage, however, that “discretion is the better part of valour,” enforced by such a deep, cold plunge, bore proof; for the irate youths came to the surface apart, and we all struck out for the rocks, distant about eighty yards. We climbed like half-drowned rats up the shore, where the fight was not resumed. Its very strange continuation was postponed until the Saturday after the boat-race, which must be reserved for another chapter. We, however, read then, in the faces of the discomfited antagonists, as plainly as you read here—

“To be continued.”

Chapter Seven.

Before the Boat-Race—Clump’s Story.

The day before the eighteenth was a Monday. In consideration of beginning a week’s study to have it broken off again on Tuesday, and because of the many preparations there were to make for the great day, Mr Clare gave us the two holidays. We had our swim and boat-practice on Monday morning, and then set to work to make arrangements for the next day, every one taking a part with real zest. First the boat was carefully hauled up on the shore, and turned over on a way of joists we had prepared for her. The bottom was then carefully washed, and, after that, thoroughly rubbed with the sand-paper—about an hour’s work, at which we all had a hand. Having got the sides and keel beautifully smooth in that way, Clump brought a kettle of pure grease, which was placed over a little fire of driftwood, and when the grease had become liquid, Walter, with a large fine paint-brush, anointed the entire boat’s bottom in a most painstaking manner. We boys stood by, entering into the operation, which was supposed to prove wonderfully efficacious in increasing our boat’s speed, with great interest, and Clump bent over the kettle, stirring the oil, and puffing at the short stern of his pipe eagerly.

Grouped with such absorbing concern about the body of the boat, Walter moving slowly from stem to stern, and stern to stem, laying on the magic oil, (unctuous of victory to our noses), with steady sweeps, and the bent figure of black old Clump beside the caldron, from which rose a curling smoke, we must have made a tableau of heathen offering sacrifice, or some other savage mystery.

The all-important job was at length completed, and we left our ark of many hopes to rest until the exciting hour of the morrow.

Clump was a sharer in our great expectations. His heart was set upon our success. He had to fill his pipe again before we left the boat, and pulled at it nervously and wrinkled his black skin into countless puckers as he walked beside us, thinking of the vast interests at stake and listening to our excited conversation. As we left him to go over to the town for a small cannon we had borrowed to fire the signals, he touched Walter on the sleeve, and said in the most slow and earnest manner, as he drew the pipe from his mouth and knocked its ashes on the ground—

“An I’se to be judge an’ udder ting you’se talk of, Massa Walter, eh? An I’se to fire de gun, eh? W–a–all, I’se an ole nigger, an my heart ees shree-veled up like, I s’pose, but my gorry, young massas, ef you don’t beat, old Clump will jist loaden up do musket again an’—an’—an’ but ’is ’ed agin de rock! Yah, fur sure!”

Having delivered himself of that tragical decision in a manner mixed of sadness and frenzy, he hobbled off, amidst our laughter and assurances that we should never allow him to injure the rock in that way, to consult with Juno, and probably load his pipe again.

No noble lord, with his thousands of pounds wagered on the Derby or Saint Leger, or perhaps, rather, I should say on some of the crack yachts of the day, was ever half so excited as was this good old darky about our boat-race.

Under the escort of Walter, Harry, Alfred, and Drake, the cannon arrived in the afternoon, and, by their united efforts and the assistance of the Captain, was mounted before sundown on a heavy piece of timber in the Clear the Track’s bow.

By night the flags, ammunition, and many other necessaries for the morrow’s undertaking were in order and readiness for service.

After the day’s work, and filled with anticipations of the eventful morrow, we felt no desire for our usual outdoor games that evening, but found seats on the great boulder beside our house, where Mr Clare was resting, and the Captain was enjoying his smoke. Old Clump, too, having finished his tea and swept out Juno’s kitchen, loitered toward us with his comforter—the pipe—and edged up respectfully within hearing of our conversation. So we boys leaned on our elbows, looking out at the dimly defined water, sometimes lighted in streaks by gleams of phosphorescence where shoals of fish were jumping; or, stretched on our backs, we watched the shooting-stars hurrying with speed quick as thought from one part of the immeasurable blue to another; while our tutors talked earnestly of former times, and we heard the shrill calls of gulls and other sea birds, the occasional tender bleating of the lambs in the distant sheepfold, and the soft regular splash of a summer sea on the rocks, until the delicate young crescent had dozed slowly down to its bed in the ocean,—and we, profiting by example, sought slumber in the old dreamful attic.

Harry Higginson was the first one up in the morning. He shook us to our senses, and whispered to get out of the house quietly, that we might call our tutors with the cannon’s voice. That was an acceptable proposition, and we were soon stealing down the creaking stairs, shoes in hand. Having put those on, seated by the door-stone, we started on a run for the Clear the Track. It was just light, the soft dawn of a warm summer’s day—not yet half-past four. Walter said he would bet old Sol had already fired a gun in honour of the glorious battle won that day by England and her Allies, but so far off we could not hear it.

We got on board the wreck as carefully as we had quitted the house, and I, being delegated to descend to the Captain’s cabin and steal one of the flannel powder cartridges, was soon creeping by the snoring Captain with my booty secured. It took but a moment to ram home the charge and pack it over with pockets full of wadding; and then Harry, our gunner, touched it off. As the old brig shook with the report, Alfred jumped to the bell, and the way that clanged was splendid.

“Boys,” said Drake, who was shaking with the fun, “can’t you see old topgallant sail down below springing up in his berth with a lurch and cracking his head against the beams, and our dignified fresh tute jerking those long, thin legs out of bed, and wondering what’s about to happen this fine morning, and old Clump and Juno groaning out ‘O de Lord!’ and knocking their black pates together as they both try to get out of bed at the same instant. How jolly!”

An immense red bandanna handkerchief at that moment popped above the companionway—then a hearty, weather-marked face we well knew—then a portion of an ample East Indian nightshirt, which threw up a pair of arms and fired off a couple of boarding-pistols. The discharge was followed by a stentorian “Three cheers for the great and glorious battle won this day!—hip! hip! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” in which we fellows joined with a yell.

“Ah! you young rascals have got before me this morning, but this afternoon it will be my turn—mine and Mr Clare’s, you roystering middies!” and the Captain popped down again to finish his toilet.

We were soon joined by the Captain, and a little while after by Mr Clare, who was in the best of spirits, complimented us on our display of zeal and patriotism, and touched off the old gun once himself—“for practice,” he said.

“But,” continued the jolly old Captain, having taken Mr Clare’s arm, “suppose we visit Ethiopia and see if a hot breakfast is not waiting for us there. These boys would rather stay here and load this cannon.”

“No sir, no sir!” replied Harry, “we must load our own personal guns, for we mean to make our report this afternoon.”

Laughing over that threat to our tutors, we went with them to breakfast, which we found ready as soon as our morning prayers were read. Clump brought in the dishes—Clump in uniform—and I never saw a funnier figure in my life. The coat was once my grandfather’s—a colonel of West India Militia, I believe. Now my grandfather had been a rather short man, but very broad and stout, particularly round the stomach. Old Clump was tall and thin as a spectre, so the epaulettes fell over his shoulders, the waist flapped loosely eight inches above his trousers, and the short swallow-tails did not sufficiently cover the spot which the venerable darky usually placed on the chair to hide a patch, the bigness of a frying-pan and of a different material from the breeches themselves, that Juno’s affectionate care had strengthened her liege lord’s garments with—which garments, far more pastoral than military, and forced by suspenders as near the coat as Clump’s anatomy otherwise would allow, failed by three inches of woollen stocking to meet his shoes. When you think how comical the excellent, old, white-woolled darky appeared, remember, too, that he was perfectly unconscious, until our laughter startled him, that he was not becomingly attired.

As our irrepressible appreciation of the fun was shouted out, Clump did not realise at first that he was its cause, but when he did all the pride and alacrity died from his face in an instant. In a bewildered, palsied way he put down the dish he carried, and, heaving a sad sigh, drew himself up until the rheumatic spine must have twinged, and, fixing his eyes on some point far above our head, stood in motionless dignity.

Even Mr Clare had laughed, but, recovering equanimity immediately that he saw how deeply Clump was wounded, he said:

“Boys, stop that laughing.” He might have addressed his reproof to the Captain, too, for he was in paroxysms, and had his face buried in the countless flags of that great red silk bandanna of his. “Is it so very funny to see Clump doing honour to a day once so big with the fate of England and the world? Had the Allies been beaten at Waterloo, what might not have become of our beloved country? Instead of Napoleon being an exile in Saint Helena, he might have carried out his darling project of invading and humbling England to the dust. Though he cares no more for the Pope of Rome than does the Sultan of Turkey or the Shah of Persia, he would probably have established Popery with all its horrors and impositions, for the sake of more completely bringing our country into subjection to his will; and, once established, it would have been a hard matter to throw off its iron shackles. Boys, you do not sufficiently value your privileges as Englishmen and Protestants—or rather, I should say, as inhabitants of this free and favoured island of Great Britain. We are free to read our Bibles; we are free to worship God as we think fit; we are free to go and come as we list; we have a good constitution and good laws; we may think freely, speak freely, and act freely.”

“Yes, Massa Clare; you may tell de young gemmen dey may laff freely too,” broke in Clump. “I laff freely, I know, when I first set foot on de English land. I no longer slave, I free man, and so dey may laff as much as dey likes at ole Clump, perwided dey laffs wid him. I know one ting, dey would not have laff if dey had been in deir grandfather’s coat when dis hole was made right through it into his arm.” Clump held up his right arm and showed the bullet-hole in the coat, and what he declared to be the stain of blood still on it; and he then continued in a triumphant strain—

“Dis ole man Clump was ’is body-sarvant: but Clump was not ole den, and he follow his massa to de war—dat was long, long before dose young gemmen was born—afore dey was tinked of—and Massa Tregellin deir fader was young gemmen like dose, but more politer. We was sent wid de seamen to take de island of Martinique; and so we landed and looked bery fierce, and de Frenchmen thought we had come to eat dem; so dey say, no use fighting; and so, after firing a great many shot at us; but doing no harm, dey say when we land, ‘We give in, we no fight more.’ So we take de island, and no one hurt except one man scratch anoder’s nose wid his bagonet, and make blood come. When de generals and de admirals see we done so well, dey say we go and take anoder island; so we all sets sail for to take Guadeloupe. Some of de ships got in one day, some anoder, and anchored in Grozier Bay. Ah, de enemy thought we come to eat him up, but dis time he stop. Dere was de frigate Winchelsea, of which Lord Garlies was de cap’en. He tun in, and bring his guns to bear on de shore, and under deir cover de soldiers and de bluejackets landed. Dere was a high hill, wid de fort full of French soldiers on de top of it. ‘Dere, my brave fellow, we have to go up dere,’ said de Kunnel. De seamen was commanded by Cap’en Robert Faulkner. He bery brave man. I could just tall you how many brave tings he did; how he lash de bowsprit of de enemy to his own mainmast, and neber let her go till he took her, and den was shot through de heart in de hour of victory. Well, de gen’ral say to us—‘Now, boys, we don’t want firing, but just let de enemy feel de cold steel. Dey don’t like dat. Soldiers, use bagonets. Bluejackets, use your pikes and cutlashes.’ ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ we shout; and den up de hill we go—up! up! De faster we go de better for us, for de French bullets come down peppering pretty sharp. We just near de top, and de enemy begin to look bery blue, when I see de Kunnel’s right arm drop—he was only a cap’en den—his sword fell from his hand, but he seize it wid de oder hand, and wave it above his head, shouting, ‘On, boys, on.’ We reach de fort: de Frenchmen fire wid de guns, and poke at us wid de pikes, and swear at us wid deir mouds, and grapeshot and musket-balls come rattling down about our heads; but dat no stop us; and on we went till we got into de fort, and trou de gates, and den de Frenchmen, who had fought bery well, but could fight no more, rushed away. Just den I see de Kunnel look bery pale, just like one nigger when he frightened, and he goed round and round, and would hab fallen, but Clump caught him in de arms, and den Clump put him on de ground, and shouted for de doctor, and ran and got some water, and de doctors came and splashed water in de Kunnel’s face, and he oped his eyes, and he say, ‘Tank you, Clump.’ Yes, de Kunnel, dis ole nigger’s massa, tank him on de field of battle. When de dear Massa got better, he one day take de coat and say to me, ‘Here, Clump, you and I went up dat hill, and it’s a mercy we eber came down again. It’s my belief if you hadn’t got de water dat day to throw in my face, I should never have come round again; and so, Clump, here, take dis coat, I’ll gub tur you to r’member dis fite.’ And now dese gemmen laff at deir gran’pa’s coat! but black Clump, ole nigger, lub it! Yaas, he’ll lub it till he’s ’posited in de bowels ob de arth.”

The remembrance of my grandfather and that proud day for Clump, the keenness with which he had felt our rudeness, and the excitement of recital were, all together, too much for our good old castellan. The erectness of his figure gave way as he concluded, the enthusiasm in his features faded into dejection, and, as he turned from the table to leave the room, I saw a big drop, that had trickled down his wrinkled face, fall on his extended hand.

The cruelty of boys is an idiosyncrasy in their otherwise generous character. Of course there are mean boys, hard-hearted boys, cowardly boys; but Boyhood is more generous, open, tender-hearted, daring, than Manhood, yet its cruelty stands out a distinguishing trait. An old French teacher, loving children, wanting in dignity, broken in English, irritable in disposition; a sensitive young stranger, fresh from home, charming in innocence, sad with thoughts of a dear mother; a poor, frightened kitten, are all objects for boys’ cruelty to gloat over.

And so, too, on the oddities of that dear old Clump, that excellent, noble-hearted old black man, who loved us with surpassing pride and tenderness, we delighted to prey on as vultures on a carcass, and yet, I am sure, we were neither vicious nor hard-hearted, but simply and entirely—Boys.

All this time, since our Saturday afternoon, when the fight overset our boat, Alfred Higginson and Drake had not spoken to one another. This eighteenth of June, even, Drake did not wake Alfred, but left others of us to do so. Thrown together so intimately every minute of the day, and so often on the point of speaking—often almost necessitated to do so by circumstances, and frequently through forgetfulness—their unfortunate difficulty and enmity stole the freshness from their sports, and acted as a check and damper on the spirits of all our little company. However, the finale was not far-distant, but it was postponed until after the boat-race.

Chapter Eight.

The Regatta—The Duel.

By agreement we rested through the middle of the day, and, in place of our usual hearty dinner, took an early lunch. It was irksome, though, to be quiet when so excited, and when, too, a multitude of pastimes were suggested to our senses by the loveliness of that June day.

Mr Clare and Captain Mugford had gone to fish in the Race off the extreme point.

When half-past one o’clock came, Harry, who seemed the most impatient, proposed that we should go down to Bath Bay then, and wait there until three, the hour of the race. That we agreed to, but left directions with Clump to hurry our tutors up as soon as they returned, and have them ready for the race.

We had time to launch our boat carefully, and take a nice swim, before we descried our tutors, followed by Clump with a long musket, descending the knoll toward us. So we hastened our dressing, and, when they reached the beach, were ready to receive them in our extemporised costume of blue shirts and white trousers. Captain Mugford was already in a perspiration from his walk, and, what we boys also noticed with delight, seemed somewhat blown. However, he was jolly, and, flourishing the ever active handkerchief, proposed to Mr Clare that they should row round Leander’s Rock, and let the boys follow them! “But at a respectful distance, remember, boys!” We laughed scornfully at his chaff. Harry touched his cap like a middy, and promised for our boat that it should keep at a very “respectful distance.”

It took but a short time to complete preparations. Our tutors threw off hats, coats, and vests, and tied handkerchiefs about their heads. Then they lifted their boat into the water, and stood smiling at the excitement we could not help betraying. Clump was on his way to Youngster’s Wharf, where, at the proper moment, he was to give the signal for starting by firing the musket. A flag waved from Leander’s Rock; another was flying over our heads. The clear water of the bay soused in impatient little ripples against the boats we stood ready to enter, as if to say, “Well, why don’t you come on?” and then, purling a few feet farther, skipped over the spar which was to be our goal. Clump had reached Youngster’s Wharf. Seeing that, we entered our boats, seated ourselves carefully, balancing the oars ready to spring, and waited the signal. I alone could see Clump; the oarsmen had their backs to him. The long gun was brought up to his shoulder, and his eyes fixed on us. I saw his finger twitch, and as the hammer fell, my body gave way to help the start. The oarsmen, with their eyes on mine, acted in sympathy, and every oar touched the water; but the old flintlock had only snapped. How our adversaries laughed! The old man sprang about on the rock like a wounded baboon. He was indignant at the failure. Again we were in order. Again I saw the musket brought up. Bang! We were off, and were opposite Youngster’s Wharf before the smoke had cleared from above Clump’s head. The boats were side by side then. Notwithstanding the eagerness with which I swayed forward with every pull of the oars, and the frenzy that filled me, as in a moment more I saw our tutors’ boat drawing slightly ahead, I had to laugh at the antics of Clump, who was rushing from side to side of his floating staging, dancing up and down like a rheumatic lunatic, tossing his arms wildly about his uncovered head, his face a kaleidoscope of grimaces, while he shouted to each one of us by name, in encouragement, in entreaty, in fear: “Oh, Massa Drake! pull, pull!” “Massa Walter! Massa Walter! dus you let ’em beat!” “Day’se gwine ahead! Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!”

His voice was lost in another moment. We were nearly half across the bay, and our tutors’ boat a full length ahead. I saw that my crew were too excited to do their best, so I called to them: “Boys, steady now! Keep cool, cool. Only think of what your arms are doing.”

“There, that’s better already! We’re gaining! Hurrah! Stick to it!”

“Come, boys,” called Mr Clare. “Come, we can’t wait for you longer!”

I believe that lent five pounds of extra strength to every arm in my boat.

We were nearing Leander’s Rock. Ay! and we were steadily gaining on our tutors.

They, too, saw that, but could do no better. Having a steersman, gave our boat an advantage of rounding the Rock closely.

We gained distance. In five minutes we were thirty or forty feet ahead.

But then, terrible to see, our adversaries made a spurt, and were coming up again, hand over hand.

They gained, gained, gained, until their stern was opposite Harry’s oar-blade. I was almost wild with excitement. I called upon the boys, with every entreaty I could think of, to pull harder; urging on Alfred, who was evidently the weakest oar, and whose strength seemed waning.

But our tutors could not pull harder. They had done their best. Could we but keep our speed.

So we went, without widening or lessening the distance between us, for a hundred yards. But was it possible for us to hold out? How I prayed we might! We neared Clump again. The comic sight cheered me. Truly, if hopping about and entreaties could help us, what aid must that old nigger give us. I almost expected to see him soar off to us, he looked so like a crow taking flight.

“Fellows! keep a morsel of extra strength to use when we pass Clump, then just let us put forth our utmost breath and strength for those forty yards. But don’t let our tutes gain. Look! look!”

But they were coming up—only by inches, to be sure, but coming.

We rushed past Youngster’s Wharf. Clump stretched out his body as if to pull us on.

Hurrah! hurrah! Their bow is a foot beyond our stern.

“Hi! hi! hi! Yah! yah! Hurrah! hurrah! My young—”

Splash!!!

Clump had pitched in sure enough, head first. But there was no stop to our engines. Our tutors were four feet behind; but they were working with a last hope and mad effort.

“One more, boys!”

Cr–u–a–nk! we touched the spar, slid over its roundness as it sunk beneath our keel, and were on the soft beach—Victors!

We were crazy with joy, and completely used up. The boys jumped from the boat and threw themselves, laughing hysterically, on the sand.

Our tutors only said, in tones of mingled chagrin and exhaustion, “Boys, we are beaten, well and fairly;” and they pushed off again to pick up Clump.

I do not know any successes or honours of after-life sweeter or more satisfying than that boat victory.

Until bedtime, we remained just tired and happy enough to sit quietly and talk over the events of the afternoon.

In resuming study for the few days before Saturday, we had in anticipation for that time a fishing party on the rocks, for bass, which were beginning to bite sharply, and for which our bait was lobster and the crabs that were found under the small rocks at low tide.

In talking over the project together, Drake said he would not go this time, but would wait to see our luck. Alfred Higginson expressed neither assent nor dissent with the general arrangement, and of course we supposed he was to be of our party, until Saturday came and we were ready to start, poles, bait and basket in hand, when he was not to be found. We wondered at his disappearance, but had no time to hunt him up. Drake was there to see us off. The Captain and Mr Clare, who were going with us, told Drake they thought that boat-race had proved too much for him. He laughed, but was not as ready at an answer as usual. Indeed, he appeared rather low-spirited. However, we started on our excursion without a suspicion of the affair which prevented both fellows from joining it. It afterwards appeared that Drake had addressed the following note to Alfred Higginson on the day before the boat-race:—

“Cape —, June 17, 1816.

“Alfred Higginson,

“Our quarrels have gone nearly far enough, disturbing the peace of our entire company, and increasing the irritation between us. Let us conclude the dissension in a thorough and honourable way that may satisfy both and prove a final contest. After that I will agree to strive not to give offence to you, and also to bear silently whatever conceit and insults may escape you. Perhaps we may become friends. But we cannot remain as we are. The blow you struck the other day must be answered for. I ask satisfaction, and the incompleteness and vulgarity of a pugilistic encounter will not suit me. I propose, therefore, as we cannot resort to the regular duel of pistols, (for reasons so good and evident that I need not name them), that after the example of the ancients, whose history we are now daily reading, we have our combat. Arms of their fashion our ingenuity can supply, not of the same materials, I know, but of wood, which should prove effective enough for our purposes. I propose Saturday as the time, when those who might otherwise disturb our meeting are absent: and I propose the hold of the wreck as a suitable spot. Your sense of honour will, of course, keep this affair secret, and I ask a speedy reply.

“Drake Tregellin.”

Only a warm, fierce, reckless-natured boy of fourteen could have hit upon such an absurdly quixotic way of deciding a quarrel. Indian combats between Red Indians in the Far West, the deeds of Sir Kenneth, Saladin, and Coeur de Lion in his favourite “Talisman,” and the entire character of Drake’s reading, had joined with and gathered romance from his late study of Virgil to misdirect an innate chivalry.

Alfred Higginson’s reply was also characteristic:—

“Drake Tregellin,

“I have received your cartel. In my humble opinion nothing could be more stupid and silly than the resort you propose. I suppose you think your proposition very grand and chivalric. It endangers the continuance of our stay on the cape; it rebels against the rule we are under here; and it would make our parents unhappy. Its spirit of selfishness and indifference to everything but your own impulse is the same which causes and continues our quarrelling. But I shall be a fool with you this time. I have not the courage to balk your desire. I agree to the contest, if you agree to keep the peace after that. I suppose javelins and shields of wood are to be our weapons. What nonsense! But I shall be at hand, Saturday, at the brig, when the others have gone fishing.

“Alfred Higginson.”

About an hour after we had got settled on Bass Rocks, and just as we commenced catching fish, and I had a mighty fellow slashing my line about and trying to snap the pole, we heard the voice of some one calling to us in distress, and, turning, saw Juno hurrying towards us as fast as her old limbs and breathless state would allow. She was chattering all the while, but it was impossible for us to understand the cause of her mission until she had come up to us and had taken a moment’s rest. Then, the tears springing from her eyes and terror in her voice, she exclaimed: “De yun’ gem’men—Massa Drake, Massa Alf’fed, dey is fiteten and tarr’en one udder to pieces. Dey is down dare in de ole ship and fire’en sticks and poke-en guns; an’ oh Lord, I fear dey is all dead now!” Her excitement could no longer be contained, but broke forth in cries and ejaculations: “Oh! oh! oh! marssaful Hebbens! Oh de Lord, please top de yun’ gem’men! Massa Clare, Massa Capting, ar’n’t yous gwine? Ar’n’t yous gwine afore dey is done dead? Dat dis ole woman mus’ see such tings!”

We also gleaned from her, that, hearing a noise at the wreck, as she was passing near by, she had scrambled on board the vessel and there seen the two boys engaged in a severe fight; that she had hurried off for Clump, but could not find him; and that then she had run to where she knew we were; but we had to hasten her broken narrative to get at the whole matter, and then we all started for the wreck as fast as we could run, fearful that a tragedy was to meet our sight—that we might be too late to prevent it.

What a sight met our eyes as we hurried down the stairs to the brig’s schoolroom!

Chairs, desks, and tables had been pushed back against the sides to make room for the duel, and there, in the so-formed arena, the atmosphere of which was thick with disturbed dust, lay in common confusion a split shield, two swords, a padded glove, a splintered lance, and a torn cap. The weapons—the shield in particular—reflected skill upon Clump or whatever carpenter had fashioned them. In some charge of one of the combatants, the round table, although intended to be in a place of safety, had been overturned, adding a globe, a streaming inkstand, and sundry books to the medley on the floor.

But our astonishment culminated when we saw Drake leaning back in Mr Clare’s big chair in the farther end of the hold, his head bleeding, a sleeve torn off, and an expression of comically blended fatigue and dignified indifference in his face, while near the opposite side of the schoolroom, and on one side of the stairway we had descended, was Alfred Higginson lying on the floor, his head supported on an arm, his countenance the picture of pain and mortification.

Evidently the battle was over. The parties spoke not a word; and the first exclamation that came from us was Harry’s: “Hillo! A real duel, and no one killed.”

Our good Captain, his face full of tenderness and anxiety, hurried to Alf and lifted him up, but as he was so much hurt as to be only able to hobble a few steps, Captain Mugford lifted him in his arms and carried him on deck.

“What is all this, my poor fellow?” asked the Captain, as he got him on a bench there.

“Rather a long story, Captain, but no one to blame but Drake and me. He ain’t much hurt, is he?”

“That is what I want to ask you, Alf. Where is your pain?”

“There, sir, in my side. It is only stiff and bruised, but don’t touch it hard, please. There! where your hand is. And I believe my hand is somewhat cut.”

As it proved on examination by the doctor from the village, whom I brought over an hour afterwards, one of Alf’s ribs was broken and the palm of his left hand badly gashed.

Whilst the Captain and Harry Higginson had attended to Alfred, Mr Clare and Walter took care of Drake. He was very laconic in his replies to their questions, and made light of the injury; but he was faint from the wound in the head, and his sleeveless arm was so stiff as to be useless to him then.

Juno, who had found Clump, joined us before we reached the house with our wounded comrades; but at the sight of Drake’s bleeding head and Alfred carried in the Captain’s arms, Juno’s ejaculations recommenced, and Clump followed, only wringing his hands in mute despair.

Of the particulars of the fight we never knew further than I have related. Both of the principals in the affair hated to have it alluded to, and we spared their feelings.

When we had got them comfortably settled in their rooms, Mr Clare called the remainder of us aside and enjoined upon us that we should not question Drake and Alfred, nor mention the matter in their presence; and that in the meantime he would decide with Captain Mugford what steps to take when the boys had recovered.

In another week Drake was as well as ever, but hardly as noisy and reckless as of old. Alfred remained an invalid for some time longer.

When both were perfectly recovered, Mr Clare called us all together in the brig’s schoolroom one afternoon, and then addressed us, particularly the two combatants, in a manner that I can never forget—it was so sensible, so manly, so solemn. He pointed out the faults of each, which had fed the long quarrel and finally serious conclusion. He painted the wickedness of that duel, (for it could be called nothing else), and all such affairs, which in former times were ignorantly considered necessary and honourable. He told us in what he thought true manliness, courage, and chivalry consisted. Then, in a simple, touching way, he suggested higher thoughts—our duty to our Father in heaven as brothers of one common family, and more than all of the example which our blessed Lord and Master set us while He was on earth—to forgive injuries—to overlook insults; and he spoke of charity as forbearance, and conquest as governing ourselves; and then begged us to join him in earnest entreaty to the Holy Spirit for the strength to practise that charity and make those conquests, to the Source whence such virtues came, and to the Ear which was never deaf to supplication. How simple and noble was that whole address! And I cannot forbear testimony to the fruitfulness of a Christian practice such as that of our then tutor, dear Mr Clare. Even thoughtless boys could not sneer at the constant manly practice of his life. We had to see that it gave the loftiest aims even to the smallest acts of his everyday life—that where he spoke one word he acted fifty in that service which ennobles the commonest deed. So that religion, which youth often regards as something whining and hypocritical, something only for the old and sick, we boys began to look up to as something which, if we could only partly understand, was, at the least, truly beautiful and noble.

The lesson and bearing of Mr Clare on that occasion was enforced by the fact that as he concluded, Captain Mugford, rubbing the back of a rough hand on his cheek for some reason, got up and crossed the room to Mr Clare, whose hand he took in both his, and said—

“Mr Clare, I am but a rough, wicked old sailor, but the words you have spoken to these boys have touched an older boy than they, and I thank you—I thank you!”

The parents of both Drake and Alfred were duly informed, by both Mr Clare and the boys themselves, of the affair.

From that time Drake and Alfred were changed boys. The old dominant faults I have told of had now to fight for sway and were generally mastered, whilst the conduct of one to the other grew generous and considerate, and the two boys became and ever afterward remained close friends.

Chapter Nine.

Big Fishing—A Strange Dissection.

The dog-days and the sultriness of August extended some of their influence even in our fresh kingdom by the sea. The only exercise that tempted us was swimming, and that, by Captain Mugford’s permission, we now enjoyed twice each day—before breakfast and after tea. What else is so delightful and health-giving? The header from the brown rock from whose sides wave the cool, green tresses of the sea! off, with a whoop, and hands above your head, as the sun pats tricklingly your back! off, with a spring, down head first through the deliciously cool, clear, bracing water, that effervesces about you in bubbles of sport. Then, as the long delicate tendrils beneath swing like sirens’ arms to welcome you, to arch the back and, leaving the alluring depths, rise through the dark water with the ease of an eagle on his wings until your head pops into the upper world of noise and sunlight again. The long, sharp, regular strokes now, every muscle stretching elastically and the whole frame electric with vigour and freshness—oh, how delicious!

Reeking with wet, we climb the rock, picking a spot where limpets are not, and sit in that glorious sunlight, each atom of which seems to melt into the blood. Clasping our hands about our knees, we can watch the glory of the sun climbing higher and higher above the ocean, and, if we choose, fancy ourselves big grapes ripening on “Lusitanian summers,” until we are dry—which is too soon—and then with what overflowing spirits and ravenous appetites we go, like hunters, to the house!

“Come, Marm Juno, send in the eggs and bacon. We’re as hungry as bears!”

“He! he! he! How you yun’ gemmen do go on. Seems as ef you’se nebber git nuffen ter eat at hum. ’Spects you’ll git fat down ’ere! He! he!”

But our studies did not slacken because of the warm weather. Copying Mr Clare, we all worked with a will. There was not a laggard amongst us, I believe. There was a disposition to please one who had so grown in our affection and respect as even to have outstripped our dear old salt tute. He understood our youthful difficulties, sympathised with our interests, and, not limiting his duties to hearing us recite, taught us how to study.

As August waned the fishing improved, and with the little fiddler or soldier crab we caught fish of three and four pounds instead of those of one and two pounds that had a month ago employed us. And then the striped bass, the Labrus lineatus, the king of saltwater game fish—what splendid sport they furnished!

These last we caught, some of us with the pole and reel, some with the hand-line. But it was active work to throw out about sixty yards of line and then troll it quickly back through the eddies off the rocks, where the bass fed and sported. The Captain was great at this; despising the pole and waving the bait round and round his head, he would throw it full a hundred yards to sea.

I tell you it was exciting to hook a five or six pounder and have him make off with a lurch. Pay out then, quick, quick, just keeping a “feel” of the fellow’s mouth, and as he slacks his speed, tauten your line, and pull in with all your strength. Slower now, as he begins to haul back. Now look out; he is off again with a mightier spring and greater speed than before. Pay out, quick and steady. So, again and again, his strength getting less and less, until you can tow him up to the rock, and your companion put the gaff in his ruddy gills.

Many a noble fish escaped; many a line and hook snapped in the warfare. Sometimes a much larger fish would take hold, and two of us would have to pull on the line stretched like wire. During the season we took a seven-pounder, one of eight, and one of ten pounds, and Captain Mugford, alone on the rocks, one stormy morning, when we boys were in school, captured a royal fellow of twelve pounds, and brought it for our admiring gaze as we went to dinner. Mr Clare promised to beat that, but he never did.

One Saturday afternoon, about the last of August, just after a somewhat heavy gale, which had been blowing for a couple of days, we all repaired to Bass Rocks, though the sky was drizzling yet, and the spray of the waves dashed at every blow clear over our stand.

It was apparently a splendid time for our friends, the labrus, but we did not get a bite. We persevered, however, fresh baiting the hooks, and throwing out again and again, with not a fin to flash after them through the curdled waters.

Harry Higginson, having been very unlucky before this, losing several strong lines, had provided himself this time with one which, he said, could hold a hundred-pounder—the line consisting of two thick flaxen lines plaited together. He had it rigged on his pole. Grown careless from the ill-luck we had met, he at length let his bait sink to the bottom, about thirty yards from the rocks, and got talking with the Captain, who had given up fishing, and, with his sou’wester pulled about his ears, was taking a comfortable pipe in a crevice of the biggest rock.

Suddenly I heard a reel go clork—cle–erk cleerk! and saw Harry’s pole fall from his hands to the rock. He seized it in a second, but as he stopped the revolving of the reel, the pole bent, and he pulled back on it—Snap! It was gone in the middle of the second joint. Of course the line remained, and that he commenced pulling in, bestowing the while some pretty hard expressions on his bad luck, for it really seemed as if the once-hooked fish had gone off in safety. About ten yards of the line came in slack, and then it stopped.

“Fast to a rock! What luck!” cried Harry, and then he commenced to jerk.

As he turned to look at us, with an expression of sarcastic indifference, I saw the line straightening out again in a steady, slow way, as if it was attached to an invisible canal-boat.

“Hold fast,” I cried; “look! you have got something. What can it be?” saying which, Harry commenced to pull, but in vain—the prey went ahead.

Captain Mugford had taken the pipe from his mouth as his attention was fastened by the strange manoeuvres of Harry’s game. Things having come to such a bewildering pass, he put up his pipe and, shaking the folds of the sou’wester from about his head, sprung forward and took hold of the line with Harry, but it still ran out through their hands.

“Seventeen seventy-six! what a whopper,” exclaimed the Captain. “We must let go another anchor—eh, Harry?”

“Indeed! yes,” replied Harry. “Look! he is stopping, and seems to be shaking the hook as a cat would a mouse. What can it be?”

Now the unknown took a tack towards us, and the line was gathered in and kept tight, and, as he began to go about on another course, his enemies took advantage of his momentary sluggishness to haul with considerable effect on the line. That brought the rascal right under the rocks. We could not see him; only the commotion of the water. Being brought up with such a short turn maddened the fellow, and perhaps he began to realise what was giving him such a jaw-ache. At any rate, just then he showed his speed to the whole length of the line, rushing off like a locomotive, and cutting his enemies fingers to the bones. They held on, however, and were able to bring him to as his charge slackened.

Of course the others of us hauled in our lines and watched with eagerness the combat so exciting. We proffered advice of all kinds to the two fishers, which they did not heed but devised schemes as the moment required, and certainly they managed with great skill. You would have thought the Captain was on deck in a hurricane, or repelling the boarders of a Malay pirate. The pipe was jammed up to its bowl in the side of his mouth, and all he said came in jerks through his teeth.

We were perfectly in the dark as to what the fish might be—whether an immense cod or halibut, or a princely bass.

The fight went on for half an hour without any decided result. But after that the struggles of the fish occupied a smaller space, never taking more than half the line out now. He was nearer the surface too, and the quick slaps of a tremendous tail lashed the sea.

“Mr Clare,” called out Captain Mugford, “won’t you twist two of the boys’ lines together and bend them on that gaff? By the way, there is a hatchet with us, is there not? Good! Have that and the gaff ready. We are tiring the animal, whatever it is—a shark, I suspect.”

Whilst we were carrying out the Captain’s orders, Harry cried, “See, see! there is the whole length of him. Yes, a shark. What a grand beast!”

They were tiring him—worrying the strength and fierceness out of him. Every turn was bringing him nearer the rock. Every dash of his was weaker. But it must have been fully an hour from the first rush he made before he was brought exhausted alongside of the rocks, and the Captain cried, “Put in the gaff, Mr Clare—hard deep!”

Well was it that a strong line had been made fast to the gaff, for as its big hook struck him behind the gills, he uttered a sound like the moan of a child, and flapped off, the gaff remaining in him, into deep water.

With the two lines and his exhausted state, it was comparatively easy to bring him to the rocks again, and then with blows of the hatchet we had soon murdered him. Even then it was a job of some moment to get the body safely up the slimy and uneven rocks.

At length our prey was well secured, and we stood about him in triumph. It was a shark, measuring five feet and three inches in length, and he must certainly have weighed nearly a hundred pounds.

From the study Mr Clare made of the subject, we found that the name by which the shark is technically known is Squalidae, which includes a large family fitly designated, as your Latin dictionary will prove when you find the adjective squalidus—“filthy, slovenly, loathsome.” It is a family of many species, there being some thirty or forty cousins; and the different forms of the teeth, snout, mouth, lips, and tail-fins, the existence or absence of eyelids, spiracles, (those are the apertures by which the water taken in for respiration is thrown out again), the situation of the different fins, etcetera, distinguish the different divisions of the common family. The cousin who, wandering about that stormy Saturday, had frightened away the bass, and finally astonished himself by swallowing a fish-hook when he only thought to suck a dainty bit of his family’s favourite delicacy, was known as the Zygaena—so Mr Clare introduced him to us when his sharkship had grown so exceedingly diffident as not to be able to say one word for himself—a genus distinguished by having the sides of the head greatly prolonged in a horizontal direction, from which circumstance they are commonly known as the hammer-headed sharks.

His teeth were in three rows, the points of the teeth being directed towards the corners of the mouth. The two back rows were bent down, and only intended, Mr Clare told us, to replace the foremost when injured. These horrible teeth were notched like a saw.

I think the face, if so you might call it, of that piratical fish wore the most fearfully cruel and rapacious expression I had ever seen. That Zygaena family of the Squalidae, (I think they sound more horribly devilish when called by their classical titles), is one dangerous to man, and it is very rare that a man-eating or man-biting shark is ever found on the English coast.

I proposed to cut him open, and so we did. Among the half-digested food, most of which was fish, I found something that at first looked like a leather strap. I seized it and pulled it out. Surely there was a buckle. I washed and laid it out on the rock, while we all gathered about in great excitement to make out what our dead enemy had been preying on. There was no longer a doubt that it was a dog-collar—the collar of a medium-sized dog, perhaps a spaniel or terrier. There was a plate on it, which, with a little rubbing, we made to read, “David Atherton, Newcastle.” How very strange! Had the little fellow been washed overboard from some vessel? or had he swum off some neighbouring beach to bring a stick for his master?

We could never discover any antecedents of any kind whatever to that mysterious sequel to “The Romance of the Poor Young Dog.” Was there a fond master mourning for him in Newcastle, England, or in Newcastle, Pennsylvania? Alas, poor dog! thou wert hastily snatched from this world—the ocean thy grave and a shark’s belly thy coffin. Thy collar hangs, as I write this, over my study table, and many a time has my old Ponto sniffed at that relic of a fellow-dog, and his eyes grown moist as I repeated to him my surmises of the sad fate of David Atherton’s companion.

Mr Clare told us a good deal about sharks. Of the many varieties, the most hideous is the Wolf-fish, (Anarrhicas lupus). Though much smaller than the white shark, he is a very formidable creature. He has six rows of grinders in each jaw, excellently adapted for bruising the crabs, lobsters, scallops, and large whelks, which the voracious animal grinds to pieces, and swallows along with the shells. When caught, it fastens with indiscriminate rage upon anything within its reach, fights desperately, even when out of the water, and inflicts severe wounds if not avoided cautiously. Schönfeld relates this wolf-fish will seize on an anchor and leave the marks of its teeth in it, and Steller mentions one on the coast of Kamschatka, which he saw lay hold of a cutlass, with which a man was attempting to kill it, and break it to bits as if it had been made of glass. This monster is, from its great size, one of the most formidable denizens of the ocean; in the British waters it attains the length of six or seven feet, and is said to be much larger in the more Northern seas. It usually frequents the deep parts of the sea, but comes among the marine plants of the coast in spring, to deposit its spawn. It swims rather slowly, and glides along with somewhat of the motion of an eel.

The white shark is far more dreadful, from its gigantic size and strength; its jaws are also furnished with from three to six rows of strong, flat, triangular, sharp-pointed, and finely serrated teeth, which it can raise or depress at will.

This brute grows to a length of thirty feet, and its strength may be imagined from the fact that a young shark, only six feet long, has been known to break a man’s leg by a stroke of its tail. Therefore, when sailors have caught a shark at sea, with a baited hook, the first thing they do when it is drawn upon deck is to chop off its tail, to prevent the mischief to be dreaded from its immense strength.

Hughes, the author of the “Natural History of Barbadoes,” relates an anecdote which gives a good idea of the nature of this monster: “In the reign of Queen Anne a merchant ship from England arrived at Barbadoes; some of the crew, ignorant of the danger of doing so, were bathing in the sea, when a large shark suddenly appeared swimming directly towards them. All hurried on board, and escaped, except one unfortunate fellow, who was bit in two by the shark. A comrade and friend of the man, seeing the severed body of his companion, vowed instant revenge. The voracious shark was seen swimming about in search of the rest of his prey, when the brave lad leaped into the water. He carried in his hand a long, sharp-pointed knife, and the fierce monster pushed furiously towards him. Already he had turned over, and opened his huge, deadly jaws, when the youth, diving cleverly, seized the shark somewhere near the fins with his left hand, and stabbed him several times in the belly. The creature, mad with pain and streaming with blood, attempted vainly to escape. The crews of the ships near saw that the fight was over, but knew not which was slain, till, as the shark became exhausted, he rose nearer the shore, and the gallant assailant still continuing his efforts, was able, with assistance, to drag him on shore. There he ripped open the stomach of the shark and took from it the half of his friend’s body, which he then buried together with the trunk half.”

The negroes are admirable swimmers and divers, and they sometimes attack and vanquish the terrible shark, but great skill is necessary.

When Sir Brooke Watson, as a youth, was in the West Indies, he was once swimming near a ship when he saw a shark making towards him. He cried out in terror for help, and caught a rope thrown to him; but even as the men were drawing him up the side of the vessel, the monster darted after, and took off his leg at a single snap.

Fortunately for sea-bathers on our shores, the white shark and the monstrous hammer-headed zygaena seldom appear in the colder latitudes, though both have occasionally been seen on the British coasts.

The northern ocean has its peculiar sharks, but some are good-natured, like the huge basking shark, (S maximus), and feed on seaweeds and medusae and the rest, such as the picked dog-fish, (Galeus acanthius), are, although fierce, of too small a size to be dangerous to man.

But the dog-fish and others, such as the blue shark, are very troublesome and injurious to the fisherman; though they do not venture to attack him, for they hover about his boat and cut the hooks from his lines. Indeed, this sometimes leads to their own destruction; and when their teeth do not deliver them from their difficulty, the blue sharks, which hover about the coast of Cornwall during the pilchard season, roll their bodies round so as to twine the line about them in its whole length, and often in such a way that Mr Yarrell has known a fisherman give up as hopeless the attempt to unroll it.

This shark is very dangerous to the pilchard drift-net, and very often will pass along the whole length of net, cutting out, as if with shears, the fish and the net which holds them, and swallowing both together.

Chapter Ten.

Ugly—Plover, Snipe, and Rabbit Shooting—A Cruise Proposed.

Recounting that last event reminds me of a well-beloved character in our cape days—one, too, that was destined to play an important part in our little drama.

Ugly was his name; Trusty Greatheart it should have been.

Ugly was a clipped-eared, setter-tailed, short-legged, long-haired, black-nosed, bright-eyed little mongrel. In limiting his ancestry to no particular aristocratic family, he could prove some of the blood of many. There were evident traces of the water-spaniel, the Skye terrier, and that most beautiful of all the hound family—the beagle.

I do not know what education Ugly may have had in his earlier days, but I believe it to have been limited, though his acquirements were great. I believe him to have been a canine genius. He was as ready on the water as on the land. His feats of diving and swimming were remarkable; and a better rabbit-dog and more sagacious, courageous watchdog never lived. As to the languages, I will acknowledge he could speak none; but he understood English perfectly, and never failed to construe rightly any of Mr Clare’s Latin addresses—much better than ever Walter could do. Indeed, Mr Clare’s commands to and conversations with Ugly were always in Latin.

Of his rare sagacity and unbounded affection there are proofs to be furnished further on in this narrative.

Harry Higginson and Walter had guns, and they alone of our number were allowed to use them. That exclusion never caused me any regrets, nor do I think it troubled Alfred Higginson, but it was a constant pain to Drake. He loved a gun, and his most golden dream of manhood’s happiness was the possession of a good fowling-piece. The prohibition of our parents, however, was so stringent in this particular that poor Drake never sighted along the bright barrels nor even touched the well-oiled stocks but once while we were at the cape.

There they stood, always ready, in a corner of our attic—where Drake, Alf, and I could not touch them, but ready at any time for the pleasure of Walter and Harry.

Walter was an accomplished shot, and Harry was not a bad one. Harry had not had the training of Walter, whom my father had taught—not commencing with stationary objects, but with targets thrown in the air, and small, slow-winged birds as they flitted near the ground. My father had at first made him practise for a long time without caps, powder, or shot, merely in quickly bringing the stock close to the shoulder, and getting the eye directly behind the breech. When proficiency in that had become a mechanical habit, the gun was loaded, and then commenced the practice of shooting at moving objects. As the art of bringing the gun properly to the cheek had been so thoroughly mastered as to require no effort nor attention, Walter could, when an object was thrown up, direct all his care to bringing the muzzle of the piece—the sight—directly on that object. My father’s reason for teaching him first to shoot at flying marks was to prevent the habit of dwelling long on an aim—that habit of following or poking at the bird which ruins good shooting, and prevents the possibility of becoming a good snap shot. And so, afterwards, Drake and I were taught; and boys who are learning to shoot will find, that by remembering and practising the method I have described, instead of commencing by taking long, deliberate aims at stationary objects, they will get ahead surprisingly fast, far outstripping those who learn by the latter way.

In our rambles about the cape, Ugly soon displayed his talent for rabbit-hunting. He would smell where Bunny had been wandering and follow the track until he started Miss Long-ears from her covert, and then the fun began—the rabbit leaping off in frightened haste, running for life, winding and dodging about over the swells of the sparse grass hillocks, while Ugly, mad with excitement, spread his long, low body down to the chase. How the little fellow would put in his nose close to the ground, staunch on the trail as the best-blooded hound, and making the air ring with his sharp but musical bark! I tell you that was fun! Ugly always stuck to his game until he had run it to its burrow. He had not the speed to overtake it.

The summer is not the proper season for rabbit-shooting; so Walter, who was never to be tempted by the best chance of killing game even a day out of season, would not permit either Harry or himself to shoot at the objects of Ugly’s furious energy until it was legitimate. That conduct of Walter and Harry was beyond Ugly’s comprehension. I have often seen him try to understand it. The chase having ended as usual in a safe burrow, I have noticed Ugly—who, after a very short experience, had learned not to waste his time in vain digging—turn toward us with a waddling, disconsolate trot, and having approached a few rods, stop and sit down to revolve the puzzle over in his mind. He would look where the rabbit had housed himself, then drop his head, cock up an ear, and cast an inquiring glance toward us, as much as to say: “Why, do tell Ugly why you did not shoot that old lap-ears? Ah!” That operation he would repeat several times before rejoining us, and when he had come up he would cock his head first one side and then the other, and look into our faces with most beseeching questioning in those great, keen, brown eyes of his. Then he would hang behind on our way home, evidently greatly distressed at his ignorance.

Never mind, good Ugly! I believe you were fully rewarded for weeks of bewilderment when the time did come for knocking over bunnies.

One afternoon, in returning from one of those rambles, we met our salt tute hurrying towards us in a great state of haste and perspiration. When near enough for his hoarse bass voice to reach us, he hailed—

“Well, there you are, boys, at last! I have been hunting for you all over the cape for the last hour. Ah! Ugly, boy, are you glad to see the old Captain trudging over the rabbit-ground? Eh? shaggy boy! And you have been running the bunnies till you are blown, and your masters would not shoot—eh? Well, no matter; the Captain shall bring his marline-spike along some day, and help you bag them. But, my affectionate pup, do you take a turn in that tail, or you’ll wag it off some windy day.”

So Ugly sat down—a long, red, wet tongue hanging from the side of his mouth—and whipped the grass between the Captain’s boots with that restless tail until we came up.

“Why, Captain Mugford,” said Walter, “I did not know you ever wanted us.”

“No? Well, I do though, just now. You see, boys, as to-morrow will be Saturday, with every prospect of fair weather and a good breeze, I thought we might go on a cruise—start early, get our meals on board, run off to the fishing-grounds, and make a voyage of general exploration. And to do this we must get our traps aboard this evening, and see that everything is in order on board the Youth.”

“Good! nothing could suit us better, Captain. I’ll run to the house with the guns,” said Harry, “and we can all go at once off to the Youth.”

“Mr Clare,” continued Captain Mugford, “can’t go with us, he says, but must walk over to Q—town and spend the day. That’s a pity, for I calculated on having a capital time all together, on a voyage like this one we propose.”

“Well, we boys,” said Walter, “will ask him this evening to put off his visit. Perhaps he may change his mind.”

When Harry returned we went down to our cutter, all in great spirits on account of the fun proposed for the next day.

Getting on board, we mopped and swabbed her out well, overhauled the ropes and sails, and hauled down the pennant to take home with us for Juno to mend where it had frayed out on the point. That work being completed, we went to the house for such provisions as we should want on our excursion. Juno put up a large supply for one day—ground coffee, eggs, biscuit, cold mutton, a cold turkey, and several currant and apple pies, besides butter, salt, etcetera—and Clump conveyed it down to the Youth for us on a wheelbarrow.

The provisions were carefully stowed in the forepeak, and everything being arranged, we appointed Ugly to act as a guard over our craft during the night.

Harry briefly explained it to him. “Look here, Ugly, you are to stay here to-night and look after the things. Of course you are not to come ashore or leave duty for a minute. We shall be down early in the morning. Be ready to receive us with proper ceremonies, for we are off on a cruise, old boatswain, to-morrow. Look, Ugly; I put your supper in this stern locker. Do you see?”

Ugly was at first rather disappointed at the prospect of being separated from us for the night, but as Harry’s harangue proceeded and he began to comprehend the honour of the duty required aboard ship, he bristled up and grew as stiff and important as his inches would allow. He turned his nose to watch where the supper was placed, and then walked forward and took a seat on the bow assuming a comical air of “captaincy;” so pantomimic was it that Captain Mugford laughed aloud, and said: “Well done, Ugly; where, my fine fellow, did you learn quarterdeck airs?”

“Good-night, Captain Ugly,” we cried, as we pushed for the shore in the punt. “Good-night, boy; can’t you say something, Captain Gruff?”

At which address Ugly rose up and, putting his forefeet on the larboard gunwale, barked three loud, clear notes, and we gave three laughing cheers as he returned to his post by the bowsprit.

Before going to bed that night, I went out in the kitchen to put a pair of my shoes to dry, and found Clump and Juno, as usual in the evenings, smoking and dozing over the fire.

Wondering at the amount of comfort these old folk seemed to find in tobacco, I asked Clump why he smoked so much.

“Fur constellation, Massa Bob—fur constellation; dat’s ol,” he answered.

“Oh, that is it, Clump—consolation, eh? Well, I must get a pipe some time and try it,” I said.

“No, Massa Bob,” joined in Juno, who was knocking out the ashes from her pipe on the head of the fire-dog—“no, Massa Bob you’se munno ’moke. ’Spects, ef you’se do, you find de way tur constollaton, dat ole Clump talk of, cum tru much tribble-laison—he! he! he!”

I had to laugh at the old woman’s wit. As for Clump, he rubbed his shins and “yaw-ha’d” over his wife’s speech for five minutes.

As I was going off to bed, Juno called me back in a hesitating way, and said in a low, frightened voice: “Massa Bob, sum-how dis ole woman ees ’feared ’bout ter’morrow. You’se gwine sure?”

“Of course, Juno,” I replied. “And what are you afraid of? I would not stay at home for ten pounds.”

“Dis chile’s sorry—sorry,” she continued, “but de Lor’ ees my strong ’an my sheel.” She was speaking very slowly, and had bent over the fire to rake the ashes together. She went on muttering some more of the Bible texts she always called on in any perplexity, until a new idea flashed to her from some uncovered ember, and she turned quickly, laughing in a low, shrill way, “He! he! he! woy’se ole Juno afeer’d? He! he! he! ’spects it on’y debbil dat has tole lies to dis poor ole nigger when she’s ’sleep.”

Chapter Eleven.

A Memorable Cruise commences.

We had nearly reached our cutter before the sun lifted its yellowish, red sphere, with just such an expression as a jolly, fat, old alderman accustomed to good cheer might present, on raising his head from the folds of a comfortable night’s pillow.

It looked about in a dim, bewildered way at first, as if trying to wake up and make out what was the matter—that dark, vast, heaving, rolling sea, the rocks and capes touched with light, and a great land behind them yet dark and undefined; all so quiet too; and the soft, pink mist that rolled away in smoke-like clouds—rolled away over the billowy surface of the ocean toward the land, and, frightened, perhaps, by that red apparition on the eastern horizon, faded from sight, or rose for shelter to the sky above.

It was bravely up now; had mastered the situation, dispelled the night. The great honest face took a king’s expression, and breathing bounty, warmth, and courage, blessed the scene it looked upon.

Then how the birds sang out, how sea and land grew beautiful and full of voice, how the clouds dressed their ranks and marched on their way. And the irrepressible exclamation came from all our boy lips at once, “How glorious!”

Ugly saluted us in a most vociferous manner, continuing his welcome from the time we left the shore to the moment we reached the yacht. “Behold,” said Harry, “our rear-admiral waving his ta—I beg his honour’s pardon—flag.”

Yes—old Ugly kept his tail going in utmost delight, whilst he ran from one end to the other of the gunwale, assuring us that all was safe.

Sure enough, everything was in good order, but the supper had not been eaten. It had been pulled out of the after-cabin and inspected—that was all. Now Ugly’s supper consisted of two things he could never be induced to eat—ham and cold potatoes; and Harry, from mischief—he knew, however, that the dog had had a hearty dinner—prepared those things purposely, supposing that Ugly’s daintiness would fail in a twelve hours fast. But no; there the edibles were untouched.

“Come here, sir,” said Harry to Ugly; “now why have you not eaten this nice meal, eh?”

Ugly’s answer was merely to turn his head one side and look out at the sea, as if very much interested in something he saw—so much so as not to be able to attend to what Harry asked him.

“You dainty rascal, come along and eat this meal; it is good enough for any dog.” And Harry put the despised victuals on another part of the deck, and, quite unintentionally, within a foot of the port scuppers. “Here, Ugly, eat it, sir, every bit of it.”

Ugly’s sensitive little spirit could not brook such a public mortification; but he was obedient in part. He approached the pieces slowly—in a dignified, contemptuous way—as he would have gone up to a cat, and, putting his nose to them, gave a push—away they flew into the sea.

Shouts of laughter greeted the act—Harry’s the loudest—and he completed his attempt at discipline by calling to Ugly, “Come here, thou pluckiest and smartest of dogs. If you won’t eat sailors’ rations, come feast at the officers’ mess on the luxuries of the fleet. How will that do, eh, old fellow?” cutting him off, as he spoke, a fat slice of mutton. “Another? well there! Bread and butter? Well, there is as much as you can eat;” and Ugly stowed it all away, triumph beaming in his eyes and wagging from his tail.

“Come, boys, now,” said the Captain, “let’s get under way. Cast loose the sails, Alfred and Bob. Drake, stand by to hoist the mainsail. Walter, take the helm. I want you to act as sailing-master this morning. Drake and I will get up the anchor. Is the mainsail ready for hoisting?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Drake.

“Then up with it. There—good!”

“Are your halliards all clear there, boys?”

“Aye, aye, sir,” came from Alf and Bob.

“Hoist the jib, my hearties,” cried the Captain, as the anchor came up. “Keep her head for the old church tower, Walter. There—steady, steady.”

The Captain and Drake now secured the anchor, and the next order given was—

“Now, Alf, another pull on your main halliards. Get them well up. All right? Make fast.”

The Captain lifted his hat and wiped with the bandanna his red forehead. Then he shook out a reef in his suspenders, and threw back his coat. “By golly! my hearties, we are snug now, ship and cargo; and what an air to breathe! I only wish this was a good ship of twelve hundred tons or so, Captain Mugford the skipper, and we were all bound for Calcutta together this splendid morning.”

“Don’t I—don’t I,” came from each of us in response.

“Now, my mates,” called the Captain again, “we’ll go about presently, when we get abreast of that tanned-sailed fishing-boat there off the port bow, and then, Walter, you can head her right out of the harbour. Let her go south-east-by-east, and we’ll about fetch in ten miles as nice a bank for cod and halibut as there is off the coast. It is a small spot to get on nicely, and difficult to drop on often in just the right place; but it’s no riddle to me, and if this breeze freshens a bit, as I think it will with the young flood, you can get out your lines in about one hour. So now let’s have breakfast—the little rear-admiral, you know, had his long ago.”

Yes—and the consequential Ugly was occupying a comfortable seat right under the jib, and only turned his head the least bit when he heard the Captain’s mention of him.

“Keep her full now, Walter, ready to go about. Let go the jib-sheet, Bob; and now, down with your helm, Walter!”

The mainsail flapped twice. By that time the foresail had filled on the other tack. The cutter went about like a dancer on her heel, and we were off on the other tack, standing out of the harbour for the open sea ahead.

Then, the breakfast having been got out of the cuddy in the meanwhile, and arranged for our onset by Drake, we seized cups, knives and forks, and were soon very busy.

What a glorious thing to remember and marvel at, and wish back again, is a boy’s appetite. And if any good old fellow is reading, who is not ashamed to recall those best of days—boyhood days—who is not ashamed to recall them, aye, with pride and smiles, let him think now of the suppers after Saturday tramps, of the Christmas and Michaelmas dinners, and of meals like that I am describing, when, after two hours in the early morning air, bowling along in our cutter, the sea-breeze swelling out our lungs as it did the sails, with merry hearts and perfect digestions, we found real fun—true animal happiness—in good bread and butter, a leg of cold mutton, and a cup of coffee. And to see the best of good skippers—as our dear old salt tute was—let himself down in a right angle after that on the deck, his back against the weather-side of the mast, and, heaving a sigh of vast internal satisfaction, draw out his pipe slowly, as if it was a ceremony too precious to be hurried, and, having put it just right in his lips and lighted it, puff the first long sweet wreaths of smoke; ah! that was a picture of creature happiness.

Chapter Twelve.

Good Sport—An Exciting Sail—Cast Away.

The absence of Mr Clare was the only drawback to our pleasure that morning. He had told us the evening before that he should probably return from his visit the same day, getting home about the time we expected to be back—about sundown, which at that date in September was at twenty minutes after six. He said, however, that possibly he might remain in Q—town until after Sunday morning service.

When Captain Mugford had completed his smoke, by which time we had a fine steady breeze from the south-east, he rose from his luxurious position and took Walter’s place at the helm, saying—

“Not a permanent removal, Walter, but only until I can put the cutter just where I want her for fish. Fifteen minutes more will do that; so you had better go forward to Drake and get the anchor all ready to let go. You other boys can stand by the sails.”

The Captain noted carefully the changing colour of the water as we drew over some bank, and he took bearings, too, from points on the land we had left nearly ten miles astern. In a few minutes he luffed a bit and sang out—

“Down with your foresail! Get in the jib.”

The bowsprit pointed right in the wind’s eye, and the boom hung fore and aft, the sail empty, as the cutter lost her headway.

“Is that anchor ready?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” replied Walter and Drake.

“Let go! About five fathoms, is it?” called the Captain.

“About that!” the boys answered.

“That’s just what we want. Make fast! Now stow the mainsail, so that it won’t be in the way of your lines, and fish. There, that will do! Now, all to the lines! Who’ll have the first fish?”

In a minute Drake hauled that up—a cod—and the fun commenced. Cod and bass, and now and then a halibut, as fast as we could bait and pull! There was soon a lively flopping in our craft, and now and then a dog-fish would take hold, much to our annoyance, for generally he broke the hook or line, or else, if we got him in, made such a furious lashing about our legs that we had to finish him with a hatchet.

We lay at anchor there until we had had fishing enough. About two o’clock we stopped, having caught, as near as the Captain could estimate, between one and two hundred pounds of cod, a dog-fish, and eleven sea-bass—not the striped bass, such as we took off the rocks with a troll line in rough water: that was the Labrax lineatus; but the sea-bass, the Centropristes nigricans, superior in title, but inferior in every other way to the striped bass.

It was a job to pitch the fish together and out of the way, and then clean the blood, slime, and wet from our deck and get ready for making sail; but after some work it was done, and our lines stowed away.

“Now, boys,” said the Captain, “we will have dinner, and get under way again. As the wind has hauled around to the east, we will take our course for the north. I want to show you that shore, it is so bold and wild. With such a stiff wind I reckon we can run up ten miles nearly, and then turn about and get home easily before dark. I say, boys, won’t Mr Clare wish he had had a hand in catching that haul?”

Having finished the cold dinner with such an appetite as pleasure, exercise, and sea air give, we made sail and stood to the northward. The breeze was so fresh before long that the Captain told us to take a reef in our mainsail. Walter held the helm, and in little more than an hour we were sailing near the grand rugged shore that Captain Mugford had wished us to see. Here and there, in little coves defended by rocky sides, were the cottages of fishermen, and then great headlands of cavernous stone dashed by the waves. Again the shore fell to a lower level, and pines and other trees clustered together to defy the storms, and give pleasure to the eye. Farther on, the roughness of the coast vanished for a few hundred yards to make place for a yellow sandy beach where was stretched a long seine. Opposite that piece of strand, and close by our cutter’s course stood a small stony island, bearing a single invalid old pine, from whose topmost branch a great bald eagle rose and hovered over our craft. Then the shore grew again like an impregnable fortification, and made out to a sharp cape, on the point of which stood a lonely, snow-white lighthouse.

“There, boys, we must go about now,” said the Captain, as we neared the cape. “But see how the wind has fallen. If it holds on in this way we shan’t have enough to take us home before night. Let’s see what o’clock it is. That lighthouse is seventeen miles from the point of our own cape.”

The Captain fumbled away at his waist-band—encircling a rotundity like that described of Saint Nicholas—and pulled out his immense gold turnip.

“Columbus’ compass! Twenty minutes to five! Come, Walter, haul in the mainsheet, and come up to the wind. Are you ready to go about? Well, down with the helm then. I’ll tend the jib. Those boys are so busy examining the fish that we will not interrupt them.”

“No, sir,” I said, “we are ready for anything.”

“Oh no, Bob,” replied the Captain, “go on with your studies. There is nothing to do just now. Walter, you may steer by the shore. But I don’t like this slackening of the breeze, and it is drawing more to the south-west; we shall have it right ahead soon. The sun looks ugly, too. That murky red face foretells a row of some kind.”

“I hope that we shall get the Youth safe at her moorings before night comes, or a storm either—shall we not?” asked Harry.

“We’ll hope so,” answered Captain Mugford, who pulled out his pipe and filled it hard, continuing, “Who’ll hand me out a light from the cuddy?” I went in and struck one, and brought him a match, blazing famously. “Thank, you,” he said. “Drake—just,” (puff puff)—“just shake—oh! there goes that light!” I quickly brought him another—“just shake out—that—that—” (puff, puff). He had it all right now, the smoke coming in vast volumes; so he replaced his hat and removed the pipe from his teeth for a moment to complete the order—

“Drake, just shake that reef out of the mainsail.”

“All right, sir!” said Drake. I helped him; but in half an hour the wind, as the Captain had foretold, was ahead, and not strong enough to fill the sails.

Fifteen or sixteen miles we were from home, with every indication that a heavy squall was to follow the calm settling down upon us. The dancing white caps of the morning had died away in a quiet, sullen sea, which only a land-swell moved. The sun had gone down to within a half-hour’s distance of the horizon, shining on the distant western cliffs, whose variety, boldness, and ruggedness were magnified in outline and intensified in colouring by the heavy, yellowish-red glare which fell on them, and the sun’s rays shot out in long forks, piercing the dark blue of the sea at all points in the western semicircle of our view. The atmosphere had grown warm—very warm for a September afternoon.

We boys felt something portentous in the scene. The Captain grew uncomfortable, too, no longer laughing heartily or joining in our talk. He kept his eyes on the sky, and smoked pipe after pipe.

Even Ugly ceased napping beside Walter, and, uttering a whining yawn, as if sleepy but uneasy, walked forward to the idle foresail, and stood there with extended nose to smell out, if he could, what was wrong.

So we lay for nearly an hour, our only movement being with the outgoing tide, the sails flapping with the slow swell of the sea. But when the sun had disappeared the wind commenced to come, first in little puffs, now from one quarter and then from another. The gale would be on us in a moment.

The Captain took the helm then, and ordered us to stand by and be ready to tend the sails.

“Look out, too, for the swinging of that boom,” he said, “and make Ugly get out of the way and lie down somewhere.”

Ugly, hearing that speech, did not wait for further commands, but stowed himself away at the foot of the mast.

Now the wind came in heavier puffs, and then in squalls from the east.

“I hope it will settle there,” spoke out the Captain. “It is coming heavier, but I hope steady.”

He kept his eyes on all parts of the now lowering sky, and presently added—

“Take two reefs in the mainsail and shift the jib! Get the storm-jib up. Now hook on. Run it out. Hoist away.”

That was done, no easy matter for novices in a heavy sea, and we flew away before the increasing gale. Fortunately the night was not very dark, there being a quarter moon to throw its light through the rifts of clouds.

How fast the sea got up! The wind grew heavier every moment. The mast of our little cutter creaked with each plunge, and the plunges were hard and quick. The scene was truly alarming, and we felt the danger of our situation. To be sure, we were comparatively safe if the gale should grow no worse; but it was increasing every moment in a manner that threatened in another hour to be too much for us. There was danger, too, that something might be carried away, or that, in the frothy sea and uncertain light, we might strike some of the sunken rocks that now and then stood off from shore like sentries. But the Youth leapt furiously onward from one mad wave to another, our good Captain steering with a strong hand.

The black, broken clouds rolled close to the sea, which seemed striving madly to swallow them; but on they flew with the screams of the wind. The thin moonlight, streaming unsteadily through the troops of clouds across the riven waves, had a ghastly effect—sometimes obscuring, sometimes exaggerating the terrors surrounding us. The shore, a mile to leeward, was to our sight only a bristling, indefinite terror; for there, where loomed the land we longed for, was the greatest peril—the line of fierce breakers that shouted their threats in terrible chorus.

I suppose we boys were all much terrified. I quailed with dread, for it was my first experience of a storm on the water, and its time and appearance were so imposing.

One would never have suspected from Captain Mugford’s manner that we were in any danger. His face was as calm and his hand as steady as if we were having the pleasantest sail imaginable; only the violence with which he smoked, ramming fingers full of tobacco into his pipe every few minutes, betokened any unusual excitement, but we knew how absorbed he was in his charge by his silence.

We were speechless, too, holding on fast to the backstays or gunwale to keep our places in the desperate leaps and lurches the gallant little craft was making. Ugly was soon thrown from his station, and, finding he could not keep legs or position anywhere unaided, went and ensconced himself between our skipper’s legs.

Harder, heavier blew the wind, and wilder grew the sea, so that it seemed sometimes as if we must go over, and the bowsprit now buried itself in every billow. Then the Captain said to us in a calm, steady voice—

“Boys, you must get another reef in the mainsail and lower the foresail. Now, be careful and steady about it. There is no hurry. Bob, you come here; the others can manage that work. You sit aft out of the way.”

I did as directed; and the orders were speedily carried out without accident.

Boatswain’s Half-Acre Reef, a low rock that stood out at sea, about three and a half miles south-east-by-east from our cape, now came in sight ahead of us to the windward. In the spectral light, and beaten on by the waves, it looked like some sea monster moving in the water. As we were going we should probably pass close to its lee side in about ten minutes, but the wind blew a tempest, and the sea increased so in a few minutes that our peril was terrible. For two hours we had battled—though evidently the storm was soon to be the conqueror.

Several seas came aboard in angry haste, and the punt, which had been in tow all day, broke loose and was carried away. Another sea, stronger than its fellows, suddenly struck us a tremendous blow. The cutter heeled over, so that the water boiled above the lee gunwale. The assaulting sea, too, broke up and over the weather-side, and drenched us all in its cataract. To increase our terror, a cry came from Alfred, who had been tossed from his hold and nearly cast overboard, but he caught the backstay as our yet unconquered boat rose from the blow like some brave but wounded animal. The water was several inches deep about our feet, and the good Youth had lost half its buoyancy.

Then came the Captain’s voice again, steady and strong, but full of feeling—

“We’ll get through it yet, lads, God protecting us,” he sung out. “But all hands must try and do their duty. You know Nelson’s last general order—‘England expects that every man this day will do his duty.’ That same motto carried out has saved many a stout ship and rich cargo, and the neglect of it has lost many more. Now, there’s work for all of you. Walter, do you rig the pump, and Bob, do you help him, and the rest of you set to and bale. Be smart, now. There are two skids and a bucket, or use your hats. Anyhow, the boat must be cleared.”

He spoke deliberately, not to alarm us, but at the same time we all saw that there was no time to be lost. Walter and I now got the pump to work, while the rest set to and baled away with might and main. I also joined them, using my hat as the Captain advised, for Walter could easily work the pump by himself. Still, in spite of the excellent steering of the old skipper, the seas came tumbling in over the bows and sides also so rapidly that it was hard work for us to keep the boat clear. Besides this, (notwithstanding her name, being an old boat), she strained so much that the seams opened and made her leak fearfully. It soon, indeed, became a question—and a very serious one—whether the boat could be kept afloat till we should reach our own harbour. We were now laying well up for the cape, though we were making what sailors call “very bad weather of it;” but, should the wind shift a little, and come more ahead, we might have a dead beat of several hours before us. We saw the skipper looking out anxiously at the reef I have described. A considerable portion, even at the highest tides, was several feet above water, and easily accessible. As the rock also afforded a shelter to numerous seafowl, which built their nests in its crevices, it would afford some security to a few human beings. Still, during a gale such as was now blowing, the sea washed tumultuously round the rock, and rendered the landing—even on the lee side—not only difficult but dangerous. I, for one, did not at all like the condition of the boat; still, as the skipper had hitherto said nothing, I did not like to propose that we should try to land on the reef. The old man was silent for some time; he again scanned the reef, and then he turned his eyes to the distant shore.

“Boys,” he said at last, “I wish you not to be alarmed. The boat may very possibly keep above water till we reach the cape, if you can bale out the seas as fast as they wash in; but I am bound to tell you that there is a risk of our being swamped if we were to meet such a sea as I have seen, under like circumstances, come rolling in. There lies Boatswain’s Reef—in five minutes we may be safe upon it—but much depends on your coolness and courage. The most difficult and dangerous movement will be the leaping on shore. Do you, Walter, make a rope fast round the bits; unreeve the fore halliards, they will suit best, and are new and strong. That will do; secure them well, and coil the rope carefully, so that it may run out free of everything. Now stand with the rope in your hand, and as I bring the boat up to the rock, do you leap out, and spring up to the upper part, where you will find a jagged point or more to which to make it fast. The rest of you, when the boat touches the rock, be ready to spring on shore; but remember, don’t spring till I tell you. I’ll call each of you by name, and the first on shore must stand by to help the others. There, I can’t say more, except one word—be steady, and cool, and trust in God.”

Walter did as directed, and we all stood watching the skipper’s eye, that we might obey him directly he gave the word. It is a most important thing to have confidence in a commander. It is the great secret of England’s success in most instances. Although there may be many shortcomings, both her soldiers and sailors know that, in nine cases out of ten, they will be well and bravely led, and the officers know also that they will be thoroughly supported by the men. If they go ahead, there will never be a want of men to follow them, even to the cannon’s mouth.

On we dashed, amid the boiling, foaming seas. We had to continue pumping and baling as energetically as before. Had we ceased, but for half a minute, it seemed as if the boat would to a certainty go down, even before we could reach the rock. Captain Mugford did not address us again, but kept his eyes watching, now the heavy seas which came rolling up on the weather bow, and now the black rock towards which we were standing. All the time we kept carefully edging away, till we were under the lee of the reef—of that part, however, over which the sea broke with great force. Still, the water was smoother than it had been for some time. We stood on, continuing to bale.

Suddenly the Captain cried out, “Now, lads, to your feet, and be ready to spring on shore when I give the word.” We all jumped up. Walter stepped forward and took the rope in his hand, as he had been directed. The Captain luffed up, and ran the boat alongside the rock; but there was still great way on her, and a tremendous crashing sound showed us that she had struck the rock below water. Walter sprang on shore, Drake and Harry followed, and as he leapt to the top of the rock, followed to help him make fast the rope round one of its roughest projections. Ugly sprang at the same time, and the rest of us went next—not a moment too soon. I was the last of the boys. The Captain came close behind me. He was securing another rope round the mast, and, with the end of it in his hand, he leapt on to the rock. As he left the deck, the boat seemed to glide from under him. “Haul, boys! haul! all together,” he shouted. Our united efforts, aided by the surging water, got the fast sinking boat on to a rock. There the boat lay, little better than a wreck; but we were safe. We now saw how anxious our good skipper had been, for, taking off his hat, and looking up to heaven, he exclaimed, with a fervour I did not expect, “Thank God for His great mercy—they are all safe.”

Chapter Thirteen.

Night on the Reef—Our Salt Tute’s Sermon.

Our “salt tute” had gone through many a storm at sea; had once escaped, the only soul saved out of fifty-three, from a foundered bark, and endured five days’ suffering, without bread or water, on a raft. But, as I heard him tell Mr Clare afterwards, he had never undergone an experience more painful than those two or three hours of gale in our little cutter. It was his affection for us boys; the reflection that he had proposed the pleasure sail, and the terrible sense of responsibility: those together had tried the old man’s heart, head, and nerves, as they had never been tried before.

Among the exciting events of that night, one circumstance impressed me with astonishment, though it was but small matter perhaps for a boy to have noticed at such a time. It was that the Captain several times expressed himself in terms of piety, and even ejaculated that prayer when our safety was secured. We had sometimes heard him swear before that, and had always noticed, in contrast to Mr Clare, his indifference to any religious service or subject; indeed, the only emotion we had ever seen him display with regard to such matters was on the occasion of Mr Clare’s address after the combat between Drake and Alfred.

It was eight o’clock when we landed on our little rocky island of deliverance. Boatswain’s Reef was, as its name described, only half an acre in extent—a jagged, stony reef, raised but a few yards at its highest point above high-tide mark.

Very cold, somewhat anxious, and much exhausted, we found in a few moments the only shelter it afforded—a level place of sand and sea grass, about six yards square, defended on the south-west by a miniature cliff. There a lot of seaweed had accumulated, and the driftings of many gales collected. Several barrel staves, a large worm-eaten ship’s knee, part of a vessel’s stern, with all but the letters “Conq” obliterated, (the name had probably been Conqueror, conquered now, as Alfred observed, by old ocean); and many pieces and splinters of spar. The Captain made the discovery with us, and immediately suggested that we should shelter ourselves there and light a fire.

“Thanks, boys, to the necessities of my pipe, I always have a tinder-box in my pockets. Perhaps there are some not wet. Here, hunt for them; I’ll throw off my pea-jacket, for I must go to work and try to save something from the poor Youth—our grub at least. I want you to stay where you are, out of the storm, and to get a good fire going. It may possibly show them on the cape that we are safe.”

“O Captain!” exclaimed Walter, “do let me help you. I don’t want to sit here and do nothing but build a fire whilst you are at work and perhaps in danger.”

“Come along, then, as you are the biggest and strongest—come along,” replied the Captain, and away they hurried to where our good old boat was groaning on the beach and pounding against rocks with every beat of the sea.

She had been driven up too far to get off easily, but with a big hole in her bows it seemed probable that she would go to pieces before morning.

The sky was black everywhere. The roar of wind and waves was tremendous. The spray dashed in sheets, at every blow of the sea, over our spot of defence, so that it was difficult to start a fire. We were successful, though, and its light showed the figures of the Captain and Walter, by the stranded boat, climbing on board through the froth of the surf; pitched up and down as she tossed and bumped; getting down the tattered sail and hauling it ashore; jumping on the beach again with coils of rope; saving all that could be saved. And then, the tide having risen high, both together left her for the last time, bearing, at much risk, the anchor with them, which they fastened in a cleft of the rocks, that when our dear old boat—the home of many and many a fine time—did break up, something might be left of her.

We could not hear their voices, but saw the gestures for us to come and help, and in a few minutes we were all engaged carrying the rescued remnants up to our safe place.

Ugly helped. First he dragged a coil of rope and laid it beside the cliff; then he got hold of a loaf of bread which had dropped from among the other provisions, and carried that with some trouble but much pride.

In the storm and darkness, only fitfully broken by the firelight, we ate our supper under what shelter the low cliff afforded. Our boyish spirits were much subdued and awed by the peril we had passed through and the sombre scene about us.

The meal being finished, we made some preparations for the night, fastening the sail, by the weight of large stones laid on one edge of it, to the top of the rock, and then bringing its other edge, the boom side, to the ground and steadying it there with pegs. In that way we constructed a kind of tent, in which we piled a bedding and covering of dry seaweed.

The Captain stood by the fire, smoking his pipe and watching our arrangements. When they were completed, and we boys, gratified with our success, began to declare our situation “rather jolly,” he interrupted us somewhat abruptly in this way:—

“You chaps always say your prayers before you sleep, I dare say. If so, you’ll not forget them to-night—will you?”

“No, sir,” we answered.

“Young shipmates, you remember how Mr Clare talked to you one day in the Clear the Track—eh? Well, then, for the first time in nigh forty years—think of that, nigh forty years—I said my prayers, the only ones I ever said, that my—mo—ther taught me; and somehow they came so clear to me that I felt like as if my—mo—ther was kneeling beside me. I ran away to sea, like the young fool that I was, when I was eleven years old. It was going on four years before I came back to my old home. I had forgotten my prayers. I tried hard to remember them, too, then, and some of the Scripture stories and lessons my—mo—ther used to teach me; for she was—gone.”

His voice did not tremble, but he spoke very slowly, as if he wanted to speak out to us, and yet wished to do it without betraying the deep feeling that the events of the evening had intensified. Each time before he spoke the words “my mother,” he took the pipe from his mouth and hesitated a moment, as if to steady himself. Somehow the old Captain’s voice was softer, I thought, than I had ever heard it before—it may have been fatigue and the noises of the storm that made it sound so. His face, too, looked to me as if it had lost its hard lines and roughness—perhaps the firelight caused that to seem so. And those bold, sharp eyes of his were as gentle as my little sister Aggie’s. He continued:—

“Hard times a youngster often has at sea, not in all ships, but in many, I tell you, and bad companions on every side. No gentle looks or kind words, but knocks and oaths. No time to read, and all that; hardly a chance to think. Well, I was a bad one, and worse when I went back again, and had my—mo—ther no longer to love me, and no one anywhere in the world to care a button for Rowly,” (his Christian name was Roland). “I was a pretty reckless, hearty, devil-me-care fellow, I tell you. I could rough it and fight my way with the strongest, and never thought further ahead than the moment I was living in. So, for thirty years and more I knocked about the world, coming scot-free through a thousand dangers. Yes, and I got ahead all the time and prospered, thinking mighty well of myself, my good luck, clear head, and tough arm. I never thought of God. I don’t know but that I had almost forgotten that there was a God; at any rate, if I thought of Him, it was with doubt and indifference. Yet, boys, in all that time, ‘He cared for me, upheld me, blessed me.’”

His words grew hurried and thick, his head was turned so I could not see his face, and the old black pipe had fallen from his fingers to the ground. Ugly walked around and snuffed at it in amazement. But the Captain went on:—

“Now I feel it all—how I feel it—since I heard Mr Clare that day. Nearly forty years deaf, but I hear God’s voice within me now, louder and louder every day; and what has He done for us to-day? How He has spoken! Ah! boys, you’ll never be the old sinner I have been. ‘Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth.’ Part of the only hymn I can remember, of my mother’s, has come again and again to my ear to-night—that—

“‘God moves in a mysterious way,

His wonders to perform;

He plants His footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.’

“I forget the rest, except—

“‘Trust Him for His grace:

Behind a frowning Providence

He hides a smiling face.’

“Boys! turn in now. I am on watch, and shall keep the fire going. Turn in, I tell you.”

With those last words to finish his talk and order us to bed, his voice regained its sailor-like strength and roughness, but it melted again as he added—

“My dear old boys, we shall all pray to-night, eh? and from wiser and better hearts. Thank God!”

The last things I was conscious of that night were the whistling of the wind and the roaring of the waves, and the snapping and fizzing of the red embers, thus telling their stories to the storm of the brave ships of which they once formed parts.

Chapter Fourteen.

Ugly volunteers—Our Fresh Tute to the Rescue!

“Poor old Robinson Crusoe! poor old Robinson Crusoe!

They made him a coat of an old nanny-goat:

I wonder how they could do so!

With a ring a ting tang, and a ring a ting tang,

Poor old Robinson Crusoe.” Mother Goose.

The storm broke before morning, and a clear fresh September day opened on us castaways. There was no exertion of ours that could get us home, for our little cutter was a complete wreck, and we had but one of the many requisites for constructing a boat or raft—it consisted of the few planks and timbers of the wreck of the boat which still held together or had been washed upon the beach, and which, if we were not rescued before another morning, must be employed in feeding our fire. All the provisions we had taken with us on our day’s voyage were consumed, except one loaf of bread and two pies, but a sufficient supply of the fish had been brought from the cutter to feed us for several meals. Of water—the greatest necessity—there was not a drop on Boatswain’s Half-Acre. During the morning, the want of that became a pain, and before night any one of us would have given all he possessed for a single glass of cold water. Captain Mugford told us that now, for the fourth time in his life, he knew the suffering of thirst.

We must wait to be discovered, to be rescued, and before that we might die of thirst, for our island was only a low rock, and vessels going up and down channel kept generally too far from the reef to allow us to be seen by them on board. We could see our cape, and even the old house, but had no way of making signals, except by the fire at night.

Beautiful as was the day, it was one only of pain and anxiety to us. Of the few sails we saw, not one came within three miles of us. Where could Mr Clare be all this time?

The sea fell so fast that by two o’clock in the afternoon it was smooth as a lake. Harry Higginson and I sat looking at it on a point of the reef, with Ugly by our side. Ugly’s tongue hung dry from his mouth, and he panted for a drop of water, but he was pained, too, I am sure, because of our silence and dejection. Watching our faces, as if wondering what he could do for us, he at length walked down to the waterline and looked across to the cape with a long whine. Then he ran back and put his paws on Harry’s knee, as if he would have him say something. So Harry patted his head and said, “Yes, old boy, I wish we could get there.”

He sprang down again and commenced to bark, pointing his nose towards the cape.

I called to him, “Don’t be a fool, Ugly; your little bark can’t reach them.”

He cried and ran back to Harry, but in a second more, barking like fury, he ran to the water and swam off in the direction of our home.

We called to him again and again, entreating and commanding his return; but he paid no attention to us, and swam on. We were filled with sorrow and alarm, for surely little Ugly could not swim that distance—over three miles. We called to the Captain and the boys, and in a few minutes we were all standing watching the progress of brave Ugly.

What was going on at the cape all this time?

Mr Clare did not return on Saturday, and as night set in without our appearance, Clump and Juno got anxious. Having, however, great confidence in the Captain’s care and skill, they were not so much alarmed as they might have been, supposing that he, seeing the approaching gale, had made some harbour, and that there we should stay until the weather changed. For some reason, both Clump and Juno supposed we had gone to the westward. That shore was broken by several bays and small rivers, and eleven miles westward was the fishing-village of —. Nevertheless, the good old people were somewhat alarmed, and sat up all night over their kitchen fire.

By ten o’clock of the next day their fears had grown too troublesome to allow further inaction. Clump pulled over in his punt to the village, across the bay. There he got some sailors to take a boat and go down the south coast to look for us, and gathering all the advice and surmises he could, (which were not consoling), from seafaring men he knew, returned to the cape.

When Juno heard Clump’s report, her distress was very great. As she groaned, and wiped her wet, shrivelled eyes with a duster, she said—

“Lor’ o’ Marsy! Clump, ef harm’s cum ter dem chiles ob Massa Tregellin—den—den—you berry me—berry dis ole ’ooman deep.”

“Now, toff your mout, June—toff your mout! Wen I’se done berry you, ou yer ’spects gwine ’posit Clump en de bowels ob de arth, ay? He jist stay here and tink.”—He did not mean think, but another word commencing with that unpronounceable s—“You’se fool, ole ’ooman; when you’se begin mittrut de Lor’, ay?”

Clump was so frightened himself that he had to talk pretty strong to his spouse.

Mr Clare, after morning service in the church at Q—town, where he had gone to hear a college friend preach, took advantage of the lovely autumn day to walk home, which was about ten miles. He made his way slowly, enjoying every foot of the road, little contemplating the shock he was to receive at his journey’s end.

He heard Clump and Juno’s report without a word, only growing paler and paler. Then he sat down and covered his face, and, after a moment of silence, asked the negroes certain questions as to the course they supposed us to have taken, as to the storm on the cape, etcetera, etcetera.

He started off after that on a hard run for Bath Bay, where he jumped into a boat, and, pulling out into the greater bay, rowed with all his strength over to the village; but his inquiries there could gain no information, so he hired a small schooner-rigged boat and its owner to go out with him and hunt us up, or find some trace of our fate.

Mr Clare could not be still whilst the boatman, who had to go up to his home first, was getting ready, but ordered him to make all haste and call for him off the cape, and then he jumped into his own boat again and recrossed to the cape. But the boatman took a long time in coming, Mr Clare walking up and down the cape in the meanwhile, a prey to the gloomiest apprehensions. It was nearly five o’clock before Mr Clare saw his boat drawing near. At the same moment he heard a scampering through the short, dry grass behind him, and the wheezing of some animal breathing thick and quick. Turning, he saw, greatly to his surprise, Ugly coming towards him as fast as he could run. Poor little Ugly was dripping with water, and completely blown and tired out—so tired that, when he had reached Mr Clare’s feet, he could only lie down there and pant. Mr Clare knew there was some important reason for Ugly’s appearing in that manner, and though he did not suspect the exact state of the case, yet he lifted him in his arms and got on board the boat, which had now hauled in close to the rocks.

“Which way will’re go, sir?” asked the grey, gruff boatman.

“Keep down south of the cape, near in shore. Clump says they went west,” answered Mr Clare.

Poor Ugly had somewhat recovered by being wrapped up in Mr Clare’s warm coat, and when he had put his nose into a pail of water that was on board, he kept it there until the bucket was empty, much to the surprise of both Mr Clare and Phil Grayson, the old boatman. Further strengthened and refreshed by something to eat, Ugly jumped up on the bow to see where they were going.

He showed evident signs of disapprobation when he saw the boat steering west; running to the stern, he there stretched his nose out to the east, and barked furiously. Mr Clare, thinking from the negroes’ assertions that he must be on the right track, could not understand Ugly’s uneasiness. How he had reached the cape, although it was evident he had been in the water somewhere, Mr Clare did not know, nor could he guess, of course, whence he had come. He only hoped that Ugly had left us in safety, and had come in some way to get assistance. It was nearly dark, and the wind had gone down with the sun. Soon the boat lay becalmed. Ugly showed an unmistakable disposition to jump overboard, which, however, was partly quieted when he saw Mr Clare and old Phil use the oars; but when they persevered on the westerly course, Ugly, with an angry bark, sprang overboard and swam in an opposite direction. That movement proved to Mr Clare that they were going wrong, so the boat was turned and pulled in Ugly’s wake until he was overhauled and taken on board. He shook himself, wagged his tail frantically, and kissed the hands of both Phil and Mr Clare. It was but slow progress with the oars against the ebb-tide. In about an hour, however, the first whiffs of the night-breeze came to fill the sails, and the oars were put in. They had rounded the cape, and old Phil asked again—

“Whar ne-e-ow, Capting—in shore, you think, or straight ahead?”

“Near the shore, I should think, just br—” but Mr Clare’s reply was interrupted by Ugly’s barking.

Skipper Phil put the boat’s head to the north-east, to get nearer in shore as Mr Clare had said, and—splash! Ugly was overboard again and making for the east.

“You see, Phil,” said Mr Clare, “you must get sailing-orders from Ugly, not me; and, Phil, I begin to be much encouraged by that dog’s actions. He does not hesitate, but seems to have something important to do, and to feel confidence in his ability to do it.”

“That’s so, Capting,” answered Phil, as, having got the boat about, he belayed the sheets and put the other hand to the helm; “he’s a clever animal, he is. It seems to me that ar dog understands talk like a Christian. Did you take notice h-e-ow he was overboard as quick as you spoke, afore I started a shut? But whar are we going?—that’s what I want to know.”

“Phil,” interrupted Mr Clare, “what light is that flaring up away ahead there on your lee bow?”

“By God, I see! the sails hid that—they did,” Phil grumbled, and bent down to see beneath the sails. He chuckled some time before he answered, and his chuckle grew to a laugh. “Ha! ha! ha!—that ar light is on Boatswain’s Reef, just as sure as my name is Phil Grayson. Mr Clare—hurrah!—your boys are safe.”

Ugly, who had been lifted on board before that, joined his rejoicing bark to the skipper’s merriment, and from the reef came a distant hallooing.

The flames at the reef grew brighter and higher. The sparks flashed and flew up to the dark sky. The shouting increased to yells. The rescuers on the schooner answered; and as for Ugly, the hero of our deliverance, he was almost frantic with delight.

The first words that were distinguishable from the reef were—

“Is that you, Mr Clare? Have you any water on board?”

“Yes!” was responded.

“Oh! do hurry, then—we can’t stand this any longer!” cried out Harry.

In two hours more as happy a boatload as ever floated was springing before a fresh breeze toward the cape. Long before we touched shore our glad halloos had reached the old house, and lifted a heavy weight from the hearts of Clump and Juno.

They met us on the rocks, and each one of us had to undergo an embrace from their sable excellencies, ay, excellencies indeed, in devotion and uprightness such as this world seldom sees surpassed. Even Captain Mugford did not escape the ardour of the welcome; and whilst they hugged us the dear old negroes were crying like children, from joy.

Chapter Fifteen.

Evenings on the Wreck, with a Story from the Captain.

The favourite season of girls is, I think, Spring; and of boys, Autumn. One is the time of dreams, flowers, and emotions; the other, the period of hopes, courage, and accomplishment.

October, the fulness of Autumn, with its cool, clear, bracing air; with its gathered crops, rustling leaves, and golden light: October, when days of furious storm are succeeded by weeks of hazy sunshine and muffled quiet; when the fish are fat but greedy; when quacking seafowl and game of every kind tempt the lovers of good sport—

Ah! that is the time for boys.

We fellows gulped it up as the hounds do their meat when distributed to them, for by the end of October we should finish our six months at the cape.

This dashed our cup of happiness with regret, as the falling leaves and low winds moaning of winter touch October with a tint of sadness. But in one case, as in the other, the spice of regret was just what gave zest to the enjoyment of our pleasure.

The days being so short, it got to be our habit to improve every one of our daylight hours, out of school, in the many sports which invited us, and to do our studying in the evenings. So every night, as soon as supper was finished, we repaired with Mr Clare to the schoolroom in the old brig. There would be a wood-fire crackling in the stove, and two shaded, bright lamps hanging over the tables.

We took up our studies, and Mr Clare sat by, ready to answer questions or give explanations. When not busied with us he smoked and chatted with Captain Mugford, or read the papers and magazines. Ugly had his place on a mat where he could hear and see all that was going on.

Generally, during some portion of the evening, the Captain spread out his great red bandanna on his knees, and took a loud-snoring nap. Every movement of our salt tute’s was interpreted by some corresponding signal of the bandanna handkerchief. When perplexed, he wiped his forehead with it; when amused, it blew a merry peal on his nose; in moments of excitement or delight, it was snapped by his side; when sleepy, he spread it on his lap; and once, I remember, he suddenly stowed it away—when much enraged by an impudent fellow who was shooting on our cape—in the stomach of his breeches instead of in the usual hind-pocket of his coat. The intruder seemed to understand the warlike signal, for he immediately stopped his insolence and made off. In fact, the Captain’s red bandanna was like the Spanish woman’s fan—a language in itself.

One evening we all finished our lessons early and drew our stools about the stove. Our salt tute was snoring bass and Ugly treble, so we did not disturb their dreams, but talked in low voices to Mr Clare, until, whether intentionally or irresistibly I know not, Drake gave a tremendous sneeze, so loud and shrill that Ugly sprang to his legs with a loud bark, and the Captain’s head bounced from his chest and struck the back of his chair with a bang.

“Bless my heart!” said the Captain, clutching the handkerchief from his knees, and commencing to wipe his head with it. “Bless my soul, I rather think that I must have been napping. There you are, all laughing around the fire, whilst I have been dreaming of—well, never mind—days gone by—you may depend on that; but, Ugly, what were your dreams about, eh?”

“We should like to hear, though, something about those days gone by, Captain,” said Mr Clare, suspecting that the worthy old seaman was in the vein for story-telling. “It is a long time since you have spun us a yarn, and the boys have been much wishing for one.”

“Ay, that we have, Captain,” we all sang out together; “we should like to hear something about those days gone by which you were dreaming of just now. We are sure from your countenance that there is something interesting; come, tell us all about it.”

“You’ll be disappointed, then. It’s curious, and that is all I can say in its favour,” answered the skipper; “I was thinking, or dreaming rather, of a circumstance which I haven’t thought of for many a year that I can remember, which occurred during my first voyage. However, I’ll undertake to tell it you if, when I’ve done, Mr Clare will spin you one of his yarns. He can spin one better than I can. Come, make him promise, and I will begin. If not, I’ll shut up my mouth.”

On this, of course, we all turned on our fresh water tutor and attacked him. “Come; Mr Clare, do promise us to give us one of your stories. Something about your life in America; you saw a good many curious things out there in the backwoods, which we should like to hear. Do promise us, now.” Thus appealed to, Mr Clare gave the desired promise; and on this the skipper, blowing his nose with his red bandanna, which he afterwards placed across his knees, began what I will call:—

The Castaways.

A Tale of the Caribbean Sea.

“Land, ho! Land, ho!” was shouted one morning, soon after daybreak, from the mast-head. I was on my first voyage to the West Indies, in the good ship Banana.

“Where away?” asked the captain, whom the sound called out of his berth on deck.

“A little on the starboard bow,” was the answer.

The ship was kept away towards the point indicated, while the captain, with his glass slung on his back, went aloft. The passengers, of whom I forgot to say we had several, and all the crew, were on the lookout, wondering what land it could be. We found, after the captain came below and had consulted his chart, that it was a little rock or key to the southward of Barbadoes.

“We’ll get a nearer look at them, in case any poor fellows may have been cast away there. I have known the survivors of a ship’s company remain on them for weeks together, and in some instances they have died of starvation before relief has reached them.”

As we approached the rock all the glasses on board were directed towards it, to ascertain if there were signs of human beings there. The spot looked silent and deserted.

“If there are any poor fellows there, how eagerly they will watch our approach—how anxious they will be lest we should sail away without looking for them,” I said to myself.

While these thoughts were passing through my mind, I heard the first mate say that he could make out something white on the shore, which he took for a tent or a boat’s sail. As we drew nearer it became evident that there was a tent, but no human being was stirring that we could see. Nearer still a boat was observed, drawn up on the rocks. On further inspection she was discovered to be a complete wreck. Melancholy indeed was the spectacle which told so clearly its own story—how the shipwrecked mariners had been cast on the island in their boat—how they had gone on waiting for relief, and how at length famine had carried them off, one by one, till none remained. Still our captain was not a man to quit the spot after so cursory an inspection. The ship, having got under the lee of the land, was hove to, and a boat was lowered. Charley, another midshipman, or apprentice rather, and I formed part of her crew, while Mr Merton, our first officer, went in charge of her, accompanied by some of the passengers.

It was a long, low, coral-formed island, with a white beach—a very untempting spot for a habitation in that burning climate. When we landed, Mr Merton told us to accompany him, leaving two other men in the boat. We followed close after him, with the boat’s stretchers in our hands, proceeding along the beach, for the tent we had seen was some little distance from where we had landed. We had got within a hundred yards of it, when suddenly part of it was thrown back, and out there rushed towards us two figures, whose frantic and threatening gestures made us start back with no little surprise, if not with some slight degree of apprehension. They were both tall, gaunt men, their hair was long and matted, their eyes were starting out of their heads, and their cheeks were hollow and shrivelled. They looked more like skeletons covered with parchment than human beings. Their clothes were in rags, and their large straw hats were in tatters, and, to increase their strange appearance, they had covered themselves with long streamers of dried seaweed, strings of shells, and wreaths of the feathers of wild birds. Each of them flourished in his hand a piece of timber—a rib, apparently, of a boat.

“Who are you, who dare to come and invade our territory?” exclaimed one, advancing before the other. “Away—away—away! We are monarchs and rulers here. This land is ours, won by our trusty swords and battle-axes. Away, I say! or meet the consequences of your temerity.”

I was at first puzzled to know who the people could be, but our mate at once comprehended the true state of the case, and with great tact endeavoured to calm the strangers instead of irritating them, as many would have done.

“Don’t be afraid that we are come to interfere with you, or to trespass on your territories, most mighty sovereigns, as you undoubtedly are,” he answered, stopping short and holding up his hands. “Just hear what I have to say. Lower your weapons, and let us hoist a flag of truce.”

“Granted, granted. Spoke like a sensible man, most worthy ambassadors,” exclaimed the person who had hitherto not said anything. And both, lowering their clubs, stood still, gazing inquiringly at us. I had never before seen the effect of a few calm words, and a steady, determined look, in tranquillising the fury of madmen. Such were, undoubtedly, these unfortunate occupants of the island.

“Listen, then,” continued Mr Merton. I had never before heard him say so much at a time. “You see yonder ship: she is bound on a far-distant trip, and on her way she called here on the chance of finding any one in distress who might need aid. Should no one require it, she will at once take her departure. Can you tell me if any people are residing on your island who may wish to leave it? At all events, you yourselves may have letters to send home. If you will at once get them ready, I will gladly be the bearer.”

The two unfortunate maniacs looked at each other with a bewildered look. The idea of writing home, and not going themselves, seemed to strike them forcibly.

“Home!” cried one, in a deep, hollow voice. “Home! where is that?”

“Old England, I conclude,” answered our mate. “You have many friends there who would be glad to see you—father, mother, sisters, wife and children; or perhaps one who has long, long been expecting you, and mourned for you, and wondered and wondered, till the heart grew sick, that you did not come—yet even now faithful, and believing against hope, fondly expects your return.”

Mr Merton had been skilfully watching the effect of his remarks. They were most successful. He had touched a chord which had long ceased to vibrate. Again the two madmen looked inquiringly into each other’s faces.

“Is it possible?” said one, touching his forehead. “Has all this been an hallucination?”

“Norton, I do not longer doubt it,” answered the other. “We have conjured up many wild fancies, but the sight of that ship and the sound of a countryman’s voice have dispelled them. We are ready to go with you, friend.”

The person who had last spoken seemed at the first to be less mad than his companion.

“I am glad of your decision, gentlemen, and the sooner we get on board the better. But tell me, did you come here alone? Have you no companions?”

“Companions! Yes, we had. We frightened them away. They fled from us.”

“Where are they now?” asked the mate.

“On the other side of the island,” answered the least mad of the strangers. “They dare not approach us. Perhaps you may find them. They will gladly go away. While you search for them we will prepare for our departure.”

“Very well, gentlemen, we will return for you,” answered Mr Merton, in his usual calm tone. It had a wonderful effect in soothing the irritation of the madmen.

We took our way in the direction they pointed across the island. After walking and climbing some way over the uneven ground, we came in sight of a hut built of driftwood and pieces of wreck, almost hid from view in the sheltered nook of the rock. No one was moving about it. Its appearance was very sad and desolate.

“Perhaps the unfortunate people are all dead,” remarked Charley to me. “I think, from what those two strange men down there said, they have not seen them for a long time.”

We went on, apprehending the worst. As we got nearer, we hallooed to warn anybody who might be there of our coming, so as not to take them by surprise. Again we hallooed, and directly afterwards we saw the head of a man appear at an opening in the hut which served as a window, while he thrust out of it the muzzle of a musket.

“Hillo, mate! don’t fire. We come as friends,” shouted Mr Merton.

The musket was speedily withdrawn, and a man appeared at the door of the hut, followed closely by another. There they both stood, closely regarding us with looks of wonder. As they saw us they called to some one inside, and two more men appeared at the door of the hut, stretching out their hands towards us. Their clothes were in rags and tatters, and they had a very wretched, starved appearance.

“Are you come to take us from this?” inquired the man we had at first seen, in a hollow, cavernous voice.

“I hope so, if you wish to go,” answered the mate.

“Go! yes, yes, at once—at once!” shouted the poor wretches, in the same hollow tones. “We thought at first you were two madmen who are living on the opposite side of the island.”

Mr Merton told them that they need be no longer afraid of the madmen, and that as he had no time to remain, they must accompany him at once to the boat.

The first speaker, who said that he was the mate of the vessel to which the rest belonged, replied that he was afraid none of them would be able to walk across the island, as they had scarcely any strength remaining, and that he believed a few days more would have finished their miseries.

While Mr Merton and the mate were speaking, the rest beckoned us to come into the hut. Heaps of empty shells and bones of fish showed what had been for long their principal food. Some dried seaweed had served as their beds, and a tin saucepan appeared to have been their only cooking utensil, while a cask contained a very small supply of water.

From their appearance, I do not think that they could have existed many days longer. The only weapon they had was the musket which had been presented at our approach, but the mate confessed that they had not a grain of gunpowder, but that he thought by showing it he might frighten away the madmen, for whom he mistook us. They had, consequently, been unable to shoot any of the birds which frequented the rock, though they had collected some eggs, which had proved a valuable change in their diet. As time pressed, Mr Merton urged them to prepare for their departure. Having collected a few trifling articles, relics of their long imprisonment, they declared themselves ready to make the attempt to move. Charley and I helped along the mate, who was the strongest, while Mr Merton and the two seamen who had accompanied us assisted the other three. Even as it was, so weak were they, that without the utmost aid we could afford them they could not have crossed the island. They had frequently to sit down, and almost cried like children with the pain and fatigue they suffered.

Poor fellows! we had not stopped to ask any questions as to the particulars of their disaster, but as we went along the mate gave us some of the details. From the way he spoke, I saw that, though a very quiet, well-disposed young man, he was not one formed to command his fellow-men. He told us that his name was Jabez Brand.

“I was second mate of the North Star, a large brig, bound from Honduras to London. We had a crew of fifteen hands, all told. Several gentlemen also took their passage in the cabin. Among them were two brothers, Messrs Raymonds, fine, tall, handsome men. They had made their fortunes out in the West Indies, and were returning home, as they thought and said, to enjoy their wealth. How their money had been made I do not know, but it was said they were in no ways particular. Be that as it may, they had very pleasant manners, and were very open and free in their talk. One thing I remarked, that they seemed to think that they were going to be very great people with all their wealth, when they got home. Some of the other gentlemen, it seemed to me, fought rather shy of them, perhaps because, as it was said, they had supplied slave vessels with stores, or had had shares in them, which is not unlikely. The North Star was an old vessel, though, to look at her, you would not have supposed it, for she had been painted up and fitted out so as to look as good as new. She was not the first ship I have seen sent to sea which ought to have been sold for firewood. In our run out we had only had fine weather, so she was in no way tried. On this our return trip, we had not long left port when a heavy squall came suddenly off the land and carried away our mainmast, and, the wind continuing from the same quarter, we were unable to return. We had managed to rig a jury-mast and to continue our voyage, when another gale sprung up, and blowing with redoubled fury, the ship began to labour very much in the heavy sea which quickly got up. Still, for a couple of days after this gale began, there did not seem to be much cause for apprehension, though the ship was making more water than usual. However, on the evening of the third day, finding the pumps not sucking as they ought to have done, I went down into the hold, and then, to my dismay, I found that the water was already over the ground tier of casks. I went on deck, and quietly told the captain. He turned pale, for he knew too well what sort of a craft we were aboard. However, he did not show any further signs of alarm, but told the first mate to call all hands to man the pumps, while he sent me below to tell the passengers that they would be required to lend a hand. We had been driven about, now in one direction, now in another, but were some way to the northward of the equator. The wind was at this time, however, blowing strong from the north-east, and to let both our pumps work we were obliged to put the ship right before it.

“All hands worked with a will, for we knew that our lives depended on our exertions. Even the Messrs Raymonds set to; but while others were calm and collected, they were excited and evidently alarmed. I thought to myself what good will all their wealth be to them if the ship goes down? More than once I went below with a lantern to see if we were keeping the water under, but I saw too plainly that, in spite of all we were doing, it was gaining on us. We searched about to try and find out where the leak was, but we might as well have tried to stop the holes in a sieve. At midnight the water had risen halfway to the second tier of casks. Still all hands worked on, hoping that by sunrise a sail might appear to take us off. I saw too plainly that the ship was sinking, but it was very important to have light, that we might see how best to launch the boats. Day seemed very, very long in coming. The captain tried to cheer the people, but he must have known as well as any on board that perhaps none of us might live to see the sun rise over the waters.

“All that night we laboured without a moment’s rest. Dawn came, and I went to the mast-head to learn if a sail was in sight. I scarcely expected to see one, yet I hoped against hope. Not a speck could I discover on the clearly-defined circle of the horizon. The old ship was now fast settling down, and the sea was making a complete breach over her. To enable the water to run off the decks and to allow us to launch the boats, we cut away the stanchions and bulwarks between the fore and main rigging. Such food and water as could be got at was then handed up on deck, ready to be placed in the boats. The crew did not wait the captain’s orders to lower them. He seemed unwilling to abandon the ship till the last moment. There was a dinghy stowed in the longboat. While the men were getting it out a sea broke on board, and, dashing it against the spars, drove in the starboard bilge, and at the same time washed two of the poor fellows overboard. We then got the stores into the longboat. A warp was next passed over the port bow of the ship outside the fore-rigging, and then inboard again through the gangway, and secured to the bow of the boat, sufficient slack being left to allow her to go astern. However, just as we were launching the boat a sea struck her, and stove in two planks of the port bilge. I now thought that it was all up with us, for though there was the jollyboat, she could not carry half the number on board; still it was possible that we might get the planks back to their places and stop the leak; so, in spite of the accident to her, we managed by great exertions to launch her, and I, with some of the crew and passengers, jumped into her with buckets and began to bail her out. Happily, the carpenter was one of the party. Some blankets had been thrown into the boat, which he immediately thrust over the leak and stood on them, while he got ready a plank and some nails which he had brought with him. While he and I were working away the boat was shipping many seas, in consequence of the weight of the warp ahead; I sang out that we must have it shifted, and after a light rope had been hove to us and made fast, it was let go. Meantime the quarterboat was lowered and several men got into her, but their painter was too short, and before they had got their oars into her she broke adrift and dropped astern. The men in her lifted up their hands for help; the captain, who was still on deck, hove them an oar, and we hove another, but they missed both of them, and before long a sea struck the boat and turned her over. It was very sad, for we could give her no help. We, meantime, in the longboat, were not in a very much better condition, for we were shipping a great deal of water. The captain now ordered us to haul up the boat, that the people might get into her; but while we were so doing, the roughness of the sea causing a sudden jerk on the rope, it parted, and we dropped astern. Cries of despair rose from many of those on board when they saw what had occurred. We instantly got out our oars and endeavoured to pull up to the ship, but the quantity of water in her made all our efforts unavailing. To prevent the boat going down we were obliged to turn to and bail. Away we drifted, every moment, increasing our distance from the ship, and lessening our hope of being able to return. There stood our late companions on the poop of the sinking ship, some waving to us, some shouting and imploring us to return. Summoned by the captain, we saw that they then were endeavouring to form a raft. The thought that the lives of all on board depended mainly on our exertions stimulated us once more to attempt to pull up to them. We got out the oars, and while the landsmen bailed we pulled away till the stout ash-sticks almost broke. By shouts and gestures I encouraged the people; every muscle was stretched to the utmost—no one spared himself—but our strength could not contend with the fearful gale blowing in our teeth. The seas broke over us, and almost swamped the boat; still, if we could but hold our own, a lull might come before the ship went down. But vain were all our hopes; even while our eyes were fixed on the brig, her stern for an instant lifted up on a foam-crested sea, and then her bow, plunging downwards, never rose again. Most of those who remained on board were engulfed with the wreck, but a few, springing overboard before she sank, struck out towards us. It would, indeed, have required a strong swimmer to contend with that sea. One after another the heads of those who still floated disappeared beneath the foaming waves, till not one remained; the other boats also had disappeared, and we were left alone on the waste of waters. The instant the brig went down a cry arose from some in our boat, so piercing, so full of despair, that I thought that some relations or dear friends of one of those who had escaped had been lost in her; but on looking again I discovered that it had proceeded from the two brothers I have spoken of. They had lost what they had set their hearts on—what they valued more than relations and friends—their long-hoarded wealth. There they sat, the picture of blank despair. I knew that it would never do to let the people’s minds rest on what had occurred, so I cheered them up as best I could, and told them that I thought we should very likely be able to reach some port or other in four or five days. On examining our stores, I found that with economy they might hold out for nearly two weeks, and before that time I hoped we might reach some civilised place. I was more concerned with the state of our boat. She was originally not a strong one, and, what with the injury she received when launched from the sinking ship, and the battering she had since got, she had become very leaky. The crew, severely taxed as their strength had been, behaved very well, but two of our passengers gave signs of becoming very troublesome. I did not suspect at the time that their minds were going. At first they were very much cast down, but then one of them roused up and began to talk very wildly, and at last the other took up the same strain, and off they went together. They insisted on taking command, and having twice as much food served out to them as others got. At one time they wanted the boat to be steered to the northward, declaring that we should have no difficulty in reaching England. I had to hide the compass from them, and at last they were pacified under the belief that we were going there. Each morning when they woke up they asked how much nearer they were to our native land. There were three other passengers—an old man, a lad, and an invalid gentleman. Consumption had already brought him near the grave, still he lasted longer than the other two. The young boy died first; fear had told on his strength; then the old man died. I could not tell exactly where we were. We were always on the lookout for land, or a sail to pick us up. One morning at daybreak the man who had taken my place at the helm roused us up with the cry of ‘Land! land ahead!’

“‘Old England—old England!’ shouted the madmen, springing up and waving their hands.

“‘My native land—my own loved home!’ cried the invalid, sitting up as he awoke and gazing long and anxiously at the rock which rose out of the blue water before us.

“Drawing a deep sigh when he discovered his mistake, he sank back into his place. Soon afterwards, finding that he did not stir, I was about to raise him up. There was no need for my so doing. He had gone to that long home whence there is no return. Those who loved him on earth would see him no more. Some of the people were in a very weak and sad condition. They had been sick on board—scarcely fit for duty. I knew what the land was—the rock we are now on; but, barren as it is, I thought it would be better to recruit our strength on shore than to attempt to continue our course to the mainland in our present condition. I therefore steered for it, and was looking out for a secure spot where I might beach the boat, when the madmen, growing impatient, seized the tiller and ran her on shore, where she now lies. We were nearly swamped, and everything in the boat was wetted. She also was so much injured that she was totally unfit again to launch, and we had no means of repairing her. However, we set to work to make things as comfortable as we could, and the first thing I did was to erect a tent to shelter the sick men from the rays of the sun. Poor fellows, they did not long require it. Three of them very soon died. We had now only six survivors of those who had escaped from the foundering ship. We were all getting weaker and weaker, except the madmen, who seemed to be endowed with supernatural strength. One day I, with the three seamen who remained, went out to collect shellfish and birds’ eggs. I carried the only musket we had saved, having dried some gunpowder which I had in a flask. We had come back with a supply; but as we approached the tent we saw the two madmen standing in front of it, flourishing pieces of wood and swearing that we should not enter it, and that they were the kings of the country. Some of our people wanted me to shoot them, but that, of course, I would not on any account do. I could not even say that our lives were threatened. I stopped and tried to reason with the poor men. At last they consented to give us up a saucepan and some of the provisions, and we, glad to be rid of their company, resolved to go to the other side of the island, and to build ourselves a hut from the driftwood which we had seen there in abundance. This we did, but we all have been growing weaker and weaker ever since, and had you not come to our rescue I do not think we should have held out much longer.”

The mate finished his account—on which, from what he afterwards told me, I have somewhat enlarged—just as we got up to the tent. The unhappy madmen stood in front of it waiting for us. Though excited in their looks and wild in their conversation, they seemed perfectly prepared to accompany us. They looked with eyes askant at the mate and his three companions, but said nothing to them.

“Well, gentlemen, are you ready to proceed?” exclaimed Mr Brand as we got up to them.

“Certainly, noble mariners—certainly,” answered one of them. “But stay, we have some freight to accompany us.”

And, going into the tent, they dragged out a sea-chest, which appeared to be very heavy. The mate looked surprised, and when they were not looking he whispered to me that he did not believe that the chest contained anything of value. He, however, had not an opportunity of speaking to Mr Merton, who told them that as soon as he had seen the people into the boat he would come back and help them along with their chest. This reply satisfied them, and they sat themselves down composedly on the chest while we helped the other poor men into the boat. As soon as this was done, two of our crew were sent back to bring along the chest. Though strong men, they had no little difficulty in lifting it; but whether or not it was full of gold, no one could have watched over it more jealously than did the two madmen. It was very remarkable how completely they seemed inspired by the same spirit, and any phantasy which might enter the head of one was instantly adopted by the other.

“There’s enough gold there to buy the Indies!” cried Ben Brown, a seaman, as he handed in the chest. “Take care we don’t let it overboard, mates, or the gentlemen won’t forgive us in a hurry.”

“It is more than your lives are worth if you do so!” cried the madmen. “Be careful—be careful, now.”

The boat was loaded, and we pulled away for the ship. Our captain seemed somewhat astonished at the extraordinary appearance of the people we brought on board. The mate and other men of the lost vessel were carefully handed up. They were not heavier than children, but the Messrs Raymonds would not leave the boat till they saw their chest hoisted up in safety. Their first care on reaching the deck was about it, and, going aft to the captain, they begged he would be very careful where it was stowed.

“Stay! Before these gentlemen lose sight of it let it be opened, that there may be no mistake about its contents,” said Mr Merton.

“What, and expose all our hoarded wealth to the eyes of the avaricious crew!” they cried out vehemently. “We shall be robbed and murdered for the sake of it, and this chest will be sent where many others have gone—to the bottom of the sea.”

“You are perfectly safe on board this ship, I trust, gentlemen,” remarked our captain. “Is the chest secured with a key?”

“Whether or not, with our consent never shall it be opened!” exclaimed one of the brothers.

“Then remember I can in no way be answerable for what is found in it when it is opened,” observed the captain.

What new idea came into the heads of the two brothers I do not know, but they instantly agreed that the chest should be opened.

“Call the carpenter,” said our captain, who wanted to bring the matter to a conclusion, and who probably by this time had begun to suspect the sad condition of the two gentlemen.

Mr Pincott, the carpenter, and one of his mates came aft, and made short work in opening the mysterious chest. Those who claimed it as their property started back with looks of dismay. It was full to the brim of stones and sand and shells. Again and again they looked at it; they rubbed their eyes and brows; they clutched it frantically and examined it with intense eagerness; they plunged their hands deep down among the rubbish; it was long before they appeared able to convince themselves of the reality; over and over again they went through the same action. At last one of them, the most sane of the two, drew himself up, and, pointing to the chest, said in a deep, mournful voice—

“Captain, we have been the victims of a strange hallucination, it seems. We have not lost sight of that chest since we filled it. We thought that we had stored it with gold and precious stones. I know how it was. Hunger, anxiety, hardships, had turned our brains. We had lost all—all for which we had been so long toiling. We conjured up this phantasy as our consolation. Is it not so, Jacob?”

The other brother thus addressed shook his head and looked incredulous. Once more he applied himself to the examination of the chest. At last he got up, and looked long and fixedly at the other, as if to read the thoughts passing through his head.

“You are right, brother Simon,” he said, after some time, in a deep, low, mournful voice; “it’s dross—dross—all dross. What is it worse than what we have been working for? That’s gone—all gone—let this go too—down—down to the bottom of the sea.”

Again influenced by the same impulse, they dragged the chest to the side of the vessel, and with hurried gestures threw the contents with their hands over into the sea. It appeared as if they were trying which could heave overboard the greatest quantity in the shortest time. When they had emptied it, they lifted up the chest, and before any one could prevent them that also was cast into the sea.

“There perish all memorial of our folly!” exclaimed the one who was called Simon. “We shall have to begin the world anew. Captain, where do you propose landing us? The sooner we begin the work the better.”

The captain told them that must depend on circumstances, but it was finally arranged that they were to be put on shore at Barbadoes, where, after a long conversation together, they expressed a wish to be landed. The scene was a very strange one; the rapid changes of ideas, the quickly succeeding impulses, and the extraordinary understanding between the two. We found, however, that they were twins, and had always lived together, so that they seemed to have but one mind in common.

I never met an officer who took so much interest in the apprentices—indeed, in all the men under him. He took occasion to speak to me and Charley of what had occurred.

“How utterly incapable of affording satisfaction is wealth unless honestly obtained and righteously employed!” he remarked. “We have also before us an example of the little reliance which can be placed on wealth. These two poor men have lost theirs and their minds at the same time. Their senses have been mercifully restored to them. It remains to be seen by what means they will attempt to regain their fortunes.”

I cannot say that Mr Merton’s remarks made any very deep impression on me or Charley at the time, though I trust they produced their fruit in after years. Every kindness was shown the two poor men on board, and, as far as I could judge, they appeared to have become perfectly sane. The same kindness was also shown the mate and the other rescued seamen of the lost brig. We landed the mate and seamen, as well as the two brothers, at Bridge Town, in the island of Barbadoes, but from that day to this I have never heard a word about them.

Harry Higginson, some time before the Captain’s yarn concluded, got up from his seat and went to the side of our cabin schoolroom and stood there, looking through a dead-light which was open to ventilate the room. He had remembered that it was about the time of the moon’s rising, and went to watch it come up. As our salt tute finished, Harry turned from his lookout, and, catching my eye, beckoned me to join him, and so I did. Coming beside him, Harry pointed and whispered—for the spell of the story still lingered over us, and no one seemed willing to break it roughly—

“What do you make of that, Bob?”

The big mellow moon was right before us, and, as one would say, about the height of a house, above the eastern horizon. Its light silvered a path on the sea to us—a path that was bounded on one side by the bold, dark rocks of the southern shore of the cape, and whose limit to our right was as undefined as the undulating waters it was lost in. Across the stretch of moonlight, and a half-mile from the wreck, I saw a lugger heading for a point that made the southern side of a snug little cove which afterwards got the name of “Smuggler’s Cove.” It was the sight of that boat at such a time coming towards the shore of our rough cape that caused Harry’s question to me.

“Singular—very singular,” I answered; “we must watch that craft.”

Mr Clare called to us, “Boys, what are you whispering about over there?”

We wanted to keep watch quietly by ourselves, on the discovery which promised some interest, so we did not answer, and Walter at that moment called on Mr Clare for his story.

“Well,” said Mr Clare, “I promised a story as the only way of getting Captain Mugford’s. I bought a great deal cheaply, and must pay now. In common honesty, therefore, I am bound to commence my story. I am afraid that I cannot make it as interesting as Captain Mugford’s, inasmuch as his was about the sea, while mine relates to the land. However, I will begin.”

Chapter Sixteen.

Mr Clare’s Story.

The year before I left Canada, in the fall, as the autumn is called there, I started with a number of other young men in our neighbourhood, the county town of C—, to go about seventy-five miles up the Ottawa, what is called lumbering. The winter work is cutting down the trees and getting them to the riverbank ready for the spring thaw, when they are gathered in rafts and floated down to a seaport. We went provided for six months’ severe life in the snowbound forests. Almost every man, too, took his gun or rifle. The journey to the site of our winter’s encampment was made on foot; our clothes, provision, stoves, and cooking utensils being loaded on an ox-cart that accompanied us, the oxen being necessary to haul the timber to the river, as our work extended back.

After a week’s journey, we came to the spot selected for our winter’s work, on a bend of the river, ten miles above where the M— joins the Ottawa. Of course it is an utterly wild region there, never trodden except by hunters, and away beyond the usual search of lumbermen. I do not know why my uncle, the lumber-boss of our expedition, went sixty miles beyond ordinary timber-cuttings. Perhaps it was to procure, on a special order, a remarkably fine choice of oak and pine, and that that spot had been marked by him in some hunting trip or Indian survey as producing the finest timber in the colony. It was grandly beautiful there, where a valley, running at a right angle to the river’s course, spread out at the bank to a semicircle, containing a hundred acres and more of most magnificent trees—a vast forest city, inhabited by immense patriarchs, grey-bearded with moss. Their dignity and stateliness and venerable air were most impressive; and when they sang to the strong wind, chanting like the Druids of old, even I, who had so long lived in a country of forests, was filled with awe. And we, pigmies of twenty and thirty years, had invaded this sanctuary to slay its lords, who counted age by centuries, and had lived and reigned here before our forefathers first trode the continent. The quietude and hazy light of Indian summer floated through the aisles and arches of the solemn forest city as we first saw it—a leaf falling lazily now and then across the slanting beams of the setting sun—a startled caribou, on the discovery of our approach, hurrying from his favourite haunt with lofty strides. All else in the picture before us was silent and motionless. Our winter’s home! Those lofty coverts to be levelled to a bare, stump-marked plane! The old vikings of the primeval forests, to be fashioned by the axe, to battle with the fury of the ocean, and reverberate with reports of hostile broadsides—to bear the flag of their country in peace and commerce, too, to far-distant lands—all as triumphantly as they had for ages wrestled only with the winds!

You laugh, Drake; and you are right, for I doubt if many of us thought then in that strain. No, there is not much sentiment among lumbermen, and as we regarded those mighty oaks and pines, it was principally with speculative calculation as to how many solid feet of prime timber “that ’ar thicket would yield.”

The first task was that of building log-houses—two for our twenty hands. In each was an immense chimney-piece, a cooking-stove, and a bed stretching the width of the house on the floor, with a mattress of hemlock boughs. The rifles and shotguns hanging over the wide fireplace, and a long pine table and rustic benches, completed the furniture of our houses. The oxen and a company of hounds and mongrels had their quarters in a low log barn between the houses. Our supplies of fresh meat for the winter depended upon the good use of the firearms, and each week some one man of our number was detailed as hunter.

That winter of 1824 proved the coldest ever remembered in America, but the long mild autumn gave no threats of the season that was to succeed it. Before the first snow—which was, I remember, on November 20—our little forest colony was comfortably established, and a score of big trees laid stretched in the leaves.

In our company were many fine, intelligent young men—all taught somewhat, some tolerably well educated. None had been to college. I little thought at that time of becoming a scholar and a clergyman. They were frank, generous, honourable fellows—honest and brave, but perfectly ungodly and reckless of Heaven’s displeasure or the life hereafter. After the day’s labour, the evening was dissipated in card-playing, swearing, and hard drinking. Many a scene of riot and orgies did those log-walls witness. Such is generally the life in a lumber-camp: hard, wholesome labour in the day, loud revelling at night. The rough, adventurous life, with no home charm or female influence to refine or restrain, is probably the principal reason of such low practice of life in the lumberman’s camp.

The worst character in our company—and he happened to be in the same house with me—was a man of twenty-eight years of age, the son of a French father and American mother, and whose mother’s grandfather had been an Indian warrior of some renown in the early history of our province. In him were united the savageness of the red man, the gaiety of the Frenchman, and the shrewdness of the Yankee. He was a large, handsome, and immensely muscular man, with dark complexion, small straight features, quick black eyes, and long raven-coloured beard and hair that hung down to his shoulders. Utterly wicked and unprincipled as he was, his merriment, off-hand and daring, lent him a certain fascination and popularity among us. He was very witty, his laugh was rich and constant, he sang well, and played in a dashing way the violin. Every night he found some one to gamble with him. Every night he drank a pint of whisky, and kept the cabin in an uproar.

I greatly disliked this Guyon Vidocq; because he exerted a most baneful influence in our company, all of whom except the boss were younger than himself.

The best man of our number was John Bar, and a fine Christian, cheerful-hearted fellow he was. Although differing so widely from Guyon Vidocq, he, without any effort to do so, and indeed unconsciously, disputed the palm of popularity with him. He was an active, powerful man too, and though terribly pockmarked, had a most agreeable countenance. He could troll a pleasant stave, and loved, when off hunting or at work with his axe sometimes, to sing one of our C— Sunday hymns, and whenever there was a respectable party in the evening, instead of the usual rioting set, he would willingly give them “The Fireside at home,” “Merrily row, the Boat row,” or any of the good old-fashioned songs, pure and inspiriting. Not another of us was so cheerful and industrious as John Bar. Drinking, gambling, or swearing, he was never guilty of, and when the evening orgies commenced he generally spoke to me, and we went off together to visit at the other cabin, or, if they were as bad there, find a warm corner with our blankets in the log barn, and there chat away the hours until our companions had calmed down and turned into their bunks. John Bar was not a meddler, nor what is contemptuously called, in such reckless societies as ours was, “a preacher;” but as he was loyal to his country, and loyal to his parents, he was far more loyal to his God. It would madden any man to hear his mother’s name profanely used; it made John Bar’s heart sick—yes, and I have seen him tremble with rage—when the name of his Saviour was taken as an oath. Sometimes then, and at other times when the wickedness in camp was rampant, he would break out in words of fire—words of fire that soon mingled with, and at last wholly changed to, words of love and entreaty. The others never resented these attacks, these living sermons that his overpowering sense of duty and outraged feeling made him speak. They felt the power of his influence, and acknowledged his goodness, for it was full of charity. Even Guyon Vidocq resented not John Bar’s corrections. He laughed, uttered another oath, and took himself away. But, alone, his face grew dark and angry, for he feared the power of John’s goodness, and hated him.

My turn as hunter did not come until December 18, and my companion from the other house was an old acquaintance of mine in C—. We had been schoolmates and near neighbours when boys, but since that he had been away at sea. He was a quiet, amiable young man, and one of the steadiest in our camp.

Sometimes such an expedition kept the hunters away for the entire week, and sometimes they would get separated. In either case the night’s shelter was a rough one, and dependent for safety and comfort upon the man’s ingenuity and hardihood. But where two could keep together, both the labour and danger of those night camps in the snow were lessened. As game was killed, it was stowed away in what hunters call a cache—that is, a hole for hiding and securing what we wished from the depredations of wolves and other wild animals; and then the ox-cart, when it was practicable—but generally, in winter, a sled drawn by hand—was sent out to bring in the game. My companion, Maine Mallory, and I started together up the frozen river; we agreed to keep together, if possible, and for that reason I carried a rifle and he a double-barrelled shotgun of large bore for throwing buckshot. We were dressed as warmly as our exercise would allow, and had, strapped on our backs, blankets and snow-shoes. Besides which, each one’s wallet held five pounds of bread, pepper and salt, powder, shot, and bullets, and pipe and tobacco, not forgetting the most important of all, flint and steel. We proposed to follow up a branch of the Ottawa to a lake south-east of Mount K—, and there hunt with a party of very friendly Indians, who had a most comfortable camp in a spot near the lake. They were collecting winter skins to send down by us in the spring for sale in Montreal. Our first day’s journey was about twenty miles on the hard frozen river, covered with a crust of snow so stiff as to render snow-shoes unnecessary; but it was hard work, for the weather was bitterly cold. We shot—that is, Maine Mallory did—a couple of partridges and a rabbit for our suppers, and halted early in a hemlock wood, where there was a northerly shelter of rocks; indeed, a crevice in the rocks was almost a cave for us, a cave where we gathered quantities of hemlock for bedding, and built at its entrance a huge fire, which, by night—when we had cut wood enough to last until morning, and had cooked and eaten our game—had made a deep hot bed of ashes. It was so cold, though, that we feared to sleep much; each took a turn at napping whilst the other fed the fire. The wood was as quiet as the grave; not a breath of wind; no night-bird nor prowling animal; nothing but the fine crackling of the cold. When I watched, I almost wished to see a wolf or bear—something to come in on the ghostly, silvered circle that the firelight illumined; something to start my congealing blood with a roar or spring. In the morning we took to the river course again, and went on, but resolved to try as hard as we could to reach the Indians’ camp before another night. It was twenty-seven miles, we calculated, but we did it; and about nine o’clock heard the yelping of the Indian dogs that sounded our approach while we were yet half a mile from the camp. We knew the five Indians there; two came out to learn who drew near. Worn out and benumbed with cold, we gladly gave ourselves into their hands to be warmed and fed. They were well provided against severe cold, and soon made us comfortable; but we were too wearied the next day to do any hunting.

The Indians said the weather was growing colder every day, and the head-man, a middle-aged chief, called Ollabearqui, or Trick the Bear, told with an ominous grunt, that when the cold “grow bigger and bigger and the winds stay asleep, then Ollabearqui is afraid.”

On the second morning of our stay among the Indians four of us went out after moose. Two, Mallory and an Indian, were to go around a mountain to the eastward, and Ollabearqui and I were to follow a valley which would bring us to the foot of the same mountain on the farther side, where we agreed to meet the others. A large, gaunt, savage-faced hound followed my Indian companion. He and I had each a rifle. We went quickly and silently through the white-clothed forests for about four miles. At length, where the small fall of the valley stream was held in great ice-shackles by the severe cold, and only a little pool of six inches diameter kept alive just beneath the icicles, we came out of the woods to a rocky, bushy foot and projection of the bare, stone-marked mountain. We had advanced to follow its base a short distance when my Indian companion, who had grown more careful and earnest lately, turned suddenly one side to a stiffly frozen covert of low bushes. The dog, before this most dull and dejected in his walk at his master’s heels, now sprang ahead and into the bushes. In a moment he came out again with his nose close to the snow, and as he emerged raised his head and gave one short, fierce howl. Ollabearqui spoke to him in the Indian tongue, and the dog renewed his search, going back again to the little spring. The Indian at the same time pointed to the ground for me to see a track, but no mark of any kind was visible to my eye—not a scratch or impression on the hard snow-crust. Now the dog left the trees again and led us up the steep, rough side of the mountain—a most difficult path to climb, frozen as it was. One hundred and fifty feet or more up, the dog stopped before a mass of wildly piled rocks, and there barked loudly and angrily. We reached the spot, Ollabearqui some minutes before me, and discovered the narrow mouth of a cavern, at which the hound was furiously digging. The Indian cocked his rifle, saying, “Panther! Look out!” In a few moments the dog had made the hole big enough to admit his head and fore paws, and he attempted to crawl in, but at the same moment we heard a rumbling growl, like an infuriated cat’s, but twenty times as strong, and the dog came out with a deep gash on the side of his head, cutting the mouth back a couple of inches. Again his master ordered him in. This time he entered entirely, and then we listened to the furious noises of the two beasts, in a desperate struggle evidently. In ten minutes the commotion ceased, but the hound did not return. I peered into the cavern, but could see nothing. As I rose to my feet after the attempt, I saw Ollabearqui, who had jumped to a point somewhat above the cavern’s entrance, with his rifle at his shoulder. I looked where it pointed, and saw a tremendous panther-cat springing up the mountain-side—it had probably crawled out from some other opening of the cave. At the same moment I heard a report, and saw the beast roll forward on its breast, but as quick as a flash it rose again and dashed at the shooter. It was all done in a second, but I could see Ollabearqui trying to draw his knife. The panther struck him, and he lost his footing and rolled backwards from the ledge on which he stood; the panther saved itself from the fall, but bounded back, from the mere force of the spring, I suppose, to the other side of the rock. The savage beast was not more than twelve yards from me, but seemed to be unconscious of my presence. Stunned by the heavy fall, Ollabearqui did not rise, and I saw the panther crawl around the ledge to spring on his prostrate foe. I brought up my rifle, and took deliberate aim at the animal’s shoulder. I fired. The panther made one tremendous leap, and fell with a dying yell on Ollabearqui’s breast. I ran up, and, as I supposed, found the Indian only bruised and stunned by his tumble. As I removed the dead beast from his body, Ollabearqui grunted and uttered a laconic “Good!” He then rose somewhat lamely, and he and I set about digging at the cave. Soon we managed to pull out the dog, which was dead, and then, pushing the panther’s corpse into the cavern, we stopped up both ends with heavy stones and went on, descending to a track through the forest again.

The luck was all mine that day, for when we had nearly reached the point where we were to meet our fellow-hunters, we heard, at a long distance beyond, a noise that the Maine hunter knows well—a dull, clacking noise, like the regular blows in a blacksmith’s shop ever so far away. It was the trot of a moose. When at a slow pace they always strike their hoofs together in that way, as a horse overreaches. We drew behind some large trees, and, after ten minutes of anxious waiting, discerned a very large bull moose coming on a waddling trot towards us. He had probably been started by our companions, for he had his ears pointed back, and turned his neck every few minutes as if to catch some sound behind. He passed near Ollabearqui first, at about eighty yards. There was only a click! Ollabearqui’s rifle had snapped. The moose, alarmed by the noise, increased his pace greatly, but came directly towards me, so that when I pulled trigger he was not farther off than twenty-five feet. He fell dead, a bullet right through his heart. My companion was not envious because of my good fortune. He scolded the erring rifle in his own language, and then said to me, “Good! good! You white-man very big shoot—ugh!” We joined Mallory and the other Indian soon after. They had only killed a fox. Together we made two sled-drags of the thickest, heaviest hemlock boughs, and loading the game—the panther-cat and fox on one sled, and the moose on the other—pulled them to the Indian camp.

The weather was too bitterly cold for hunting. Even the wild animals seemed not to go about any more than their wants required. So Mallory and I decided to buy some more meat from the Indians, and get them to go with us back to our lumbering station and help to carry the game on hand-sleds, which we could do with comparative ease on the river. The bargain was made, and Ollabearqui and two other Indians started with us the next morning, that we might reach our camp on the twenty-fourth, or on Christmas morning. No doubt the hope of getting whisky from our men induced the Indians to assent so readily to the proposition. The sled enabled us to take plenty of heavy furs and blankets for protection against the intense cold. Mallory and I also made a gallon of strong coffee before leaving the Indian camp; that we were able to heat three or four times a day, and would prove the greatest ally against the cold.

We made a long march the first day—nearly thirty miles—but suffered greatly from the unusually severe weather; and if our red friends had not taken us to an Indian mound to pass the night—which we used as a hut, packing all our furs against its stone sides and keeping up an immense fire in the centre, the smoke escaping where we removed a stone on the top—and had we not had the coffee to heat and drink continually, I really believe we should all have been frozen to death that terrible night. As it was, I remember it as the most painful and comfortless night I ever passed.

The morning came, and we could stir about; but the sun seemed to give no warmth, and a light wind was blowing to make the cold more searching. For some reason I could not explain to myself, I felt strangely anxious to get home. In the fitful naps I had caught during the night I had suffered from most painful dreams; but all I could remember of them were the faces of Guyon Vidocq and John Bar, and no sight of the camp or of the other men, only heaps of cinders where the log-houses stood. As soon as we had had our breakfast I urged my companions to get under way quickly. To my astonishment the Indians answered, “Us no go—us go back—so cold, ugh!—pipe of the Great Spirit gone out—us go back!” To our questionings and urgings they only grunted, shook their heads, and answered as before. So all Mallory and I could do was to let the fellows take their way. We packed the game in the stone mound, and piled stones and brushwood against its entrance and smoke-hole; and then with our guns, and the jug of what was left of the coffee on a sling between us, we started on our way.

That day’s journey is a distressing remembrance. Despite the cold, we advanced briskly enough until noon. Then the wind grew stronger, whilst we got weak from the exposure. The cold increased. A numbness of mind and body was creeping over us, and our limbs were heavy to move. At about three we stopped, and in what shelter we could find, built a great fire; and heating the coffee as hot as we could swallow it, drank nearly all that remained, and ate a dinner. That strengthened and warmed us up enough to help us along until sunset. We were then only four or five miles from camp; but had not the wind gone down with the sun, we must have perished before reaching home, for from that time our sufferings increased, and both of us grew drowsy. Several times Mallory’s halting steps stopped entirely, and he would have gone into the fatal sleep which precedes death from freezing, had I not shaken him and pushed and urged him. To me it was like walking in a sleep.

I dragged along almost unconsciously, and yet knowing enough to keep the river track and move my legs. The fact that Mallory was nearer death than I—which was shown by his constant attempts to lie down—kept me up. The sense of responsibility aroused my mind. I would implore him to try to walk for a little while longer, and then push him along again. About eight o’clock I got a fire going again, and made Mallory drink, the last drop. I told him we were not more than half a mile from the cabins—that he must rouse up now, and strive with me to reach our friends. “Was he willing to die,” I asked, “just as we were on the threshold of safety?” The coffee helped him a little, but I had had none, so in that last struggle he was as strong as I. That half-mile was only accomplished after an hour’s walking, and in every minute of that hour I felt that I could not make another effort.

At length we staggered to the door of Maine Mallory’s cabin, and were saved! John Bar, who was in there, a refugee from the Christmas Eve frolic in our own cabin, rubbed my limbs, and poured cup after cup of strong coffee down my throat, and, when I was sufficiently recovered, gave me a good supper. The same was done for Mallory. But even in the cabin, with two immense fires and warm clothing, it was difficult to keep warm. The water in the drinking pail, four feet from the stove, was one mass of ice. Outside, that terrible night, the thermometer in Montreal, I heard afterwards, fell to 23 degrees below zero. With us there was no thermometer to mark the temperature, but it must have been lower.

Half of the gang of my log-house, including John Bar, were spending the evening where I had sought shelter, too wearied to go a hundred yards farther to my own quarters. The other five, one of whom was Guyon Vidocq, were having a regular drinking and gambling bout in the other cabin. We heard their yells from time to time. At about eleven o’clock John Bar left us to seek his bed. I doubted if he would find his bed very agreeable amid such an orgy as was reported to be going on under the other roof; so I, thoroughly enjoying the bright fire and new life after the exposure of the last few days, lingered a while longer, though utterly wearied, and answered the questions about our hunt. Maine Mallory had turned into bed long ago. But when my watch showed it was twelve, I got up to seek a night’s sleep.

As I stepped into the intensely cold air, I was actually startled by the solemnity and beauty of the scene; for the moon had risen since my return to camp, and flooded the winter scene in the most glorious radiance. The gigantic trees were magnified in the pure, clear light, and their dark shadows stretched far on the glistening snow. Here and there were the fallen timbers mounded over by drifts. Beyond, the white mountains faded away to the pale sky. Not a sound, not a murmur of wind, not a voice to break the awful stillness.

With great thankfulness for my deliverance from the stark death that had been so near me all day, I looked up to heaven and remembered the blessed birth eighteen centuries ago when Jesus Christ came to the earth as a little babe.

Turning my steps to the other log-house, I wondered to see no light, and was surprised, too, that the riot there had ceased by midnight. As I walked the hundred yards, the song of the heavenly hosts of old sounded in my heart: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men!”

Drawing near the cabin, I was amazed to see the door stretched wide open, and no light within. Instantly a dark foreboding fell upon me, and I remembered the fearful visions of the night before. What could it be that I was to encounter? I ran to the open door, and entered. No fire! only those few dull ashes. What did it mean? “Boys,” I cried, “boys, where are you?” No reply. “Boys! Langdon! Vidocq! Bar!” and there came from near me a stifled answer, as if the speaker was but half awake. Trembling violently, I struck a match, and beheld John Bar, lying almost at my feet in a bundle of furs, and a pool of blood by him, and four other figures in everyday garments, without any other covering, stretched in different attitudes on the floor—sleeping, I thought. Yes, they were sleeping, but in death. Where they had fallen in drunken stupor the ice-breath of Death had stiffened them for his own.

“Is that you, Clare? Thank God! I am bleeding and freezing to death.”

“Who harmed you, Bar? Tell me first—Vidocq? I thought so. In a second we’ll help you.”

Quicker than I can write it, I had run to the other cabin, aroused the inmates, and we had all reached the fatal cabin.

Some of us carefully removed Bar to the second house, whilst others chafed the bodies on the floor and poured warm drinks into their mouths to revive the spark of life, if it yet lingered. But they were frozen to death. The log-cabin in which my companions and I had lived for three months was now the lumberman’s dead-house. There the four bodies were to rest until they could be moved to their graves. The next morning Guyon Vidocq’s body was laid beside those of his companions. He had been found stretched dead on the riverbank.

Such was our Christmas.

It appeared that when John Bar had gone to his cabin he found four of the inmates lying drunk on the floor, the fires expiring, and Guyon Vidocq in a delirium of intoxication pulling everything to pieces—table, benches, etcetera—to pile them in the corner, and, then, as he said, light a real Christmas bonfire. John Bar immediately saw the danger that the poor creatures on the floor were in, and whilst he tried to get fires going in the stove and chimney-place as quickly as possible, he also exerted his influence to soothe Guyon Vidocq and make him cease his crazy work. But the presence of Bar seemed to madden Vidocq immediately. From the time the former entered the house, Vidocq cursed him with every vile oath his drunken lips could frame, and, when Bar attempted remonstrance and command, the infuriated maniac suddenly caught up a table knife, and plunged it in his opponent’s side. Then with a yell Vidocq rushed from the house, leaving the door thrown back for the deadly cold to enter and complete his work. John Bar said that he fell when the knife struck him; that he had strength to crawl to a pile of furs and blankets; that he even tried to cover his companions, but could not; that he called for help as long as he had voice; and that, when I entered, an hour after the assault, he had lost all consciousness. The bleeding had ceased, but the sleep of the frozen was falling on him.

Those events of Christmas Day broke up the lumber-camp.

John Bar was not dangerously wounded, and when we were able to carry him on a sled to the nearest settlement he quickly recovered.

“And now, boys, you have had your stories, so let’s off to bed. Captain Mugford, Ugly has gone to sleep over mine. He prefers sea narratives.”

But Ugly heard his name, and broke off in the middle of a snore to come and put his paws apologetically on Mr Clare’s knee.

The sail Harry and I had watched disappeared behind the point of rocks soon after Mr Clare commenced his story, and while waiting anxiously for her reappearance we listened with much interest to Mr Clare; and as he was finishing she came out again and stood to the south-west. Determined to investigate the mystery ourselves, we said nothing to the others. By the time we reached the deck to take our way homeward the little sail was hardly distinguishable. As no one noticed it, Harry and I went to bed, partners in a secret full of romance to us.

Chapter Seventeen.

An Exciting Discovery—The Cove wins a Name.

The next morning, at breakfast, Walter proposed that he and Harry Higginson should, after school, go down to the neck and shoot ducks, for Clump had reported that he had seen several flying over the cape. Our salt tute was at the table, and Harry, in reply, turned to him and said—

“Captain, won’t you take my gun this afternoon and go with Walter in my place? Bob and I have a little secret service to attend to, which can’t be postponed; so will you shoot the ducks for me?”

“No, Harry,” the Captain replied, “I shall not think of shooting here, where we have the hunter of the Ottawa—the companion of Ollabearqui, the slayer of moose and panther-cats—ha! ha! Eh, Mr Clare?”

“Well, Captain Mugford, I will accept your kind offer, as I should like very much to have a few hours’ shooting with Walter. I shall try it; but a fowling-piece and birds on the wing are different things from a rifle and running game as large as those I used to practise on, and I imagine that Walter will not commend me as the Indian did,” was Mr Clare’s answer.

After the morning lessons and dinner were over, Harry and I stole off together to make an investigation of last night’s mystery. We took our way to the cove, which was soon to win a name. Although but three-quarters of a mile from our house, that part of the cape about the cove was the roughest and most inaccessible quarter in our possessions. I do not know that any of us ever climbed down to the water there before. The attractions in every other direction of fishing, bathing, shooting, and boating were so numerous that we had not carried our explorations in that direction. You may possibly remember there are places, sometimes within little more than a stone’s-throw of your house, with which you never think of making acquaintance. Just such a place was the cove. It did not invite us particularly. It was not on the route of any of our pleasure expeditions, and, as I have said, there were points of interest in every other direction. But just above the cove was a high knob-shaped piece of grass and shrubs, dotted with many slabs of sharp stones that stood up like tombstones, and made the knoll look so much like a grave yard that we used to call it “our cemetery.” There the sheep liked to feed just before night. It was a favourite spot, where they often came for their evening bite.

We crossed that, and commenced a scramble down a jagged, rocky declivity almost perpendicular. It reminded us of the cliffs in the islands of Orkney and Shetland, pictures of which, with the men suspended by ropes getting eggs from the nests that fill the crevices, have interested every boy in his geography book. With bruised hands and knees, and rather tattered trousers, we reached a ledge just above the high-tide mark. The cove was a perfect harbour. A boat there would be defended from every gale but a south-wester, and partly from that, whilst it would also be completely hidden unless from a boat right off the entrance of the cove, or unless some one peered over the dangerous cliff above; and what would one think of looking for in there? But we found enough to excite our astonishment. First there were a strand of rope and an oar on the narrow ledge, which we followed a couple of yards, and then saw an opening between two immense strata of stone. We looked in, and a ray of light that came through the fissure at the other extremity showed us a number of kegs, several bales of goods, sails, numerous coils of rope, and various other articles. We climbed in, and found also a rusty flintlock musket, standing between two barrels. If not as much frightened, we were as much astonished as Robinson Crusoe, when he discovered in the sand the print of a human foot.

As hastily as the difficulties would allow, we climbed up the rocks, and hurried towards the house, talking eagerly with each other while we ran as to what those kegs and bales might contain. Had they been hidden there by smugglers, or by whom? Were they now our property? What was to be the result?

Out of breath we reached the house, to find for our audience only Captain Mugford. He was reading in the sitting-room, and put down his book to hear our exciting revelation. When we had told him all, he asked us not to go to the cove again, until Mr Clare and he had had time to act on the information we had given, and told us to caution the other boys in the same way if we met them before he did. “And now,” said he, “I will go out and meet Mr Clare and Walter—down on the neck, are they not? I have no doubt that the cave is the storehouse of smugglers.”

“Smugglers!” we exclaimed.

“Yes,” he answered, pulling on the pea-jacket that always came off in the house, and stowing his pipe in the breast-pocket. “Yes, smugglers, good-for-nothing scoundrels! who enjoy the good laws of the country, and all the advantages which a settled Government and established institutions give them, and yet play all sorts of tricks to avoid paying the required taxes to support that Government; while they do their best to prevent honest, straightforward-dealing traders from gaining a livelihood. Then, see to what an expense they put the country to keep up an army of coastguard men and a fleet of revenue vessels. There’s the Hind sloop of war, with a crew of a hundred and twenty men, and some fifty cutters, large and small, with crews of from fifteen to forty men, on this south coast alone. If it wasn’t for these idle rascals of smugglers, these men might be manning England’s fleets, or navigating her merchantmen to bring back to her shores the wealth which makes her great and powerful. People talk of the Government paying for all this. Silly dolts that they are! It is not the Government pays; it is they who pay out of their own pockets; and when they encourage smugglers, which they too often do, they are just increasing the amount of their own taxes; and if they don’t feel the increase much themselves, they are cheating their neighbours, though they have the impudence to call themselves honest men. I have no patience with those who encourage smugglers, and would transport every smuggler who is caught to Botany Bay, and still think the fate too good for him.”

Having thus delivered himself, our worthy nautical instructor strode out to meet our fresh tute.

We took the news to Clump and Juno, who received it in mingled terror and amazement; and then we ran to find Drake and Alf, and pour it out to them.

Well, we had frequently heard about the doings of smugglers, but to have them burrowing on our cape, and be in a plot for their overthrow, were better than volumes of “Flying Dutchmen,” “Pirates of the Gulf,” “Gulliver’s Travels,” “Roderick Randoms,” or even possibly of “Robinson Crusoes,” and all other such made-up stories. Here they were fresh; we had watched their boat the night before; we had just come from their cave; and there was plenty ahead to imagine.

“Hurrah for our cape!” said Harry; “was there ever a jollier place for fun?”

Those days were palmy times for smugglers. High duties, in order to raise a revenue for carrying on the wars in which England had been engaged, had been placed on nearly all foreign articles. Wines, spirits, tobacco, silks, laces, ribbons, and indeed a vast number of other manufactures, were taxed more than cent per cent on their value, and some, if I recollect rightly, two or three hundred per cent. In fact, the high duties acted as an encouragement to smugglers, foreigners as well as Englishmen, and the whole coast swarmed with their luggers and other craft. Sometimes large armed cutters were employed, and their bold crews did not hesitate to defend themselves if attacked by revenue vessels, and sometimes came off the victors. The most disgraceful circumstance connected with these transactions was, that there were large mercantile houses in London who in some instances actually employed the smugglers, and in others gave them direct encouragement by receiving the silks and ribbons and laces, and other goods of that description, and disposing of them openly as if they had paid duty. Here, were men of wealth, and intelligence, and education, for the lust of gain inducing their fellow-men to commit a serious crime. They had relays of fleet horses, with light carts and wagons, running regularly to the coast, in which the smuggled goods were conveyed up to London. They bribed, when they could, the revenue men, and they had spies in every direction to give notice of the approach of those whom they could not bribe. They had lookout men on the watch for the approach of an expected smuggling vessel, and spots-men to select the best place on which she could run her cargo. They had also large parties on the beach, frequently strongly armed, to assist in landing the goods and to carry them up to the carts, or to the caves and other hiding-places, where they were stored when the carts were not in readiness. Every stratagem and other device was employed to draw the revenue men and military away from the spot where it was proposed to run a cargo. Sometimes a few goods, or bales of rubbish to look like goods, were landed in a particular spot, and allowed to fall into the hands of the coast guard, while the real cargo was being landed some miles away and rapidly conveyed up to London. When hard-pressed by a revenue vessel, if of a force too great to render fighting hopeless, the smuggling craft would throw the whole of her cargo overboard, so that when overtaken nothing contraband might be found in her. When the smugglers’ cargo consisted of spirits, under such circumstances the casks, heavily weighted, were frequently, when in sight of land, dropped overboard, the landmarks on the shore being carefully taken. Thus the smuggler could return, when not watched, and regain her cargo. Sometimes the keen-eyed revenue officers had observed her proceedings when letting go the kegs, and on her return they could no longer be found. Sometimes the hard-pressed smuggler had not time to sink her cargo, and the kegs, still floating, were made prizes of by the cutter. At other times they were captured when on the point of being landed, or when actually landed, and it was on these occasions that the fiercest battles took place between the smugglers, aided by their numerous coadjutors on shore, and the revenue officers. If the lives of any of the revenue officers were lost during these encounters, the smugglers who were seen to have fired, when captured, were hung, while the less criminal in the eye of the law were transported, or imprisoned, or sent to serve on board men-of-war. It is scarcely too much to say that a large portion of the coast population of England was engaged in this illicit traffic. It bred also a great amount of ill-feeling between them and the coast guard, whom they endeavoured to mislead, annoy, and injure by every means in their power. Our worthy salt tutor had friends among the revenue officers, with whom he sided strongly; indeed, his natural good sense and right feeling would have prevented him from supporting a class of men who were so clearly acting against the laws of the country and all rules of right and justice.

Our tutors that evening held a consultation on board the brig, and decided that it was their duty to go over the next morning to inform the commander of the coast guard of the discovery Harry and I had made, and to let him take the steps which he might consider necessary. We two, of course, for the time became perfect heroes of romance, and could talk of nothing else during the evening but of smugglers and smuggling adventures. Captain Mugford possessed a large amount of lore on that subject, some of which he produced, much to our edification. He gave us an account of the fight between the Peggy smuggling lugger and the Bramble King’s cutter. Three men were killed and five wounded on board the revenue cruiser, and a still greater number of smugglers lost their lives, though the lugger escaped on that occasion. She was, however, afterwards fallen in with by the very same cutter, when the smugglers showed fight at first; but so fiercely were they attacked by the brave commander of the cutter, that, their consciences making cowards of them, they yielded after a short struggle. It would have been difficult to convict the crew then on board of the murder of the cutter’s people on the previous occasion, had not one of their number turned king’s evidence. The captain and mate and two other men were accordingly hung, and the rest transported; but this summary mode of proceeding in no way put a stop to smuggling. The profits were too large, the temptations too great, to allow even the risk of being hung or transported to interfere with the traffic.

One story led to another, and at length our skipper came out with one which was voted, by general acclamation, to be superior to all the others. I cannot pretend to give it in old Mugford’s language, so I present it in my own, keeping, however, closely to the facts he narrated. He called his tale:

“Jan Johnson, The Smuggler.”

Some forty years ago, ay, more than that, I belonged for a few months to a revenue cruiser, on board which I volunteered, soon after my return from my second voyage, I think it was, or about that time. The cutter was stationed off this coast, and a hard life we had of it, for in those days the smuggling craft were large armed vessels, full of desperate men, who, when they could not outsail, more than once beat off the cruisers of the king. Among the most daring of his class was a fellow called Jan Johnson, though from having at different times many other names, it was difficult from them to determine to what nation he belonged; indeed, it was suspected that he was an Englishman born on this very coast, with every inch of which he was intimately acquainted.

He seemed to take absolute delight in setting at defiance all laws of God and man, and, among many other acts of atrocity, he was strongly suspected of the murder of a revenue officer. The officer had, it appears, been the means of taking a valuable cargo of goods belonging to Johnson, who some time after encountered him, when in discharge of his duty, near this place. It is supposed that the smuggler had attacked the unfortunate man, and, being by far the more powerful of the two, had grappled with him, and, plunging a long knife into his bosom, had thrown him over the cliffs. The next morning the body was discovered above high-water mark, with a knife known to belong to Johnson close to it, and on the top of the cliffs were seen the impressions of men’s feet, as if engaged in a fierce struggle. A handkerchief, similar to one the smuggler had been observed to wear, was found in the dead man’s grasp, and at a late hour of the night he had been met without one round his throat. A reward was therefore offered for his apprehension, but notwithstanding the sharp lookout we kept for his craft at sea, and the vigilance of the revenue people on shore, he had hitherto escaped capture.

He commanded at this time a large lugger, called the Polly, a fast-sailing boat, which could almost eat into the wind’s eye, and when going free nothing could hope to come up with her; so that our only chance of capturing her was to jam her in with the shore, or to find ourselves near her in a calm, when we might get alongside her in our boats.

So daring was the smuggler that, though he well knew his life was at stake, he still continued to carry on his free trade with the coast, where he had many friends; yet, notwithstanding that his vessel was constantly seen, she was never approached except by those he trusted.

It was towards the end of October—I remember the time well—the days were growing shorter, and the night-watches darker and colder, when, after cruising up and down a week or so at sea, in hopes of falling in with a prize, it came on to blow very hard from the south-west. Our skipper was not a man to be frightened by a capful of wind, so, setting our storm sails, we stood off shore and faced the gale like men; for, do ye see, it is just such weather as this was that the smugglers choose to run across the channel, when they think no one will be on the lookout for them. Towards evening, however, it came on to blow harder than ever, so that at last we were obliged to up with the helm, and run for shelter into harbour; but just as we were keeping away, a sea struck the cutter, carried away our stern boat, and stove in one of our quarter boats. In this squall the wind seemed to have worn itself out, for before we made the land it suddenly fell, and by daylight a dead calm came on, followed by a dense fog. Our soundings told us that we were within a short distance of the coast, so that our eyes were busily employed in trying to get, through the mist, a sight of it, or of any strange sail which might be in the neighbourhood. At last, for an instant the fog lifted towards the north, like when the curtain of a theatre is drawn up, exposing close in with the land the white sails of a lugger, on which, as she rose and fell on the heavy swell remaining after the storm of the previous night, were now glancing the bright beams of the morning sun, exposing her thus more clearly to our view.

Before we could bring our glasses to bear, the fog again closed in, but every eye was turned in that direction to get another sight of her; we, doubtless, from our position, and the greater thickness of the mist round us, remaining hid from her view.

“What think you, Davis? which way shall we have the breeze when it does come?” asked our skipper of the old quartermaster, who was the oracle on such occasions.

“Why, sir, I should say, off the land; it looks clearer there away than it is out here.”

As the old man delivered himself of this opinion, he turned his one open eye towards the point he indicated: for, though he had two orbs, and they were piercers, he never used more than one at a time—we youngsters used to suppose, to give each alternately a rest.

As he spoke, the fog once more opened a little.

“And, what do you say to yonder craft?” continued the skipper.

The old man’s right eye surveyed her intently before he answered—

“I thought I knowed her, sir. As sure as we’re alive she’s the Polly, with Jan Johnson on board.”

How he arrived at the latter conclusion we did not stop to consider. The words had an electric effect on board.

“You are right, Davis—you are right!” exclaimed our commander; then, in a tone of vexation, “And we have only one boat to chase her. If there comes a breeze, that fellow will sneak alongshore, and get out of our way. He calculated on being able to do so when he remained there, and no doubt has information that the revenue boats belonging to the station are sent off in other directions.”

Every glass was now turned towards the direction where the smuggler was seen; for you must remember the mist quickly again hid her from us. Our skipper walked over to where the carpenter was employed in putting the boat to rights; but soon saw that there was a good day’s work or more before she could be made to swim.

“It will never do to let that fellow—escape us!” he exclaimed briskly. “Mr Robertson,” addressing his senior officer, a passed midshipman—an oldster in every sense of the word I then thought him,—“pipe the gig’s crew away, with two extra hands, and let them all be fully armed. Do you take charge of the ship; and if a breeze gets up, press every stitch of canvas on her, and stand after the lugger. That fellow may give us some work; and I intend to go myself.”

Having given these orders, he dived into his cabin, and quickly reappeared, with his cocked hat on and his sword by his side.

I belonged to the gig.

The boat was, as you may suppose, quickly ready. The order was given to shove off, and away we pulled, with hearty strokes, in the direction of the lugger. The fog for some time favoured our approach towards the spot where we guessed she was to be found, for we could no more see her than the people on board could us. Never, when roasting in the tropics under a burning sun, have I wished more earnestly for a breeze than we now did that the calm would continue till we could get alongside the long-looked-for craft. Not a word was spoken above a whisper, though we knew that the splash of our oars in the water would soon betray our approach to the sharpened ears of the smugglers, even before they could see us. We redoubled, therefore, our efforts to get alongside, when a light air coming off the land much thinned the intervening mist, showing us the Polly, with her largest canvas spread to catch the breeze, and now, as she loomed through the fog, appearing twice her real size, while her people clearly made us out. In a moment her sails were trimmed, her long sweeps were run out, and she was moving through the water, though not near so fast as we were pulling.

“Give way, my boys, give way,” shouted our skipper, all necessity for silence being now removed. “Give way, and the lugger is ours.”

With a hearty cheer the men bent to their oars and sent the boat flying through the calm blue water, casting aside the light sparkling foam which bubbled and hissed round her bows, as the story books about seagoing affairs say, such as you youngsters are so fond of reading. Well, the breeze freshened, however, before long, and we found that, though still decreasing our distance from the lugger, we were not gaining on her as fast as when she first made us out. We had, however, got within about a quarter of a mile of her, when we saw a man jump on the taffrail, and wave his hat at us as if in derision. Even at that distance, some of our people declared they recognised him as Jan Johnson, whom all of us knew well enough by sight. The next instant a skiff was launched from her decks, into which he jumped, and pulled as hard as he could towards the shore, to which he was already nearer than we were to him.

Here was a dilemma for our skipper. If we followed the outlaw, his lugger would very likely get away; and if we made chase after her, he would certainly escape, and she, probably, even if we came up with her, would not be condemned. The thought of the murdered man decided our commander, and in a moment the boat’s head was turned towards the shore in chase of the skiff. Away we went, as fast as six ash oars in stout hands could send us through the water, while Johnson, still undaunted, continued his course; yet, in spite of his audacity, he well knew that it was with him a matter of life and death. It was indeed astonishing, when putting forth all his vast strength, how fast he sent along his light skiff; indeed, we gained but slightly on him in our six-oared galley, and we soon saw that he would reach the shore before we could overtake him.

“Give way, my lads, give way,” shouted our skipper, though the men were straining every nerve to the utmost. “Give way, and we shall soon be up with him.”

Talk of the excitement of a stag-hunt! it is tame in comparison with the interest men take in the chase of a fellow-creature. There is something of the nature of the bloodhound, I suspect, in our composition which delights in the pursuit of such noble game. A few minutes more decided the point, a cry of vexation escaping us as his boat touched the shore, and, coolly drawing her up on the strand, he was seen to make towards the woods.

“Shall I bring him down, sir?” asked the seaman who sat in the sternsheets with a musket, marine fashion, between his knees.

“No, no,” was the answer. “We must take the fellow alive; he cannot escape us, if we put our best feet foremost.”

Just as our boat’s keel grated on the sand, Johnson disappeared among the rocks and trees, and we could hear a shout of derisive laughter ringing through the wood.

“After him, my boys, after him,” shouted our skipper, as we all leaped on shore. “A five-pound note to the man who first gets hold of him.”

And, except a youth who was left in charge of the boat, away we all went, helter-skelter, in the direction the outlaw had taken. He made, it appeared, straight inland, for we could hear his shouts ahead of us as we rushed on, hallooing to each other from among the trees. Not one of the party seemed inclined to get before the other—not so much that one was unwilling to deprive the other of the promised reward, but I suspect that no one was anxious to encounter Johnson singlehanded, well armed as of course he was, and desperate as we knew him to be. Our commander, being a stout man and short-winded, was soon left far behind, though, as he hurried on, puffing and blowing with the exertion he was using, his voice, as long as we could hear him, encouraged us in the pursuit. We had thus made good half a mile or more, when coming suddenly to the confines of the wood, or copse it might rather be called, a wide extent of open ground appeared before us, but not a trace of the fugitive could be perceived. Some of the foremost ran on to a spot of high ground near at hand, whence they could see in every direction, but not a figure was moving in the landscape. In the meantime our skipper came up, and ordered us to turn back and beat about the wood.

We had been thus fruitlessly engaged for some time, when we were recalled to the shore by a shout from one of our people, and, hastening down to the beach, we beheld, to our dismay, our own boat floating some way out in the bay, while Johnson, in his skiff, was pulling towards his lugger, now creeping alongshore out of the reach of the cutter, which still lay becalmed in the offing. What was most extraordinary, the lad who had been left in charge of the boat was nowhere to be seen, and, as far as we could make out, he was neither in her nor in Johnson’s skiff. You may just picture to yourself our rage and disappointment; indeed, I thought, what from his exertions and excitement, our commander would have been beside himself with vexation. After we had stood for a moment, looking with blank astonishment at each other, he ordered us, in a sharp voice, some to run one way, some another, along the shore, in search of a boat by which we might get on board our galley, for she was too far off for anyone to attempt to swim to her. At last, some way on, we discovered, hauled up on the beach, a heavy fishing-boat, which with some work we managed to launch, and, by means of the bottom boards and a few pieces of plank we found in her, to paddle towards our gig. In our course, we picked up two of our oars which had been thrown overboard, and we were thus able to reach her sooner than we could otherwise have done. What could have become of our young shipmate? we asked each other; but not a conjecture could be offered. Johnson could not have carried him off; he would not have ventured to have injured him, and the lad was not likely to have deserted his post. At last we got alongside the gig, and on looking into her we saw Jim Bolton, our young shipmate, stretched along the thwarts, to which he was lashed. At first we thought he was dead; but a second glance showed us that a gag, made out of a thole-pin and a lump of oakum, had been put into his mouth. On being released it was some time before he could speak. He then told us that he was sitting quietly in the boat, when suddenly a man sprang on him with a force which knocked him over, and before he could collect his senses he found himself lashed to the thwarts with a lump in his mouth which prevented him crying out, and the boat moving away from the shore, and that was all he knew about the matter.

As Jim Bolton was very much hurt, we placed him in the fishing-boat with a midshipman who volunteered to look after him, and anchored her to await our return, while we with hearty goodwill pulled away in full chase of the smuggler. By this time, however, a fresh breeze had come off the land, which filled the sails of the lugger just as Johnson sprang from his boat upon her deck, and before a breath of air had reached the cutter he had run her far out of sight, winding his way among those reefs yonder. Seeing there was no chance of overtaking him in the gig, we pulled on board, and as soon as the uncertain air put the vessel through the water, we made chase in the direction we calculated the Polly would take. For some time we cruised up and down over the ground where we thought we might fall in with her, but could see nothing of her, and we then returned to take out the midshipman and Jim, and to restore the boat to the fisherman.

We, with several other cruisers, were employed for some weeks in looking out for Johnson, but neither he nor the Polly was ever again heard of on this coast.

Ten years passed away, and I belonged to a brig in the West Indies, that clime of yellow fevers and sugar-canes. In those days the slave-trade flourished, for, as we had not become philanthropists, we did not interfere with those whose consciences did not prevent them from bartering for gold their own souls and the blood of their fellow-creatures. There was, however, a particular craft we were ordered to look after which had made herself amenable to the laws, having gone somewhat out of the usual line of trade, by committing several very atrocious acts of piracy. She was commanded, it was said, by an Englishman, a villain of no ordinary cast, who never intentionally left alive any of those he plundered to tell the tale of their wrongs. He sailed his vessel, a schooner carrying twelve guns, under Spanish colours, though of course he hoisted, on occasion, those of any other nation to suit his purpose. We all knew both him and his schooner, for before her real character was suspected, we had for some days laid alongside her at the Havanna, and were in consequence selected by the admiral to look out for her. We had been so employed for several weeks, when, one day towards noon, we made out a sail to the southward, towards which we ran down with a light northerly wind. As we neared her, which we rapidly did, we saw that she was a lofty ship—a merchantman evidently—and that she was not only not moving through the waters, but that her braces were loose, and her yards swinging about in every direction. Not a soul was looking over her bulwarks when we came within hail, but the men in the tops sang out that they could see several people lying about the decks either asleep or dead. We ran almost alongside, when I was ordered to board her with one of the gigs. Never shall I forget the scene which met my sight as I stepped on her decks; they were a complete shambles: a dozen or more men lay about in the after part of the ship, the blood yet oozing from deep gashes on their heads and shoulders, not one of them alive; while on the steps of the companion-ladder were two women, young and fair they appeared to have been, clasped in each other’s arms, and both dead.

On descending below, we discovered an old lady and a venerable, old gentleman on the deck of the state cabin with the marks of pistol bullets in their foreheads, while at the door of an inner cabin lay a black servant with his head completely twisted round.

I will not mention all the sights of horror we encountered; the murderers seemed to have exerted their ingenuity in disfiguring their victims. There were several other dead people below, and at last, searching round the ship, we found stowed away in the forehold a seaman, who, though desperately wounded, still breathed. When brought on deck and a few drops of spirits were poured down his throat, he after some time came to himself, then told us that they had in the morning been attacked by a pirate, who, after they had made a desperate resistance, had carried them by boarding, when every soul in the ship was cut down or thrown into the sea except himself; that he, having fallen down the hatchway just before the pirates rushed on board, had stowed himself away amongst the cargo, and there after some time had fainted from loss of blood. While he lay there, he could hear the shrieks of his shipmates and the shouts and execrations of their butchers, he expecting, every instant, to share the fate of the rest. At last all was silent, the pirates made an ineffectual attempt to scuttle the ship, but were hurried off, probably, by seeing a sail which they mistook for us, or for some other cruiser.

Scarcely had the unfortunate fellow given this account, when the man at the mast-head of the brig hailed that there was a sail on the lee bow, and we were ordered forthwith to return on board. We all hoped that this might prove the pirate, for we were anxious to punish the miscreants. Taking, therefore, the wounded man with us—for being, thanks to the yellow fever, already short of hands, we were compelled to abandon the ship—we made sail in chase. For some time we carried a fresh breeze with us, while the stranger, which we soon made out to be a large topsail schooner, lay almost becalmed; but before we got her within range of our guns the wind also filled her sails, and away she went before it with every stitch of canvas they could pack on her. We also used every means of increasing our rate of sailing; but though our brig was reckoned a remarkably fast vessel, we found that, since we had both the same breeze, we had not in any way decreased our distance from her.

It was, however, a satisfaction to find that she did not outsail us before the wind, though there was every probability that, should she haul her wind, she would be able to do so; we therefore kept directly in her wake, to be ready to run down on her, on whichever tack she might haul up. At last, as the breeze freshened, we gained somewhat on her, when she hoisted Spanish colours: she had hitherto shown none, but this did not prevent us from trying the range of our bow-chasers on her, to bring her to. Several guns were fired without effect; at last a shot struck her main boom and severely wounded it. I never saw a better aim. After this, finding we lost ground by firing, we did not for another hour throw a single shot, nor had the schooner as yet returned our compliment, though she showed no inclination to heave to.

Away we bowled along before the breeze, throwing aside the now white-crested waves from our bows as we tore through the water. Every brace was stretched to the utmost, our spars bent and cracked, but not a sheet was slackened, though our captain kept his glance anxiously aloft to see how long he might let them bear the pressure. Again we overhauled her, and got her within range of our long guns, when a shot, directed more by chance, as the sea was running high, or, it might be said, a just Providence weary of the miscreants, than by skill, killed the man at the wheel, and lodged in the mainmast. Before another man could run to the helm the vessel yawed to port; the boom, already wounded, jibbed over and parted amidships, rendering the huge mainsail of no use, and creating much confusion on board. There was now no fear of her being able to haul her wind for some time, and coming up, hand over hand, with her, we ranged alongside.

If we had before any doubts of her real character, we had now none, for the Spanish ensign being hauled down, a black flag was hoisted at each mast-head, and the accursed pirate was confessed. The outlaws, doubtless knowing that victory or death alone awaited them, showed their dark symbols in the hopes of intimidating our men, and made up their minds to fight it out to the last. At the same moment they let fly their whole broadside, which, though it did some damage, served to warm up the blood of our people, and made them return it with a hearty good will.

For half an hour or more, as we ran on, we thus continued exchanging broadsides, considerably thinning their crowded decks; but as some of our spars were wounded, our captain, fearing lest any being carried away, the enemy might escape, determined without delay to lay him on board, and to try the mettle of true men against their ruffian crew of desperadoes.

After receiving her broadside and pouring in ours, we put our helm to port, for she was, you must know, on our starboard side, when, running our bow anchor into her fore chains, our grappling irons were thrown, and we had her fast. With a loud cheer, our boarders sprang to the forecastle, and on to the rigging of the enemy.

Never shall I forget, if I was to live as long again as I have done, which is not very likely, the set of ferocious countenances which met our sight as we rushed on board. It was fearful work we were about, but our blood was up, and there was no quarter asked or given on either side. We did not stop to think. The pirates knew that there was no pardon for them, and seemed determined to sell their lives dearly. Our onset was too furious to be withstood, and in a minute we had cleared a small space on the schooner’s decks abaft the foremast, but beyond that every foot was desperately disputed.

We had gained some ground forward, when, from the after part of the vessel, a determined band, led by the captain, pressed us hard. Twice we were driven back almost to our own ship, many of our men losing the number of their mess, but, finally, determined courage got the better of desperation. Inch by inch we drove the pirates aft—the chief of them, to do him justice, keeping always in the front rank, and I believe he killed, with his own hand, more of our people than did all his crew together, though he himself did not receive a scratch. During all this time the marines kept up a hot fire, pikes and pistols were used through the ports, and such guns as could be brought to bear were fired from each of the ships. I have seen plenty of hard fighting, and let me tell you, my boys, though it is very fine reading about, it is very dreadful in reality; yet never in my life have I gone through hotter work, on a small scale, than I did that day—the vessels, too, all the time rolling and pitching tremendously, and tearing away each other’s rigging; indeed, it is surprising we did not both founder on the spot.

Well, we at last managed to clear the fore part of the schooner, by cutting down some and driving others of the pirates overboard, but fifty fellows still held the after part of the deck, uttering fearful oaths and execrations—they continued fighting on—when the deck lifted; fearful shrieks arose, a loud, dull sound was heard, and many of the pirates were hurled into the air, their mangled remains falling among us. For an instant every hand seemed paralysed, and we looked round to see what would happen next; but the explosion had been only partial, and during the confusion the remainder of the band making a rush forward, we again set to at the bloody work, and drove them back. A second attempt to fire the magazine was made, and failed. We were, by this time, secure of victory, though the remnant of the pirates refused to yield.

Their captain, whom I have spoken of, I now saw leap into the main rigging, when, waving his bloody sword above his head, he hurled it with the fiercest imprecations among us, severely wounding one of our people, and then, with a look of despair not to be forgotten, he plunged into the raging ocean, where a troop of sharks were ready to devour him. At that moment it struck me that I had seen his features in times long passed, and I found afterwards I was right.

When their leader was lost, the rest of the pirates submitted, and we had barely time to remove them, and to cut ourselves clear of the schooner, when, with the dying and dead on board, she went down; and on the spot where she had been, the hungry sharks were seen tearing their bodies in pieces, while the sea was tinged around with a ruddy hue. We afterwards fell in with the ship the pirates had attacked, for which we got a good round sum as salvage money, besides other substantial marks of the gratitude of the merchants in the West Indies, for having destroyed one of the greatest pests their trade had for a long time known.

The pirates were hung at Port Royal, in Jamaica, and the evening before their execution, one of them, for reasons I will some day tell you, desired to see me. I visited him in his cell, and from him I learned that the chief of their band, whose dreadful death I had witnessed, the man who had led them into crime and ruin, was, as I suspected, Jan Johnson, the smuggler.

The next morning Mr Clare and Captain Mugford went over to —, where they found Commander Treenail, to whom they gave all the information they possessed about the smugglers’ cave. He heard this account with surprise, for he did not suppose it possible that any spot of ground had remained in that neighbourhood unvisited by his people. However, he was a man of action; and immediately that he comprehended the facts of the case, he signalled from his residence to a cutter which lay off in the bay to get under way, and to wait for him to come on board. “You will accompany me, gentlemen,” he said to our tutors; “and as soon as we can get the lads on board who discovered the cave to show us its entrance, we will lose no time in routing out these smuggling vagabonds.”

The old lieutenant commanding the cutter was waiting with his gig for Captain Treenail at the quay, and they, with our tutors, were quickly on board the Scout.

How proud Harry and I felt when the Scout’s gig pulled up to the wreck, and we were summoned to show the way to the smugglers’ cave. We jumped with alacrity into the gig, feeling as if we had the whole weight and responsibility on our shoulders of leading some important expedition. Captain Treenail received us very kindly, and cross-questioned us minutely as to the whereabouts of the cave and the various articles we had found within it. The cutter, when rounding the cape, had kept some distance from the little bay near which the cave lay, so that, even had smugglers been on the watch near it, they would probably not have been alarmed; the captain had hopes, therefore, that not only their goods but they themselves would be taken. To make the matter more sure, it was arranged that one party, led by Walter, who knew the cape as if he had been born on it, should go by land, accompanied by Mr Clare; while our salt tutor, with the rest of us, was to go in the cutter. Five seamen, with a petty officer, formed the land party, all well armed. They were to proceed cautiously across the downs, watching the movements of the cutter, and keeping themselves as much as possible under cover, so as not to be seen by any smugglers who might be on the lookout. As soon as the boat which took them on shore returned, the cutter’s foresail was let draw, and with a fresh breeze she stood out of our cove. Our hearts beat quick as we glided rapidly on towards the scene of our proposed exploit. We might possibly soon be engaged in a scene of real fighting. There might be ten or perhaps even fifty smugglers concealed in the cave, with large stores of silks, and tobacco, and spirits; and if so, it was not likely that they would give in without striking some hard blows for their liberty. The breeze freshened, and our speed increased, though, as the wind was off the land, the water was smooth. Every inch of canvas the cutter could carry was clapped on her, that we might have the better chance of taking the smugglers by surprise. She heeled over to the breeze till her lee gunwale was under water, while we stood holding on to the weather rigging, and looking out for the entrance to the little cove. We neared it at last. Our hearts beat quicker than ever as we luffed up round a point which formed one of the sides of the little cove. Sail was rapidly shortened, the foresail hauled down, the jib-sheet let fly, and in half a minute we were at anchor. The next instant the crew, already fully armed and prepared, flew to the falls, and two boats were lowered, into which they and we, with Captain Treenail, the commander, and one of the mates of the cutter, and our own salt tutor, immediately jumped. Literally, before a minute had elapsed, two boats were pulling as fast as boats could pull for the shore. Harry and I now felt ourselves of more consequence than we had ever been in our lives before. We were expected to show the way to the cavern, and therefore, as soon as the boats touched the shore, we leaped out, and, pointing to the spot where the mouth of the cavern was to be found, ran towards it along the beach at full speed, followed by the officers and men, who might have had better sea legs, but certainly had not such good shore legs as we possessed. We were some little way ahead of the rest, and our object must have been very evident to any persons acquainted with the existence of the cavern. Just then the report of a firearm was heard, and a bullet whistled by us close to our ears. It did not stop us though, but made us dart on still more rapidly; and as we did so we saw a man climbing up the cliff above the cavern. Had any of the men with muskets been with us, they might have shot him. He turned round for an instant, and shook his fist at us; but before our companions came up he had disappeared. It took some time before the seamen who volunteered to go managed to climb up the slippery rock to the mouth of the cavern. When once two or three had gained a footing, they let down ropes, by which the rest easily got up. The forlorn hope, as the first party might be called, then dashed into the cavern, expecting, perhaps, to meet with a hot fire of musketry. Not a sound, however, was heard; no one appeared; on they boldly went. The smugglers might have had still more deadly intentions, and, it was possible, had prepared a mine to blow up anyone venturing into their cave. They were capable, according to our salt tutor’s notion, of any atrocity. Still the forlorn hope went on without meeting with any impediment. More seamen entered, led by Captain Treenail, and others followed, till we were all inside; and torches being lit, the cavern was thoroughly examined. Not a human being was discovered, but the cave contained a far larger amount of bales of silks, and ribbons, and tobacco, and kegs of spirits, than we had supposed. It was, indeed, a far larger seizure than the coast guard on that station had ever before made. They were proportionably delighted, though they would have liked still more to have caught a dozen or two of smugglers, though not quite so valuable a prize as they would have been during the height of the war, when they would have been sent off to man our ships, and to fight the naval battles of old England.

When we found that no one was inside we told Captain Treenail of the man we had seen climbing up the cliff. He instantly ordered some of the most active young men of the cutter’s crew to go in chase; but after hunting about for some time, they could find no possible way of getting up, and therefore had to abandon the attempt. The next thing was to convey the captured goods to the cutter. This occupied some time, as there were literally several boatloads of goods, to the value, I fancy, of a couple of thousand pounds. It must have been vexatious in the extreme, to any of the smugglers witnessing our proceedings, to see their property thus carried off before their eyes. It must have made them vow vengeance against those who captured it, and against us especially, who, they must have suspected, had given the information respecting the cave.

Among the articles found in the cavern was a rusty old musket. The old lieutenant, Mr Mophead, commanding the cutter, was a curiosity. I should like to describe him. He was very fat and very short, and very red-faced, which is not surprising, considering the hot suns which had shone on that face of his, and the vast amount of strong liquor which he had poured down his throat. Just as the last boatload had been got on board, Walter and his party appeared, not having seen any smugglers. Mr Mophead politely invited him on board. As soon as the boats were hoisted up, and the cutter was once more under way, standing from harbour, Mr Mophead took the musket in his hand, and, approaching Walter, said, with great form, “Mr Walter Tregellin, with Captain Treenail’s leave—and I am sure that he will give me leave—I beg to present to you this weapon, that you may hand it to your respected father. He may like to possess it, to remind him how the cutter Scout, Lieutenant Mophead commander, was the means of relieving his property of a nest of smugglers, who would very soon, in my opinion, have taken possession of it.”

Walter took the musket respectfully, though he could not help smiling; and our salt tutor blew his nose steadily for ten minutes. The same old musket my father afterwards gave to Harry and me, the discoverers of the smugglers’ cave; and Harry relinquished all his rights in it to me.

It hangs now in my study, not far from the dog-collar—another memento of those good old times. We got back to our own cove in a very short time, and we landing, the cutter returned, with her valuable cargo, to her usual port. Clump, who had remained to take care of the house, informed us that he had been watching the downs above the cave, and that he had seen several men pass across the downs, and, running quickly, go towards the boat harbour often mentioned. They then jumped into a boat and pulled across the harbour to the village, where they disappeared. Such was the termination of the adventure for that day; but the romance, unfortunately for us, had not come to an end.

Chapter Eighteen.

October Sport—A Black Joke.

Only two weeks more! Letters had come from our parents to us and to our tutors, saying that we must return to Bristol on November the first.

Our great amusement at this time was shooting, as boating had become somewhat cold work. Now and then we knocked down a few straggling wild fowl, which at that early season had incautiously approached our cape, not aware of the sportsmen residing on it. Our tutors entered enthusiastically into the sport, borrowing guns from the town across the bay, and joining Walter and Harry every afternoon. We other fellows were also allowed to be there to take charge of Ugly, who entered into the sport as warmly as any of us. We generally stayed on the neck until near sunset, and just as the rabbits were out for their supper, started for home. That was Ugly’s half-hour of sport, in which he was always sure to bring two or three rabbits round to the guns. Mr Clare could not shoot as well as Walter, or even Harry, at flying game, but he was first-rate at rabbits; let them jump as fast and high as they might, with Ugly only ten feet behind, and if our fresh tute pulled on them; they were sure to fall. With the Captain things went differently, much to our amusement; for our salt tute cared not how much we laughed at his failures, which all his shots were. He brought up his gun as if it were a harpoon, and always gave it a jerk, to help it shoot farther, when he pulled the trigger. The butt was seldom at his shoulder; and as he insisted upon putting immense loads in his gun, the results were sometimes disastrous to him and ridiculous to us. He often sprang back after a shot, as if he had been kicked by a horse, or wrung his hands, which had borne the recoil. His misses and misfortunes, however, never made him angry or dejected. After each failure, out came the red bandanna to wipe his brow, and as a shout of laughter greeted the performance, he would say calmly, with only a gleam of a smile, “So, boys, you think I missed, eh? Well, perhaps I did.”

Clump and Juno having been much alarmed and excited by the discovery of the smugglers, we boys determined to profit by their disquieted state of mind, and hatched a scheme to afford some fun. We watched an opportunity to put it in execution. The time came one evening when our tutors did not return with us to the house after the afternoon’s shooting, but went to the Clear the Track, to chat and settle some other matters until tea-time at seven.

Delighted with the arrangement, we boys ran to the house, and, getting up into our attic, began to make preparations for the trick we had concocted. There was nothing very original in our plan, I must own, nor was it, I confess, a very grand or noble thing to try and frighten a couple of poor ignorant negroes, for such was the object just then of our plans and preparations. Clump and Juno had a wholesome dread of smugglers and of the acts of vengeance of which they were supposed to be capable. We therefore arranged to dress up so as to make ourselves look as formidable as possible, and then to appear suddenly before the old couple. For this purpose we brought up from the wreck all the boat cloaks, greatcoats, and pieces of canvas which we could find, and sou’westers and tarpaulin hats, not forgetting some pistols and rusty swords. Besides these we laid in a store of pasteboard, and brown and coloured paper, and some laths, and string, and paint, and corks, and tow. With this abundant supply of materials we set to work to fabricate a variety of garments, such as we supposed smugglers would wear; at all events, such as were worn on the stage. We made a sufficient number of false noses to supply each of our faces, and long curling moustaches, which made those who wore them look very fierce. Some had wigs with wonderfully long shaggy hair, and others beards of prodigious growth. The greatcoats and cloaks served for most of the party, with belts round their waists stuck full of daggers made of wood, and a real pistol or two. Then we manufactured out of the canvas some high boots of huge proportions; the upper part capable of containing the whole of a man’s personal luggage, and a day’s supply of provender into the bargain. Nothing could exceed, either, the wild and ferocious appearance of our hats. Two of us wore black feathers in them, and two others were adorned with death’s heads and cross bones: indeed, it must be confessed that we represented much more a band of pirates of two or three centuries back than a party of such smugglers as it was probable could be found on the British coast. Besides the real swords we possessed, we manufactured some hangers out of wood, which we hung by sashes at our sides. In fact, our disguises were complete in every respect, and so fierce did we all appear, that I truly believe, had one of us met another in any gloomy, half-lighted place, both heroes would have run away. Walter took an active part in all the arrangements, and being the tallest and well stuffed out, looked every inch of him a bold smuggler. It is wonderful what burnt cork and rouge and dark locks will effect in turning a mild, gentle-looking person into a fierce leader of outlaws. It was arranged that Drake and I should go down first before dressing up, to prepare the way for the rest of the actors, then he was first to step out, and I was to follow, and get ready. All being at length prepared, we descended to the kitchen, and strolled in there in a tired way, as if we were just in the humour to listen to the old blackies’ talk and receive their petting. Clump, sitting bent over the fire to get light for his work, was cutting some tholes for the boat with his knife. “Hi,” he said, as he saw us enter, “dat’s good fur sore eyes.”

And Juno, taking the pipe from her mouth, greeted us with a long whiff of smoke, and—

“I’se glad you’se cum—getten dark an glum ’ere, only ole Clump an me. What do yun Massas shoot?” Drake held up a couple of rabbits and three wild fowl. “Oh! de gorry—all dem!—well, dis chile nebber sees de like; an you’se gwine ter gib dem ter Clump agin—’spects so, all you’se don’t want. De ole niggers be rich dis winter.”

Clump, when he had got us seats, dusting the kitchen chairs with his long coat-tails, resumed his task, and as Juno’s garrulousness ran on, he shook his head and chuckled, and muttered and grinned, just as if he were behind the scenes and prompting her to amuse us. He always had that funny way of grimacing and conversing with himself gaily, whilst Juno indulged in her talkative fits. He admired his old partner hugely. Once, when travelling with my father, he heard at an Assize some great lawyer make a speech, and said, when the orator had concluded—

“De’clar, Massa, dat’s fine; dis nigger nebber hear anyone speak like dat afore, ’cept—’cept Juno.”

By-and-by, as Juno’s talk ran sluggishly, and the pipe required much picking and blowing, Clump got up to put by his work and light a lamp. But that we forbid, saying the firelight was so much pleasanter.

“Dat’s so,” said Juno, who had got her solace in good order again, and was all ready to start off on a new stream of jabber. “Dat’s so—Clump not ole nuff ter know dat fire-lite more good dan lam-lite. Hi! hi! he only chile yit.”

Drake interrupted there, to turn the conversation into another channel, by saying that we should leave the old house soon to go back to Bristol, and Clump asked, having taken a seat on the wood-box directly under the trap-door, “An you’se glad—glad? ’Spects de ole house git cole an dull to yous now; ’spects de yun Massas want git home?”

“Well, no, Clump,” answered Drake; “I don’t want to go away—that is, we would not want to go if—if—if we had not been somewhat frightened this evening.”

Juno, because of her deafness, did not plainly hear what Drake had said, but she judged it in part from his manner and the assumed look of terror that he cast over his shoulder. So she bent forward anxiously, and asked him in a voice full of concern—

“Wat’s dat, Massa Drake—wat’s dat you say?” Drake drew nearer to her and repeated what he had said. “My hebbens, Massa Drake, wat did scar you?”

“Well, you see, Aunt Juno,” replied Drake, looking cautiously about him again in the darkness of the room—“Bob and I were coming round at the back of the house, when we heard, or thought we heard, whispering, and on drawing nearer, we heard some fearful threats uttered; I cannot say what they were, they were so dreadful.”

“Oh! don’t talk so, Massa Drake, if dere was anybody, dey must be de smugglers, and dey will come to cut all our troats,” exclaimed Juno, looking cautiously round over her shoulder.

I cannot say that even then, thoughtless as I was, I liked what Drake had said, because he had told a positive falsehood, and it was no excuse to declare that it was said in joke. Drake continued, his voice growing more and more tremulous every instant, as if with terror—“That’s not all. As we crept away undiscovered, we heard the tramp of many feet coming up from the shore, and we shouldn’t be surprised if at this very moment the house was surrounded by smugglers, come to carry us all off to foreign lands, to make slaves of us.”

“Or to make soup of us,” I cried out, wringing my hands. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!”

“What has become of Walter and the rest, it is impossible to say,” added Drake. “Too probably they have been already spirited away by the smugglers. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” he exclaimed, and, jumping up, ran out as if to look for them.

Juno and Clump were, it seemed, very much alarmed, both rolling their large eyes round and round till they grew bigger and bigger. Certain noises outside increased the terror of the two poor souls, but I knew that they indicated impatience on the part of my companions. Accordingly, exclaiming that I would bear it no longer, I too jumped up, and ran after Drake. As neither of us returned, it was but natural that Juno and Clump should have supposed that we had been carried off by the smugglers. There the two poor souls sat, shivering and trembling with alarm, not daring to go out, for fear of finding their worst anticipations realised. At last, Clump—who was really a brave fellow at heart, though just then overtaken by a nervous fit—got up, and, taking his old gun from over the mantelpiece, prepared to load it. Several pair of sharp eyes had been watching proceedings from outside. Now was the moment for action. Led by Walter, in we rushed, and then advanced with threatening gestures towards the old couple. We were afraid of uttering any sound, lest the well-known tones of our voices should have betrayed us. Juno was at first the most alarmed. She did not scream or shriek, however, but, falling on her knees, appeared as if she was thus resolved to meet her death. Poor old Clump meantime stood gazing at us with an almost idiotic stare, till Walter, advancing, gave him a slap on the back, sufficient, it must be owned, to rouse him up. At first, the blow adding to his overwhelming terror, he rolled over, a mere bundle of blackness, into the wood-box, nothing being visible to us but two long quivering feet and five black fingers. But in a moment after, with his still unloaded gun in his hand, he sprang up like a madman, jumped over the table, and, not trying to open the door, burst through the window, smashing half a dozen panes of glass.

Who should open the door just then and come in, as Clump demolished the window and went out, but Captain Mugford! Having left Mr Clare enjoying a nap on a sofa in the brig, he had come up to the house, and, hearing the frightful noises in the kitchen, rushed in there. So much was he prepared by the yells that escaped for some tragic scene of scalding or other accident, that it required two or three minutes before he could take in the meaning of the commotion. But when he recognised in the fierce smugglers a party of his young friends, and when he beheld Juno’s situation, and the shattered frame through which Clump had struggled, he took the joke, and broke into the most elephantine convulsions of laughter that I ever heard or witnessed. For half a minute, at least, he shook and shook internally, and then exploded. An explosion was no sooner finished than the internal spasm recommenced, and so he went on until I really feared he might injure himself. After five minutes of such attack, he managed to draw out his bandanna and cover his face with it, and then, whilst we watched his figure shaking and quivering, we heard, like groans, from beneath the handkerchief, “Oh ur–rh–ha—ar—uh! Bless me!” When he took down his handkerchief and happened to see Juno rising from her knees, he swelled up again like a balloon, and then eased off gradually in splutterings and moans as a dying porpoise. After which, he went and pacified Juno, and tried to explain to her what a wicked trick we had been guilty of, and that the band of smugglers, after all, were only the boys she knew so well, and he proceeded to disrobe us, one by one, so that the old woman might comprehend the joke. And so she did, but she sat motionless for a time, until some portion of her usual composure returned; and then she got up with many a sigh and mutterings of “Ki! ki! tink dat’s wicked—frite ole Juno so—oh Lor!” but before tea was served, I heard her chuckling slyly, and turning towards us again and again as she poured the hot milk on the toast she was dishing up. We meantime were employed in peeling, and by degrees got restored to our usual appearance, and we then hurried up to our rooms to wash off the rouge and the marks of burnt cork with which our faces were covered. But the Captain sat down and shook quietly for a long while, the tears rolling down his face, and his fingers opening and closing convulsively on the handkerchief. And when tea was quite ready, he went off to hunt up Clump.

Mr Clare came in soon after, but we had, by that time, got the better of the fun, and removed all traces of the commotion. When the Captain joined us at the table, he had another laughing spasm before he could say or eat anything; but for the remainder of the evening he controlled himself pretty well, only breaking out about half a dozen times, and blowing his nose until it was very red and swollen. However, Mr Clare never heard of the way the poor negroes had been frightened by a practical joke, a thing he particularly disliked and had often spoken against.

Chapter Nineteen.

Last Days on the Cape—A Terrible Night.

And now, the time of our stay on the cape was drawing to a close. Only three days more remained, and they were to be occupied in collecting our books, packing trunks, and all the unpleasant little duties that become so tedious and dispiriting when, like a drop curtain, they announce the end of the play.

Perhaps if the days of our cape life had been prolonged, we should have regretted the detention from home, and yearned for our dear parents, looking on the cape, that had already lost some of its attractions, as soon to become a dreary point beaten by winter winds and seas and drifted across by the snow. But because we must go, therefore it was hard to go. What cannot be done, cannot be had, cannot be reached—that is just what the boy wants. As we could not yet actually realise the desolateness and barrenness of winter there, but only remember the delights and beauties of summer and autumn, we lost cheerfulness over the boxes and trunks, and sighed because of the brick walls, narrow streets, and toilsome school-work that were soon to bound our lives.

On a Wednesday we had been for our last afternoon’s shooting on the moor. Our tutors had walked round to return their guns to the lenders over in the town. We strolled to the house through the fast fading afternoon light, talking of the memorable events in our half-year just closing.

“Now, I think,” said Drake, “that our boat-race was the best fun of all.”

“I don’t,” Alf answered, “though we had a good time then, I know; but what is there to compare with the cruise and shipwreck?—the excitement lasted so long and came out all right.”

“Yes, it came out all right, but there was only a tight squeak that it did not go all wrong. I tell you what, fellows, I was horribly frightened that night, before we struck on Boatswain’s Reef,” said Harry.

Each of us but Walter added, “So was I.”

“Walter, now you were frightened, too. Own now!” continued Harry.

“No, I was not, really!” answered Walter. “Somehow I never feel afraid on the water; and I think it must be because I was born at sea, you know, when our father and mother were returning from the West Indies. Now if I had been behind a pair of runaway horses, instead of aboard a good boat, I might have got shaky, I daresay.”

“Well, my opinion is,” said I, “that just the best time of all was finding the smugglers’ cave; but I am afraid that, after we are gone, they may come down hard on Clump and Juno, and when we have—”

Walter interrupted me with “Nonsense, those fellows will know enough to keep hid or give the cape a wide berth after this. But talking about the good times we have had, I have enjoyed our shooting best of all, and so has Ugly, I’ll bet—haven’t you, Ugly?”

To which our bright little dog answered as well as he could by barking an assent, and jumping before us to wag his tail energetically.

“Hallo!” Harry exclaimed, stopping, as he spoke, to look off to sea; “there’s a rakish-looking lugger—don’t you see?—just there, to the south-east, near Bass Rocks. I wonder what she is after.”

“After?” answered Drake, “why, probably running down to Penzance.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Harry, who continued to watch the vessel with much interest; “it looks to me as if she were running close in, to anchor.”

“Well, let her anchor if she likes. There’s nothing strange in that, when there’s not wind enough to fly a feather;” and after a few moments more, in which we resumed our way to the house, Drake continued—

“Haven’t our tutors proved splendid fellows? I think the Captain is the finest old chap that I ever came across; and when Mr Clare is a clergyman I should like to go to his church—shouldn’t feel a bit like going to sleep then.”

To which we all gave a cordial assent, and, having reached the house, turned in there with the prospect of having some fun with Clump and Juno before our tutors should return. I stood at the door a few minutes. Sure enough Harry was right. Though it was too dark now to distinguish anything more than a hundred yards away, I heard the running out of a cable and then the lowering of the sails. “An odd place to anchor for the night,” thought I, and so did Ugly, who was beside me, for he gave a low, uneasy howl.

Juno was laying the plates for tea, as I went in. After teasing her for awhile I joined the other boys. Soon Juno came out to the kitchen, and when she commenced to fry the hasty-pudding, we induced Clump to tell us some of his sea adventures, in the middle of which Ugly set up a furious barking, and a moment afterwards there came a heavy rap at the front door. It was the first time there had been a knock at a door of our old house since we had been in it.

Clump, leaving his story unfinished, took a candle, and Drake and I followed him into the dining-room, which he had to cross to get to the front door. But by the time we had entered the dining-room a stranger had walked into the hall, and had also proceeded to open the door opposite us. Ugly, who was greatly incensed, jumped forward and took hold of a leg of the stranger’s trousers.

Our visitor was a small, rough, ugly man, with a terrible squint in his eyes and a voice as unpleasant as his face. He had no collar, only a handkerchief about his neck, and wore a large, shaggy flushing jacket. His first act was to kick Ugly halfway across the room, with the salutation: “Take that, you damned cur, for your manners, damn you!”

Ugly made at him again fiercer than ever, but I caught him in time and held him.

“Wat will you ’ab, sir?” asked Clump in a dignified voice.

“What will I have, ay? I’ll have that cur’s life if he comes at me agin, and I want to know, old nigger, if,”—here the rough customer spit some tobacco-juice on the floor—“I want to know if you kin ’commodate four or five gents for the night, ay?”

All of Clump’s spirit was aroused, and he stammered as he replied—

“No, mon; n–o–o–o! We dussen keeps no ho–o–o—hotel ’ere, we dussen. You’se find tabben ober end de town. Dis am Massa Tre–gel—Tre–gel—Massa Tregellin’s privet mansion.”

“Ho! ho!” answered the man, slapping his hat down on his head and spitting again. “Massa Tregellin’s house, is it? Look here, boys, you just tell your dad, when you see him, that he has got a foolish, consequential nigger and a mean, tumbledown affair of a hut, if it can’t ’commodate some poor sailors. Howsumever, I’ll go back to my lugger, and bad luck to your mansion! Old nig, look ’er here—perhaps we’ll see each other again.” He looked slowly all round the room, and went out, slamming the doors after him.

Fifteen minutes afterwards our tutors came in, and when they heard of our visitor Captain Mugford waxed wroth.

“I wish I had been here,” he exclaimed; “if I wouldn’t have put that scoundrel off soundings in about half a splice! The impudent fellow, to attempt to lord it in that style in a gentleman’s house. What do you think of it, Mr Clare, eh?”

“Oh, not much, Captain Mugford. The man was probably tipsy, and was of course a bully, or he would never have talked so before boys and a poor old negro. I am glad neither Walter nor Harry was in the room.”

“So am I, sir,” said Walter; “we were in the kitchen and came in when we heard the loud talking, just as the man slammed the doors in going out. We could have done nothing more than order him out.”

After tea we boys went into the kitchen again, leaving our tutors playing at chess, which Mr Clare was trying to teach Captain Mugford. That kitchen was a favourite resort of ours in the evenings, and Clump and Juno liked to have us there. There was a famous fire—three or four fresh logs singing over a red mass of coal; plenty of ashes; and a whistled tune with a jet of smoke right from the heart of each stick. The brass fire-dogs were extra bright, reflecting the blaze on all sides. Some chestnuts and potatoes were roasting in the ashes, and Clump had provided some cider to treat us to, this last night of ours on the cape. So we pulled our chairs close around the fire, Clump sitting at one end, almost inside the chimney-place, smoking his pipe, and Juno at the other end, also almost inside the chimney-place, and smoking, too, her pipe. Hi! How they grinned, and chatted, and smoked. After awhile, when we had had a full hour of real fun, quizzing the old folks, telling stories, eating chestnuts and potatoes, drinking cider, and listening to stories of the West Indies, Walter and Harry got up to clean their guns.

“Wen you’se cum ’ere nudder time, ’spect dese ole black folks be gwine ’way—be gwine ’crost de ribber Jordan?”—exclaimed Juno, with a long sigh.

“Now, don’t talk in that way,” said Harry; “why, marm Juno, you and Clump will live to dance at my wedding; see if you don’t; and now, Juno, just give us a kettle of hot water, will you, to rinse out these gun-barrels with.”

When the guns were washed, dried, and rubbed off with oil, I said to Clump, “Have you got any bullets or buckshot?”

“Don’t know, Massa Bob—’spects so, en my ole tool-box.”

“Why,” asked Drake, “what are you going to do, Bob, with bullets and buckshot?”

Clump was down on his knees in the closet, overhauling the tool-box he had spoken of.

“Well, Drake, I’ll tell you if Clump finds the articles,” I answered.

“Have you got any, Clump?”

“Yah, Massa, ’ere’s a han’ful.”

“These bullets and buckshot,” I continued, “are for Walter and Harry to load their guns with; for, just as sure as that fellow came here this afternoon, just so sure, I believe, he will be back here before morning with more like him.”

“What stuff,” sang out Walter, laughing; “what puts that in your head, Bob?”

“I don’t know exactly what, Walter, but I suspect it, and I have not liked to say anything about it before, because I was afraid of being laughed at. But the more I think of it, the more certain I am that the man who was here to-night is one of the band of smugglers who owned the goods taken through our means by the revenue men. There are others with him, and, mark my word, they have not come back for nothing. Now do, fellows, load your guns. We needn’t say anything and get laughed at, for the Captain will surely laugh if we tell him my suspicions. You can take your guns upstairs, and then, if anything does happen before morning, you’ll be all ready.”

“Well, Walter,” said Harry, “suppose we do—it’s good fun at any rate to make believe that robbers, and outlaws, and smugglers, and all other sorts of odd visitors are coming—and—I cannot help owning that what Bob says sounds probable. So here go two bullets for this barrel, and nine buckshot for the other. Come, Walt, load up! Don’t you shake in your boots already? ugh!”

“It is curious that we should have pretended to be smugglers if smugglers really do come. Probably that makes Bob fancy they will come; still, I wish that we had not frightened the old people so,” said Walter, loading his gun; and a few minutes later Mr Clare opened the kitchen door and called us in to evening prayers. As they always did, Clump and Juno assembled with us in the dining-room.

There was something very impressive in those few moments before the chapter for reading was found. There was the sound of the turning over of the Bible leaves, and that of a light, pattering autumn rain without, (it had commenced after dark), besides the comfortable crackling of the wood-fire, and the occasional snapping of the fresh logs. The old, devoted, pious negroes; the rugged, benevolent Captain, with an expression of thought and reverent waiting in his face; and we boys, so full of youth and spirits, sat thinking—soberly, and perhaps solemnly—how neither sickness nor harm had come near us; what blessings of pleasure, health, and strength had waited on us all during half a year; how those dear ones separated from us had been preserved from suffering and calamity, and were hoping to meet us before another week had commenced; how the common ties and associations that had united us so happily and so long were soon to be sundered. Those and many other—some graver, some lighter—thoughts, in those few seconds, occupied our minds, whilst Mr Clare turned over the leaves beneath the table lamp, and then his clear, strong voice slowly and feelingly uttered the words: “I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in Him will I trust. Surely He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with His feathers, and under His wings shalt thou trust: His truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday... Because thou hast made the Lord which is my refuge, even the Most High, thy habitation... For He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone... He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him. I will be with him in trouble: I will deliver him and honour him. With long life will I satisfy him, and show him My salvation.”

And when the prayers had ended, we separated quietly for our beds, the Captain going off as usual to the brig.

I turned the key in the hall-door as he went out—the first time such a thing had been done during our stay on the cape. Ugly coiled himself up on the horsehair sofa in the dining-room, and in half an hour more, I suppose, every soul in the old house was asleep.

I dreamed that a lot of rabbits were in a hole together and making a humming noise, which, I believed, was a whispering they were having together, and I wanted to hear what they said, but that Ugly made such a barking I could not. I woke up, and, sure enough, Ugly was very noisy in the room below, barking regularly and harshly. No one else in the house seemed to be disturbed. There was a placid snoring in the attic, a pattering of rain on the roof, and a splashing of water, as it ran off steadily in a stream to the ground. But in a minute or two, between Ugly’s barks I thought I heard something which recalled what I had been dreaming of, the rabbits whispering in their burrow. I listened. Yes, some persons outside the house were talking together in low voices. I crawled to a window and looked out. There was an indistinct group of three or four persons standing by the rock, twenty yards from the house. Their talk was only a murmur of different voices in discussion, sometimes louder, sometimes fainter; but as I watched, one of the group struck a light, and I saw in the flash four or five or more figures, and the face of the man who had entered the house in the evening, who was now holding a lantern to be lighted, and was also looking up at the house. It was a dark lantern, I suppose, for the light was shut up in some way after that. I shook each of the boys and told them to look out of the window, and then I ran into Mr Clare’s room and woke him. When he saw that some sort of robbery or attack was to be made on the house, he exclaimed, “I hope they do not know that the Captain is alone in the brig,” and ran downstairs to bolt all the doors and windows as securely as they could be fastened, and awaken Clump and Juno, who slept in a little room off the kitchen. Not a lamp was lighted in the house, but the smugglers had heard the noises made, and now, talking and swearing aloud, approached the door and turned the handle. Being bolted within, they could not open it.

“Hullo! hullo! I say, you Tregellin fellows, wake up!”—it was the voice we had heard before—“wake up and let us in?”—it sounded as if he turned to his companions then, and laughed and muttered something—“here’s some decent sailor-boys as wants a drop and a bite, so wake up quick, boys and niggers!—let us in, I say, or we’ll break open the doors, and break your bones into the bargain.”

At the conclusion of the speech, they all beat on the door and house with fists and sticks, and laughed loudly at their leader’s joke. Mr Clare now went down the narrow, creaking stairs again to the big door they were pounding against so fiercely, and from behind its defence answered the summons.

“Men: this is a private house, and you must go away. You will get nothing here, and we are armed.”

“Hurrah!” they answered without. I shall omit the terrible oaths with which they loaded every breath they spoke. “Who are you, big voice?”

“No matter,” called out Mr Clare, “who I am. I suspect who you are, and we do not intend to let you get in here—that is all.”

“That’s a lie—we’ll be in in ten minutes and make your bass a squeak. If you don’t open this ’ere door in a jiffy—we’ll make grease-pots of you along with them niggers. Look what we’ll do with your castle—just what we have been doing with the old hulk down there on the rocks.”

As he spoke, the darkness in the house withdrew to the holes and corners, and flashes of red and white light shot into every window and played on the walls, reflected from the midnight sky that had suddenly kindled to a blaze. The outlaws had set the old wreck on fire—our dear old school-house.

Could the Captain be there, sleeping yet? or had they killed him?

Ah! that doubt about Captain Mugford’s safety magnified the danger of our own situation to our imaginations. If those outlaws could burn, in madness, such a harmless thing as the castaway brig, and could conquer such a powerful man as our salt tute, what might they not do here to us?

The hour—the yelling and swearing and banging at the doors—the lurid glare flashing from the sky to show us each other’s fear-stamped countenances—those united to bewilder and appal us boys at least.

Juno, too, was upstairs in our room, sitting on a low chair, perfectly silent, but overcome by dread. But Clump, who now showed the courage he really possessed, was active with Mr Clare downstairs, strengthening every window and door. He was not afraid. His old spirit was aroused, and, in the defence of his dear master’s children, he was anxious to prove his courage and fidelity.

“Harry,” Mr Clare called up the stairs, “bring me your gun. I shall want that down here. You say it is all loaded and ready, eh? Well, bring it down. Walter, you keep yours upstairs, and all you boys remain there until it is necessary to come down; and now, Walter, don’t fire unless there is absolute necessity. The rascals can’t burn this house unless they light the roof, and they can’t stay here all night to do that, for the light of the Clear the Track will bring over some of the townspeople. Poor Mugford! poor Mugford! Bob, you climb up to that little window in the south gable-end, and see if you can detect any movement about the wreck.”

Harry handed him the gun, and I climbed to the lookout, relinquishing Ugly, whom I had been holding, to Juno’s care. He had been ordered not to bark, so now he only panted fiercely and listened intently.

The smugglers, after vain attempts at the front door—they could have smashed in the windows, shutters, latches, glass, and all, but their small size and height from the ground made them most dangerous to enter by when there were defenders within went round to the back of the house, and presently I heard a great ripping and banging of boards there, and Mr Clare’s voice call quickly—

“If one inch of you enter there, I will fire—understand that.”

Then we heard a shot, but knew by the report that it was not Harry’s gun, and Drake called down the stairs, “Clump, who fired?”

“De smugglers, Massa; one den shoot tru de winder at Massa Clare, but tank de Lor, the scoundrel miss.”

Just then I saw—and how the blood coursed with one cold sweep from my heart and back again—amid the hot flames of the burning wreck, Captain Mugford’s figure. He sprang from the deck to the rocks and was rushing towards the house. I turned and called the good news, but found that Juno and I were alone. The others, too much excited and interested in the contest to remain longer prisoners in the attic, had got on the stairway, and when I looked down on them Walter was on the bottom step with his gun cocked.

Now many steps and the yelled-out blasphemy of the smugglers came round the house again to the front. Though, as we knew afterwards, two remained to keep Mr Clare occupied there, whilst the three others were to try the windows again.

Captain Mugford must be near. Oh! that he could get here safely. Ugly jumped by me, and, uttering a savage bark, sprang downstairs and past Walter. He had escaped from Juno’s charge. As he flew about the rooms downstairs, a whole sash and shutter in the south-east room were driven in by a blow of an immense beam, and in another second half the body of a smuggler was above the window-sill. But with a tremendous leap Ugly reached him and pinned him by the throat. They tumbled back together. Then we heard a new voice—Captain Mugford’s!

“You cowards, you hang-dogs, you scum of the sea, you dark-hearted blackguards—take that! Aye, villains!—and that!”

Two pistol shots were heard. Harry jumped to open the door for Captain Mugford. Walter stood ready beside him with the gun. I ran with Drake to the open window, to see if harm had come to our dear salt tute, and Alfred had hurried in to where Mr Clare was alone guarding the back-door and broken windows, for he had sent Clump, not knowing of our being downstairs and of the Captain’s coming, to fight where we were. Clump had a short iron bar in his hands. I saw the man whom Ugly had gripped fallen on his knees and cutting our gallant little dog from his neck with a knife. One outlaw was stretched on the ground. Another was struggling with the Captain. He was a large, powerful fellow, and seemed to be getting the better of our now much-exhausted tutor. As I looked, the prostrate man rose, and both he and the one whom poor Ugly—now dead on the grass—had attacked came to help crush the Captain. Then the front door was flung open. Walter fired, and the man who had killed our brave dog dropped the knife he held, and, clasping his left shoulder with his right hand, screamed out a terrible oath, and, yelling with pain, ran from the struggle. At the same moment—all these events, from the time Captain Mugford arrived until the door was opened to admit him, not occupying probably three minutes—the Captain fell beneath his adversary, whose fingers clutched his throat, and the infuriated outlaw seemed determined to finish him. Walter could not fire again without shooting the very one for whose safety alone he would fire. But Clump jumped out with his iron bar and struck the assailant on the head. The Captain was released just as I saw the other miscreant level a pistol at Clump. I called, “Oh, Clump, Clump, take care!” With the sound of my voice came the sharp, fatal crack of the pistol, and Clump fell back—dead!

Two minutes more and all the smugglers were in full flight. The old, grey-headed, faithful, true-hearted Clump was dead, and Juno stretched unconscious on her husband’s body. Ugly, all hacked to pieces, lay in a pool of blood, yet gasping. Captain Mugford, wounded, bruised, and exhausted, sat on the doorstep. Mr Clare was leaning over Clump with a hand on the pulseless heart. The burning wreck yet lighted the heavens, and the horrid scene at the very doorstep of our home of such a happy half-year.

Chapter Twenty.

A Retrospect and Farewell.

It is fifty years ago and some months since that rainy, bloody, flame-lit October night. And now this cold, wintery, blustering midnight, I—the Bob Tregellin of my story—sit writing this concluding chapter.

There is a coal-fire glowing hot in the grate. There are shelves and shelves of books; easy-chairs sprawling their indolent figures here and there; a curled-up bunch of fur purring in one; an old black setter-dog dreaming—as I can see by the whine in his quick breathing and the kicking of his outstretched legs—on a bearskin rug before the fire; and a circle of bright light from a well-shaded lamp falls about my table. Yes—but I shall get up now for a minute and take down the old musket and dog-collar, the sight of which always vividly recalls those happiest months of my life—Fifty Years Ago.

As I replace them the storm without comes in a heavier, fiercer gust. I hear it rush in a whirl up the street. I see it almost lift the heavy curtains over the window, as if it would come in and rest itself. I hear it whistling through all the cracks and keyholes of the house—whistling dismally. Its voices, and the rumbling of a hack in some neighbouring street, remind me of storms I have heard, lying comfortably in my snug attic bed in the old house on the cape—the wind and the waves dashing up the rocky shore.

That strong whiff disturbed pussy’s and “the Captain’s” (so I have called my old setter friend) nap, for puss stands up on her morocco bed and arches her back like a horseshoe, and then springs, with a jolted-out “mew–r–r–r,” right on my table, and proceeds to walk over this manuscript, carrying her tail up as if she wanted to light it by the gas and beg me then to touch it to my pipe and stop scribbling. So I shall presently. And the Captain strolls up to lay his cold nose on my knee, slowly wag his silky tail, and look kindly into my face with those soft, big eyes, as if he would say, “Come, master, don’t be low-spirited.”

You are right, old fellow! I was somewhat sad about leaving the pleasant companionship I have held through my pen with brothers and friends of the old time, and a goodly number of those who are young now, while I am so no longer, except in memory and heart. Youth has come back with these pages, and perhaps you are tired with me, but I—I shall never tire of the young—the glorious companionship of the pure, merry, brave hearts that look undaunted and without suspicion on the great road stretching far into the Future, and fading only to reappear in mirages of splendour in a brilliant sky.

There! I have smoked my pipe: and now, Miss Puss, stretch yourself in the chair again, and you, Captain, resume that dream by the fire. I have got a few more lines to write before my invisible friends leave me.

From that autumn night, 1830, to this winter night of 1872, no clue has ever been discovered to the murderers of faithful old Clump. About Christmas time of the same year Juno closed her earthly eyes in the old Cape House—to open them again, I fervently believe, in heaven.

Mr Clare lives—a venerable clergyman in one of our great cities—his head and heart yet labouring earnestly in the Great Cause he serves.

Captain Mugford sleeps in the home of his adoption—the ocean. Five years after our six months together he sailed from Bristol as boatswain of a splendid ship for the Pacific. A fortnight after, he was spoken by a homeward-bound brig, and that was the last ever heard of honest Roland Mugford, or the ship he sailed in. I hope seas, winds, and undercurrents, however rough they may have been, left undisturbed the red bandanna and the short black pipe. And we feel sure that the mother’s prayers were answered, and that the boy who ran away from her in his youth came back to her,—whither her memory was a beacon light—the Eternal Harbour, unstirred by storms.

Walter is a man of eminence—a diplomatist—and Harry a merchant, a cheerful, generous-hearted man, whose name is the synonym of honour, and whose hands “to do good, and to distribute, forget not.”

Drake, who entered the army after travelling in every strange and dim corner of the globe—frozen up in the Arctic Seas, perspiring in the interior of Africa, exploring among the western wilds of the Rocky Mountains, and doing other things adventurous in every out-of-the-way part—finally went with all his honest, hot zeal to India, where, fighting his country’s battles, he spent many years of his life, and came back a general and one-legged man. Now he stumps about in this same library, but manages to take me travelling thousands of never-weary miles; and many and many a time do we walk, and shoot, and swim, and race, and fight over and over again that happy time at the cape.

Poor Alfred—the best of all of us—died before his thirtieth year, nursed by a few devoted Africans, at his missionary station in the southern Atlantic.

And I, whom the general calls “Vieux Moustache,” have finished an old Boy’s Story of “Our Salt and Fresh Water Tutors.”

The End.

W H G Kingston

"Charley Laurel"

Chapter One.

Valuable Booty.

A good many years ago, before, indeed, I can remember, His Majesty’s Ship Laurel, a corvette of eighteen guns and a hundred and thirty men, commanded by Captain Blunt, formed one of the West India squadron.

She, with another corvette, and a brig in company, came one fine morning off a beautiful island, then in possession of the French, although, as Dick Driver, from whom I got the particulars, said, properly belonged to England, at least, it once had. Of course, therefore, it was their business to get it back again. Dick could not recollect its name, nor the exact date of the occurrences I am describing, for, being no scholar, he was a very bad hand at recollecting dates; and as he could not write his own name, of course it was not to be expected that he would keep a journal, or remember very accurately all the places he had visited.

The Laurel and her consorts, having hoisted French colours, stood along the coast, which the captain and officers of the former ship narrowly examined with their glasses.

At length the shades of evening drew on, and they came off a small town, situated on the shore of a bay, the entrance of which was guarded by a fort. The Laurel stood on, as if about to enter the bay, but the land-wind coming off the shore, she and the other two vessels stood away till they had got such a distance from the harbour that there was no chance of their being seen by the sharpest eyes, with the best of night-glasses, looking out for them.

The ships having hove-to, the commanders of the other vessels came on board the Laurel, when Captain Blunt announced his intention of attacking the town, hoping to hold possession of it till another squadron, which had been destined for the purpose, had captured a more important place on the other side of the island. The captain’s plan was to send in the different boats of the squadron with a strong party of marines and blue-jackets, in three divisions, a couple of hours before daylight, as it was hoped at that time, the garrison of the fort being less on the alert than at an earlier hour, the boats might enter the bay unperceived.

The first and largest division was instructed to take possession of the town; the second was to attack the fort; and the third to cut out any vessels found in the harbour, in case the other two should be compelled to retreat, so that, at all events, there might be something to show for the night’s work.

The boats’ crews, and all who were fortunate enough, as they considered it, to be selected for the expedition, were soon busily employed in sharpening cutlasses, fitting fresh flints to their pistols, and making other preparations for the possible bloody work in which they were to be engaged. Dick Driver, who belonged to the cutter’s crew, was among the most active. Dick was a short, strongly built, powerful fellow, with a broad, honest countenance, bright blue eyes, and fair bushy beard and whiskers,—a truer-hearted, braver seaman than Dick Driver never stepped.

“If this here cutlass of mine does its duty, we’ll thrash the Mounseers, and gain the King his own again,” exclaimed Dick, as he applied his weapon to the grindstone, feeling that he was a host in himself; and so he was, provided no treacherous bullet found its way through his sturdy frame, when, alas, Dick’s strength and courage would have availed him nothing.

The boats at length collected round the Laurel; the oars were muffled; the officers were ordered to maintain a strict silence. It was hoped that by getting in the rear of the fort it might be taken with a rush, while the larger party entered the town, and took by surprise any troops who might be stationed within it.

The night was very dark, for clouds were in the sky, and the water was smooth.

The first lieutenant of the Laurel, who commanded the expedition, leading in the gig, away the boats pulled, keeping close together, and looking as they glided along like some huge serpent creeping on his prey. The entrance to the bay was gained without the boats being discovered. They dashed on more rapidly than before. In a few minutes they would be hard at work, the seamen slashing away with their cutlasses, and the marines firing, and pronging with their muskets and bayonets at their fellow-creatures.

Strange that men should like such work. Dick confessed he did, though he could not exactly say why.

The officers did their duty admirably; the marines were landed, and the blue-jackets were springing on shore before a shot was fired from the town.

Dick, who belonged to the first division, pushed on in that direction with his party, while the other two attended to their destined duty. The gates of the fort, however, being closed, the intended rush could not be accomplished; and it was evident from the rapid firing that some hot work was going on there. Instead also of at once entering the town, the first party found their progress impeded by a somewhat numerous body of troops, who, quartered near at hand, turned out in time to defend it. The Frenchmen fought well, Dick acknowledged, though some had neither boots nor coats on, and many were destitute of other garments. They were, however, driven back inch by inch, till some turned tail and fled; the rest soon afterwards doing the same, followed by the victors, who fired indiscriminately at every one they saw in front of them. On such an occasion many of the unfortunate inhabitants were too likely to suffer, and many who had no arms in their hands, or had thrown them down and cried out for quarter, were shot before the officers could halt their men.

Meeting with two streets forking in different directions, some in the darkness had followed one and some the other. Flames were seen also bursting in the rear from houses set on fire either intentionally or by accident; while shouts and shrieks and cries arose in all directions. Altogether, the little town, which a few minutes before had been slumbering peacefully, was now the scene of havoc, terror, and confusion.

As Dick, cutlass in hand, was making his way along the dark street, a piteous cry reached his ears, and looking down, he saw lying wounded on the ground a black woman, holding up to him a little white child.

“Oh, save him! save him! or he will be killed!” she exclaimed.

“Of course I will,” answered Dick, tucking the child under his left arm; “and I’ll help you into a house, where you may be safe.”

He was about to perform the humane act he proposed, when there was a cry, “The French are coming on in force—fall back, men! fall back!”

Dick had only time to draw the poor woman on one side, when he was compelled, with his companions, rapidly to re-trace his steps. Not knowing where to deposit the child in safety, he kept it under his arm; and though on most occasions he would have been in the rank nearest the foe, he now, according to orders, retreated as fast as he could. Many of the other men had bundles of things they had picked up, but they were certainly not little children.

The boats were reached at last, though not until a good many of the gallant jollies and several of the blue-jackets had been shot down by a large body of French troops, who had come in from the farther side of the town. They were again, however, driven back far enough to allow the marines and sailors to embark.

Dick, unhurt, had reached the barge, still carrying his burden, for he had not the heart to throw it down, and could not find any safe place to put it in.

The fort had not been taken, but five merchantmen were captured and towed out of the harbour, in spite of the hot fire through which they had to pass.

Captain Blunt was very angry on finding that the men had brought away plunder from the town; and they were ordered to deliver it up, that it might be sent back to the inhabitants, whom, as he said, he had no intention of injuring.

Dick Driver, who among others had been seen to come aboard with a bundle, was ordered aft.

“Please, sir,” said Dick, as he presented himself, holding a fine child in his arms of about four years old, “it ain’t any booty, but a lawful gift. I was axed to take care of it, and I promised I would, and so I have.”

“I do believe it’s a little girl,” exclaimed the captain, examining the delicate features and somewhat feminine appearance of the child, which had long fair locks hanging down over its shoulders.

“Lord bless you, no, sir! If it had been a she I shouldn’t have known what to do with her—but it’s as fine a youngster as I ever set eyes upon, barring his curls: and we will soon dock them, seeing they will be in his way, and not suited for the smart little tarpaulin I am going to make for him.”

“What, my man, you don’t expect to keep the child?” exclaimed the captain. “We must send him on shore with the rest of the property brought away.”

“But, sir, he was given to me to look after by his dying mother,” exclaimed Dick, forgetting for the moment that the child was white, and that the woman who had given it to him was as black as his shoe. “He is not like the rest of the booty, and if I may make so bold, I would like to keep him, and bring him up as one of the ship’s company. We are all agreed that we will take precious good care of him, and he will be a greater favourite among us than either Quacho, or Jocko, or the old goat that went overboard in the last gale, or the pig as was killed when we were short of fresh provisions. Do, sir, let us keep him? We wouldn’t part with the little chap for all the prize-money we have made this cruise.”

Dick, in his anxiety to keep the child, had become desperate, and spoke with greater freedom than he would otherwise have ventured to do when addressing his captain. “If he were to be sent ashore there’s no one might own him,” he continued; “then what would become of the poor little chap? he might be taken to the workhouse, or just brought up nohow.”

The captain, however, was not to be moved by all Dick’s arguments.

“You did very rightly, my man, in saving the child’s life, and you deserve a reward,” he observed; “but we cannot turn the ship into a nursery, and he must run his chance of finding his friends. However, as you seem to have made a good nurse, you may take charge of him till we can send him away.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Dick, as he touched his hat, glad of even this short respite, and hoping that something might turn up to induce the captain to allow the child to remain on board. “We will take good care of him—that we will; and if he has to go back to his friends, we will see that he is in proper trim, so that they won’t be nohow ashamed of him.”

Dick, having thus delivered himself, swung his body round and hurried forward with light step, holding his young charge in his arms.

The Laurel and the other ships, with their prizes, were at this time standing away from the land. The seamen grumbled not a little at having to give up their booty: they could not understand why the merchantmen should have been cut out, and they not allowed to keep what they had picked up on shore.

An officer, who spoke French, now came from one of the prizes with some important information which he had obtained from a prisoner. It was to the effect that three heavy French frigates were hourly expected off the coast. Captain Blunt accordingly ordered a bright look-out to be kept for any strange sail. In a short time three were descried standing along shore. There could be no doubt that they were the enemy’s frigates; and as the two corvettes and brig could not hope to cope with them, all sail was made to escape. The enemy soon afterwards were seen crowding all sail in chase: the prizes were ordered by signal to separate and to make the best of their way to Jamaica, while the Laurel and her consorts stood to the eastward, under all the canvas they could spread. Before nightfall they had run their powerful foes out of sight.

The next day a heavy gale sprang up, which increased to a hurricane. A signal of distress was made by the unfortunate ten-gun brig, while the other sloop was evidently in a bad plight.

During the night, the Laurel having to run before the gale, lost sight of both of them. The gale continuing longer than usual, ere it ceased she found herself in a the wide waters of the Atlantic, with all her boats washed away or stove in, her three top-masts gone, and besides other damages, a leak sprung, which kept the pumps going for the best part of each watch.

Chapter Two.

The Life-Raft.

The Laurel had for some days been becalmed, and though every one on board, from the captain to the smallest powder-monkey, had been whistling for a breeze to carry her back to look after her prizes and consorts, no breeze came.

Dick had been the busiest of the busy. He now appeared, with no small pride in his countenance, leading by the hand a little boy dressed in a seaman’s jacket and trowsers, his shirt-collar turned down, and a little tarpaulin hat stuck on the top of his curly head. He went boldly aft, till he reached the captain, who, with several officers, was standing on the quarterdeck.

“Touch your hat, Charley,” said Dick. Charley obeyed promptly with a true sailor’s manner, showing that his guardian had, according to his own ideas, commenced his education, and had at all events taught him to be obedient.

“Please, sir, this here little chap is Charley Laurel, as I brought aboard t’other night,” began Dick. “Some wanted to call him one name, some another. We called him Charley, sir, after Mr Slings, the boatswain, who offered to stand godfather; and ’cause, as I may say, he belongs to all of us, we have given him the name of Laurel, after the old barky, if that’s agreeable to you, sir.”

“I have no objection to any name you may give him,” answered the captain; “but I warn you that we shall have before many weeks to restore him to his friends, when we shall find out his proper one, and I have no doubt they will be glad to reward you for the care you have taken of him.”

“I want no reward, sir, except perhaps a glass of grog to drink their healths, and small thanks we will give them if they take him from us. It will be hard to lose him as well as our other booty, especially when he takes to us so kindly. To my mind, he will be much better off with us than among them niggers, who will just spoil him with sugar-cane and letting him have his own way. Besides, sir, the black woman gave him to me, and unless you says so, we will not hand him over to them.”

Dick slapped his leg as he spoke, as a clencher to his assertion, and in his eagerness was going to use a strong expression, when, recollecting that he was on the quarterdeck, and to whom he was speaking, he stopped short.

“Well, my man,” said the captain, good-naturedly, not offended with Dick’s freedom, “make the most of the little fellow while you have him, and we will see what to do with him by-and-by.”

There is an old saying which should never be forgotten, that “Man proposes, but God disposes.”

It was the hurricane season. Captain Blunt had been doing his best to get the damages the ship had received repaired. He was pacing the deck, and every now and then casting an anxious eye round the horizon, knowing well that the gallant little Laurel was ill able to withstand either a gale or an enemy, by either of which she might be assailed, although, like a true sailor, he was ready to meet the one or the other with undaunted courage.

The ocean was like a sheet of glass, and the hot sun struck down on the deck with tremendous force. Those who could, sat in the shade, those who could not, as Dick observed, “had to grin and bear it, though it was not much odds where a man got to, it was hot everywhere.”

Now and then a covey of flying-fish might be seen skimming over the ocean, but they came out of the water to avoid the jaws of their persevering foes, the dolphins or bonitos, not because they liked it, or wished to exhibit their brilliant wings, but the wiser leviathans of the deep kept in the cooler regions below the surface. Gradually a thin mist filled the atmosphere; it seemed to come from nowhere, but there it was, though the heat was in no way diminished by it, but rather increased. Still the pumps had to be kept going, and the crew had to stand at them, whether in sunshine or shade, stripped to the waist, the perspiration running down from every pore. No one grumbled, though “spell ho!” was oftener than usual cried, and numerous visits were paid to the water-cask by those who generally disdained the pure liquid unless mixed with rum.

The captain’s countenance wore an unwonted grave expression; the officers, too, looked serious, and their eyes were constantly turned round, now in one direction, now in the other. Presently the captain shouted with startling energy—

“All hands shorten sail! clew up! haul down! Be smart, my lads!”

The courses were quickly brailed up and furled, the fore-staysail alone being set. A dark cloud was seen away to the south-west, gathering as it approached a vast assemblage of black masses which appeared to come out of space, advancing rapidly till they formed one dense column.

The men were scarcely off the yards when a sheet of white foam came hissing over the hitherto calm surface of the ocean, followed by a deafening roar as wave after wave arose, each higher than its predecessor, and then the hurricane in all its irresistible might struck the sorely-battered ship. Over she heeled before it, the fore-staysail with a loud report flew out of the bolt-ropes ere it had done its duty of paying off the ship’s head. Again and again the savage blast struck her side, pressing her still farther down, while the ever-increasing seas broke in foaming masses over her. The captain gave the order to cut away the mizzen-mast, and set another staysail. For a moment there was a lull, the ship rose, and her head feeling the wind, away she flew before the howling gale. The carpenter sounded the well. He had an alarming report to make to the captain—the water was gaining faster than ever on the ship. Dick heard it.

“To my mind the old barky will be going down,” he said to himself. “I must look after Master Charley, for if she does, it won’t do to have the little chap going to Davy Jones’ locker. It is all very well for those as are bred to it, but, bless his young heart! I must do what I can to keep him afloat.”

Dick was a man of action rather than words. He immediately filled his capacious pockets with all the provisions he could lay hands on. In the launch on deck he found a basket which had been brought on board with vegetables. There were a number of broken spars and other fragments of wood, the remains of the boats which had been carried away. He began to lash them firmly together in a mode which a seaman only could have accomplished; and in the centre of the raft he had thus formed he secured the basket, which had a lid to it. One of the officers saw him, and told him to knock off.

“Ay, ay!” he answered; but it was not a moment, he conceived, to stand on ceremony, and immediately again went on with his work. The boatswain also set his eyes on him.

“What are you about there, Dick?” he asked. “Off with you to the pumps; it will be your spell directly.”

“I am building a raft for your godson, Mr Slings,” answered Dick. “You would not wish the pretty little chap to be drowned if there’s a chance of saving him, and please Heaven, I will try and do it, though I am as ready as any on myself to stick to the old barky to the last.”

“Don’t you be talking of the ship going down,” exclaimed the boatswain, gruffly; “you will be making the rest chicken-hearted.”

“You know as well as I do, Mr Slings, that go down she will, before many hours are over, unless old ‘Harry Cane’ takes himself off pretty smartly.”

Dick could not resist the sailor’s common joke even at that moment.

“I cannot say you nay, Dick,” answered the boatswain; “but all this comes of having babies aboard; we must try and keep the ship above water, anyhow.”

The raft being completed, Dick got hold of a small beaker of water, which he secured to it; he also formed a paddle, and laid alongside of it a spar of considerable length. Having finished his work, he slipped below, and brought up little Charley, with a bundle of bedding and a blanket. The child greatly objected to go to bed in the basket, and still more so to be lashed in, as Dick was doing. Dick knew that nobody would interfere with the child, but still he placed him as much out of sight as possible, just abaft the fore-mast.

“You be good boy, Charley, and don’t cry out,” he said, trying to soothe him. “There is a biscuit—chaw it, lad. I have to take a spell at the pumps, and will be back directly.”

As soon as Dick could leave his work at the pumps, he hurried back to the child, and threw himself down to rest by his side.

The ship flew on before the gale. Every one, knowing that their lives depended on their exertions, laboured away with desperation: some were sent below to bale with buckets, which were passed up to others stationed on deck, but all their efforts, it appeared too likely, would be of no avail. Still the water gained on them. The only hope was that the hurricane might cease, and that a sail might be got under the ship’s bottom. Preparations were made for doing this as soon as it was practicable, but the wind blew harder and harder. The main-mast had before been badly sprung, and during one of the fearful lurches the ill-fated ship made, down it came, crushing the launch, on which depended the only hope of saving the lives of some of them. Dick rushed forward, fearing his little charge had suffered, but Charley still lay unhurt in his basket on the raft. Suddenly there came a lull, and the hurricane ceased almost as rapidly as it had commenced: the sea, however, still tumbled and tossed about fiercely on either side, the ship lying helpless in the midst of the foaming waves. The crew laboured as gallantly as before, though their stout arms were giving way, and many knew too well that all hope was nearly gone. Some with the sharpest eyes were sent to the mast-head, to look out for any ship which might have approached before the calm came on; but as they cast their anxious eyes around the horizon, not a sail was to be seen rising out of the dark tumbling waters.

Dick had gone again to the pumps. “Spell ho!” he cried, for he had worked till he could work no longer. He had just thrown himself down by the side of the raft when a fearful cry arose.

“The ship is sinking! the ship is sinking!”

Dick seated himself on the raft, with a spar in his hand which he had prepared. Lower and lower the gallant ship sank. Many of the crew were at the pumps; some were still below, some running to the forecastle, others aft. Dick kept his post. The water rushed in at the ports—the raft floated—a surge carried it overboard, Dick urging it by a shove which sent it far away from the ship’s side.

The Laurel gave one plunge forward—her stern rose in the air—and down she glided beneath the tumultuous waters. One fearful shriek arose of strong men in their agony. Some few attempted to reach the raft, but they were drawn down in the vortex caused by the sinking ship. Dick vigorously plied his paddle, and though tumbled and tossed fearfully about, he got far enough off to escape the danger of being drawn down with the rest. Had he not had Charley to look after, he would have shared the fate of his shipmates, he thought; and so he would, I am sure. Though he was himself frequently under water, and often almost washed off the little raft, the child, protected in the basket, remained nearly dry. As Dick gazed back towards where the stout ship had lately floated, he could see a few struggling forms with arms outstretched, and hear their last cries for help ere they sank for aye, till that awful day when the sea shall give up its dead; and in a few minutes he and little Charley were the only living beings of all the gallant fellows who had formed the crew of the ill-fated Laurel.

Chapter Three.

Dick’s Prayer.

Night had come and passed away since the gallant Laurel had sunk. The sea had much gone down, and Dick, no longer compelled to hold on for his life, was able to open the basket and give Charley, who was crying out for his breakfast, some food.

“Where de ship?” inquired Charley, in his imperfect English and little innocent fashion. “Where we got to? Why not give me hot tea? Why give me wet biscuit?”

“Don’t ask questions, Charley,” answered Dick. “If I have a fancy for taking a cruise on this here raft, you should be content—you know I have charge of you; and if I didn’t think it the best thing to be done, I wouldn’t have brought you here.”

“All right,” said Charley. “More biscuit, please. Now I sing song to you, Dick,” and the little chap struck up the stave of a ditty which Dick had taught him, evidently feeling in no way alarmed at the fearful position in which he was placed.

“I think, Charley, you should say your prayers,” said Dick, who had taught the boy those he had himself learned in his childhood. “Ask God to take care of you, Charley; for I am sure if He does not no one else will, either here or anywhere else. He hears your prayers as well as big people’s, so don’t be afraid of asking Him for what you want; and just now I have a notion we want Him to send a ship this way to pick us up.”

Charley turned round, and kneeling up in his basket, lifted his small hands towards the blue sky, and asked the kind Father he believed dwelt there to take care of him and Dick, and send a ship to pick them up.

Dick gazed affectionately at the child as he prayed.

“That’s done me good,” he said to himself. “I am sure He who lives up there will do what that innocent little cherub asks. What He would say if a rough wild chap like me was to pray, is a different matter; and yet I mind that mother used to tell me He will hear any one who is sorry for what they have done amiss, and trust to His Son who died for sinners. But it’s a hard matter to mind all the bad things a man like me has done, and I hope He ain’t so over particular with respect to poor sailors.”

Dick at length, mustering courage, knelt by the side of the child, the calm sea allowing him to do so without the danger of falling off. His prayer might not have been, as he expressed it, very ship-shape; the chief expression in it was, “Lord be merciful to me a sinner, and take care of little Charley here and me, if such a one as I am is worth looking after.”

At length Dick resumed his seat by the side of his charge. The sun came down with intense heat, but he managed, by turning the raft round with his paddle, and lifting the lid of the basket, to shelter Charley from its burning rays. The child sat up and looked about him, prattling away frequently in a lingo Dick could not understand: sometimes also he spoke a little English, which he seemed to have known before he came on board the Laurel, but since then he had picked up a good many words. Dick now tried to amuse him and himself by teaching him more, and as the child learned rapidly whatever he heard, he already could sing—

“Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer,

List ye landsmen all to me.”

and—

“One night it blew a hurricane,

The sea was mountains rolling,

When Barney Buntline turned his quid,

And cried to Billy Bowlin—”

right through without a mistake.

“Oh, look dere, dere! what dat rum fis?” he suddenly exclaimed, pointing to a short distance from the raft.

Dick looked, and saw what a sailor dreads more than any human foe—the black triangular fin of a huge shark which was noiselessly gliding by, just beneath the surface, and turning its wicked eye towards Charley and himself. A blow from the monster’s tail or nose might easily upset the raft, when they to a certainty would become its prey. Dick grasped his pole to do battle, should the creature come nearer, and he at once began beating the water on every side and shouting at the top of his voice. The shark, an arrant coward by nature, kept at a distance, but his dark fin could still be seen as he circled round and round the raft, waiting, Dick feared, for an opportunity to rush in and make an attack.

“He shall pay for it with one of his eyes, if he does,” said Dick to himself.

“What for make all that noise?” asked Charley.

“Why do you sing out ‘youngster’ sometimes?” inquired Dick. “Because you have a fancy for it, I’ve a notion, and so I have a fancy just now to shout away. I mus’n’t frighten the little chap,” he muttered to himself. “It won’t do to tell him what Jack Shark is looking after.”

Thus Dick sat on till he thought by the position of the sun that it must be noon, when he gave Charley his dinner and cup of water—he himself eating but sparingly, for fear of diminishing his scanty store and depriving the child of food.

“I can hold out much longer than he can,” he said to himself, “and I must not let him get into bad case.”

Every now and then Dick stood up and gazed around the horizon, anxiously looking out for the signs of a breeze which might bring up some ship. The sun was again sinking beneath the ocean, which continued glass-like as before. At length night crept over the world of waters, and the brilliant stars shone down from the dark sky, each one reflected clearly in the mirror-like deep.

“What all those pretty things up dere?” asked Charley, waking suddenly from his first sleep; “get me some to play wid, Dick.”

“Just what I can’t do, boy,” answered Dick. “All those are stars far away in the sky, and I have heard say they are worlds; but how they stop up is more than I can tell, except God keeps them there.”

“God do many things we can’t,” said Charley. “But if I ask Him, would He give me some to play wid?”

“No, Charley, He gives us what we want and what is good for us, but He chooses to keep those stars where they are, for He knows that if He sent one of them down they would only do us harm. Now, Charley, don’t be asking more questions; just lie down and go to sleep again,” and Dick shut down the lid of the basket.

Charley’s questions, however, had set his mind at work, and as he gazed up in the sky he thought more than he had ever done before of those wondrous lights which he had always seen there, and yet had troubled himself so little about. And then he was led to think of the God who made them and governs their courses, and many things he had heard in his boyhood came back to his mind.

“Mother used to say He is a kind and loving God, and go I am sure He will take care of this little chap, and me, too, for his sake.”

Dick at length felt very sleepy. He had been afraid to shut his eyes, for fear of the shark, but he could no longer prevent the drowsiness creeping over him: he lashed himself therefore to the raft, to escape the risk of falling off it, and placing his head on the basket, closed his weary eyelids.

The bright beams of the great red sun rising above the horizon as they fell on his eyes awoke him, and on looking round he caught sight of the fin of the shark gliding by a few feet off. The monster’s eye was turned up towards him with a wicked leer, and he believed that in another instant the savage creature would have made a grab at the raft. His pole was brought into requisition, and the rapid blows he gave with it on the water soon made the monster keep at a respectful distance. He would not shout out, for fear of waking Charley.

The boy slept on for a couple of hours longer, and when he at length awoke, seemed none the worse for what he had gone through. Dick had cut up some little bits of meat and biscuit, that he might not have to wait for breakfast after he awoke. He had on the previous day carefully dried his clothes and bedding, and given him such food as he required—the child, indeed, could not have had a better nurse.

Dick calculated that the store of provisions he had stowed away in the basket and his own pockets would last a week, and he hoped before the termination of that time to be picked up. He, in reality, in consequence of anxiety, suffered more than the child: had he been alone, he probably would not have felt so much.

The day passed away as before. Occasionally sea-birds flew overhead, and huge fish were seen swimming by, or breaking the calm surface as they poked up their noses or leaped into the air.

“Oh, Dick, Dick, what dat?” suddenly exclaimed Charley. As he spoke, a dozen flying-fish, their wings glittering in the bright sun, leaped on to the raft, some tumbling into the child’s basket.

Dick quickly secured them, for though unwilling to feed the little boy with raw fish, they would, he knew, afford him an ample meal or two. Charley, however, begged to have some to play with, and was much surprised to find their beautiful wings quickly become dry, and that in a few seconds they were dead.

Dick enjoyed a better supper than he had had since the hurricane began, and he always afterwards declared that those fish had kept his body and soul, when he would otherwise have been starved—although those he reserved for a meal on the following day required a keen appetite to munch up.

Day after day Dick and his charge floated on the calm ocean. He was becoming weaker than he had ever before been in his life, and yet he would take but a few drops of water from the beaker, and would not eat a particle of the food more than was necessary to keep the life in him, so fearful was he of not having enough for Charley. Yet Dick had not been distinguished among his shipmates for any especial good qualities, except that he was looked upon as a good-natured, kind-hearted, jovial fellow, and brave as the bravest; yet so were many of the Laurel’s gallant crew, now sleeping their last sleep beneath the ocean.

The faithful fellow now often found himself dropping off to sleep when he wished to be awake—and afraid that on one of these occasions Charley might get out of his basket and tumble overboard, to make such an accident impossible, he tied him down by the legs in such a way as to allow the child to sit up when inclined, and look about him.

Poor Dick, who was getting very weak, was lying down asleep with his head on the edge of the basket, when he heard Charley’s voice sing out—

“See, see—what dat?”

Dick opened his eyes, and casting them in the direction the child pointed, caught sight of a large vessel under all sail running down before the wind, which she brought up with her.

“A ship, Charley, a ship!” cried Dick. “And we must do what we can to make her see us, or she may be passing by, and we shall be no better off than we are now.”

He instantly took off his shirt, which he fastened by its sleeves to the pole. Holding it aloft as the ship drew near, with all his strength he waved it to and fro, shouting out in his anxiety, and not aware how low and hollow his voice sounded. Charley shouted too, with his childish treble, though their united voices could not have reached by a long way as far as the ship was from them. It seemed to Dick that she would pass at some distance: his heart sank. Presently his eye brightened.

“She has altered her course; she is standing this way,” he cried out. “Charley, we shall be picked up!”

“Then I thank God—He hear my prayer. I ask ship come—ship do come,” said Charley.

“You are right, boy—you are right!” cried Dick. “And I was forgetting all about that prayer of yours.”

The tall ship glided rapidly over the ocean, the surface of which was now rippled with miniature wavelets as the freshening breeze swept across it.

“To my eye, she is a foreign ship of war,” observed Dick. “But a friend in need is a friend indeed, and we may be thankful to be taken on board by her or any other craft. Even if a ‘Mounseer’ had offered to pick us up, I would not have refused.”

The ship approaching was hove-to, a boat being lowered from her, which, with rapid strokes, pulled towards the raft.

Chapter Four.

The Pirate Ship.

Dick and the little boy were lifted off the raft, with the basket and cask, and placed in the stern of the boat. The crew were swarthy fellows with red caps, and Dick at once saw that the uniform worn by the officers in command was neither English nor French. They appeared to be talking gibberish, but such indeed were all foreign languages to him. He asked Charley if it was the French lingo.

“Not know what they say,” answered Charley.

“I suppose, however, that they will give us something to eat and drink,” observed Dick. “And so, whoever they may be, we shall be better off than on the raft.”

On getting alongside, Dick was hoisted on board, and one of the men carried Charley up in his arms.

Numerous questions were at once put to Dick, every one seeming anxious to know how he and the boy came to be on the raft. He replied by pointing to his lips, and showing by other signs that he was hungry and thirsty. When it was discovered that he was either too weak to speak, or that he did not understand their language, he was carried below and placed in a hammock, while the officers took charge of little Charley, who was soon at home among them. A rough-looking fellow brought Dick a mess of some sort in basin, and a horn cup filled with stiff grog. A sailor seldom refuses a glass of grog, and although water was what he then wanted, he drank the spirit off, and ate some of the food. The effect of the grog was to send him into a sound sleep, from which he did not awake till the next day. He felt by that time pretty strong, and, turning out, went on deck. He found that he was on board a flush-decked ship-rigged vessel, heavily armed, with a numerous crew of dark-skinned savage-looking fellows, most of them wearing long knives or daggers in their belts. He thought that perhaps they might be Spaniards or Portuguese, then the idea occurred to him that they were Algerines or Salee rovers, of whom he had heard. However, seeing some of them with leaden crucifixes round their necks, he came to the conclusion that they were Spaniards. Not one of them could speak a word of English, and Dick was ignorant of every language except his own.

The ship lying becalmed, the crew seemed to take it very easily, some sitting down between the guns, amusing themselves with cards or dice, while others were asleep on the deck. Going aft, and looking down the skylight, which was open, Dick saw that the officers were employed much as their men, only they were gambling with large gold pieces as stakes.

“These may be honest gentlemen, or may be not,” he thought to himself. “However, if they are kind to Charley, I don’t mind what they are, and I suppose for his sake they won’t make me walk the plank. I wonder where the little chap can be,” and he looked down the companion-hatch, though he did not venture to descend.

The officer of the watch seemed to understand what he wanted, and going to the head of the companion-ladder, shouted out, “Pedro!” and some other words, and presently a black man appeared with Charley in his arms, and handed him over to Dick.

“Much obliged to you, friend,” said Dick; “he is a fine little chap, isn’t he?”

The black grinned and seemed to understand him, and patted the child on the head.

“Well, Charley, my boy, have they treated you well?” asked Dick, as he took up the child and kissed him affectionately.

Charley said that the gentlemen had been kind, and had given him all sorts of things to eat, and some strong stuff to drink, which made him sleep most of the time.

Dick carried Charley to the only shady spot he could find unoccupied, and sat down with him on his knees. Charley prattled away merrily, but he soon stopped and complained of a headache, and of the strong stuff the officers had given him to drink. This made Dick suspect that they had been amusing themselves by trying to make the child tipsy.

“It was a shame in them,” exclaimed Dick, indignantly. “You must stay by me, Charley. I can’t trust you out of my sight.”

Dick after this kept Charley by his side, and at night made him sleep in his hammock.

Several days passed by, and the ship lay without movement on the smooth ocean. A breeze at length springing up, the crew were all life and activity, with a look-out at each mast-head. Towards noon a sail was espied, and all sail was made in chase. She was a brig under English colours. On the stranger being come up with, a gun was fired across her bows; and as she did not heave-to, a shot was sent crashing into her hull. She then hauled down her colours. The boats were manned and shoved off to her. They quickly returned, laden almost to the water’s edge. The ship stood on again nearer to her, when the boats towed her alongside. Her cargo, consisting of bales of merchandise, was transferred to the ship.

“I thought so,” said Dick, when he saw the proceedings. “She is no better than she should be, and if it had not been for this little chap, I would rather have remained on the raft than have come aboard her. I wonder what they will do with the crew.”

That matter was soon, to Dick’s horror, settled. One after the other he saw the poor fellows compelled to walk to the end of a long plank, when the inner end was lifted up and they were sent overboard. The brig was set on fire, and the pirate, letting down the sheets, proceeded on her course.

Some days after this, when Dick came on deck, he saw at a short distance a small island with a few cocoa-nut trees growing on it. Several of the officers who were on deck were consulting together, every now and then casting a look at him and Charley. At last one of them called him up and made him understand that they were well-disposed towards him, and that as they understood he had been the means of saving the life of the little child, they wished to treat him kindly—that otherwise he would have shared the fate of the brig’s crew, if they had not left him on the raft to perish. To show their regard, they intended to land him on the island, where he would find water and sufficient food to support life; though, if he wished it, they would take care of the child, to follow their noble profession.

“Thank you for nothing,” answered Dick. “I would sooner heave the little chap overboard, to be munched up by a shark, than leave him with you; and as to quitting the ship without him, I will not do it; but if it please you to put him and me on shore, I’ll go willingly enough, and trust to One better able to take care of us than you are.”

Though the pirates did not understand what Dick said, they comprehended that he was perfectly willing to be left on the island. A boat was accordingly lowered, and numerous articles which the pirates had taken out of the brig, and were likely to prove useful to him, were put into her. Charley ran up and shook hands with the officers, but hastened back immediately to Dick, for he was afraid of being left behind. Poor little fellow, he felt grateful to them for their kindness, having no notion of the villains they were.

Dick, taking him in one arm, descended the ship’s side into the boat, which pulled away towards the land. Numerous shoals and rocks surrounded the island, among which the boat threaded her way, and at length landed him and the boy, with the articles they had brought, on the sandy beach of a sheltered bay.

Dick had no inclination to shake hands with the crew who had so lately murdered his countrymen, and probably very many people besides, nor did he feel at his ease till he saw the boat again pulling out towards the ship. As soon as she had gone, Dick, who had held Charley in his arms, placed him on a rock, and examined the articles which had been sent with him.

“I am much obliged to the villains, at all events,” he said; “but can only wish them a better calling and a happier end than most of them are likely to meet with. To be sure, they can afford to be generous, seeing that they stole the things and had more than they could use. Here are some carpenter’s tools, a saw and axe, a hammer and nails, and a piece of canvas that will do for a tent; a bale of cloth, and calico, and needles, and thread; here are fish-hooks and lines, and shoes; three casks of flour and rice, and some pots, and pans, and knives; and a decent-looking fowling-piece and powder and shot. Well, if I hadn’t seen what I did see, I should have taken them to be kind-hearted decent chaps, who, for some reason or other, didn’t wish to keep me among them, and so had put me ashore, and wished to do their best to make me comfortable. Ah, I have a notion how it is—the skipper, or one or other of them has got a little chap like this at home, and they have done it for his sake; and savage as their hearts may be, they didn’t quite like keeping him on board their wicked-doing craft. Yes, that’s it; so if I have saved Charley’s life, he has saved mine, though he doesn’t know it, bless him!”

Dick having finished his soliloquy, cut a pole from a tree growing near, and quickly rigged up a tent, beneath which he placed Charley out of the heat of the sun. He then collected wood, of which there was an abundance on the beach, and soon had a fire burning, and next proceeded to cook some of the provisions for Charley and himself. Not far off was a spring of water, which would afford him an abundant supply of that necessary of life.

“We sha’n’t be so badly off, Charley, after all,” he said; “only I hope these fellows won’t come back again, in case they may take it into their heads to carry you away.”

“I will not leave you, Dick,” answered the boy, taking his hand and beginning to cry at the thought.

“You sha’n’t, Charley, you sha’n’t,” said Dick. “We will move away to another part of the island, where they cannot find us; may be there is water elsewhere, that’s what we shall want most. There are plenty of cocoa-nuts, and I dare say other vegetables, and with the gun I shall be able to shoot birds, and with the hooks catch as many fish as we shall want. We are better off than on the raft, anyhow.”

Dick having made up a bed with the cloth for Charley to sleep on, cut some grass for himself, and then prepared to pass the night.

“You say your prayers, Charley,” said Dick; “and mind you thank God for bringing us ashore in safety.”

Dick had a feeling that the little innocent boy could offer up his prayers more effectually than he himself could; but yet Dick did his best to pray in his own fashion, though he could seldom say more than, “I am a desperately wicked fellow; God be merciful to me, and, if He thinks fit, take care of me and make me better.”

He, however, taught Charley a much longer prayer than this, suitable, as he considered, to his condition.

The rough sailor and the child having finished their devotions, lay down on their beds, and, fearless of evil, fell asleep.

Next day after breakfast Dick, leading Charley by one hand and taking his gun in the other, set out to explore the island. On reaching the top of the nearest height, which was of no great elevation, being a mass of barren rock thrown up by some convulsion of nature, he looked around him. The island was of small size, a couple of miles perhaps in length and about a quarter as broad, with deep indentations, bays, or small gulfs. The larger portion was barren, but here and there were spots overgrown with the richest vegetation of the tropics. The shores were rocky, but in no part high, while around in every direction were seen extensive reefs, some rising above the water, others only to be distinguished by the line of foam which danced above them.

“From the look of the place, ships are likely to give this a wide berth,” observed Dick. “However, we can manage to live here pretty comfortably, and may be some day or other we shall get off again, but how, is more than I can tell.”

On descending from the hill they reached a cocoa-nut grove. Dick looked up at the nuts, now almost ripe, with a well-satisfied eye.

“We will have some of those before long, and the milk will be good food for you, Charley,” he observed. “Ah, and we shall have some cabbages, too.” He pointed to some smaller palm-trees, the crown of which yields the cabbage, so prized in the tropics as one of the most delicious vegetables.

Sometimes Dick carried Charley on his shoulders, sometimes he let him run alongside him, and he thus made his progress to the farther end of the island. One part appeared very barren, low, and sandy, with wild rocks rising up on either side.

“After all, this place may be our best hunting-ground,” observed Dick, on discovering that it was the habitation of wild fowl, who came there to lay their eggs and rear their young.

At length he reached the extreme end of the island. Near it was a grove of cocoa-nut and other palms, a beautiful sandy bay, and what Dick was in search of, a spring of clear water which bubbled out of the rock.

“We shall be better off here, and out of the way of those gentry if they return to the island, and I don’t think they will come so far to look for us,” said Dick. “We will move up the stores, and after that I will build a hut; it will be more comfortable than the tent, especially in the hurricane season, and we can’t tell how long we may have to stop.”

Dick having discovered that, by keeping partly inland and partly near the shore, a tolerably easy road existed from one end of the island to the other, he built a little hand-dray, in which, he conveyed the stores to the new location. It occupied several days, but, as he said, time being their own, he had no need to be in a hurry. He next put up a hut, for which the trees growing around and the planking from some unfortunate vessel dashed to pieces on the reefs afforded abundance of material, while the palm-leaves served for a thatch. He could not also be long content without a boat. Though not an expert ship-builder, he managed to knock together a contrivance in which he could venture out within the reefs in calm weather to fish with Charley.

“We live like princes, my boy,” he said, “but I wish somehow I was able to look after your education; though if we had books I could not make use of them, seeing I never learned to read.”

Charley replied that he was very happy without books, and he supposed when he grew up to be a big boy he should find the means of learning.

“I don’t know when that may be, though,” observed Dick. “We have been here now some months, and I have never yet caught sight of a sail. However, though I cannot give you learning, I can teach you religion, and I will try and recollect all I ever knew. I can remember the ten commandments, or most of them, which I learned at school, and they will do to begin with, and as we go on, may be I shall brush up more.”

Dick was as good as his word, and at night frequently lay awake trying to recollect what he had known as a boy. The task was often a hard one, but his desire to benefit his charge induced him to persevere, when probably he might otherwise have abandoned the attempt.

Month after month passed away, and Dick and Charley continued to live their Robinson Crusoe style of life without interruption, and in happy ignorance of all that was going on in the world.

Chapter Five.

At Death’s Door.

“How many years have we been here, Dick?” asked Charley. “It seems to me a great many, for I was a very little fellow when you first took charge of me, and now I am a strong big chap.”

“Bring me the bundle of sticks and I will tell you,” said Dick; “for I have not thought of reckoning lately, though I have kept the score as carefully as at first.” Charley went and brought several sticks tied together and notched all over. Dick examined them.

“It’s three years to-day, according to my reckoning, since we were put on shore. To my mind we ought to thank God, who has taken such care of us all this time. I should not mind, however, getting away soon, for your sake. It’s time you should be having some book-learning. I don’t want you to grow into a poor ignorant fellow like me.”

“You are not ignorant, Dick,” said Charley. “You taught me all I know, and I have no greater fancy for books than you have.”

“But, Charley, I have another reason for wishing to get away,” said Dick. “You see our clothes are pretty nearly worn out, and I have only stuff enough to make one more suit for you and one for myself, and you will grow out of yours pretty fast, as you have done the others. Then we may not always find provisions as plentiful as we have generally up to this time; birds don’t come to the island as they did once, and I fancy that even the fish don’t bite as freely along shore as they used to do. I have been thinking of building a larger boat, so that we may go farther off. That wreck which drove on the reef six months ago has given us plenty of stuff for timbers and planking, as well as canvas for sails, and now you are big enough to help me, I shall get on faster than when I built the small one.”

Charley replied that he should be glad to do whatever Dick wished, and would try to learn carpentering. Dick accordingly set to work to build a large boat. The undertaking was, however, more difficult than he had expected, and at last he had to abandon his design, and, instead, to try and enlarge the little punt, or the coracle rather, which he had constructed some time before.

The two carpenters laboured away every day, when not engaged in shooting or fishing, or otherwise providing for their support.

Dick had husbanded his ammunition, but even that was coming to an end, and though eggs were still to be found, he could not hope longer to shoot many birds, which had become wilder in consequence of hearing the report of his gun.

Among the treasures sent on shore by the pirates was a small keg of tobacco. Dick had used it pretty freely for the first year or two, but latterly, finding that it must also come to an end, he put himself on an allowance, and only smoked a pipe occasionally when his day’s work was over, and he took his seat with Charley on the bench under the porch in front of their hut. Charley had asked one day why he should not smoke too.

“A very good thing for grown men like me,” answered Dick, “but very bad for little boys. When you have been at sea a dozen years or so, you may try if you like it. If it was to do you good I would share my last plug with you—you know that, Charley.”

“Yes, indeed I do,” was the answer, and Charley never again asked for tobacco.

They were seated, as I was saying, within the porch one evening, when Dick, whose eyes were turned towards the boat, drawn up on the beach in the little bay in front of them, observed—

“I have a fancy for taking a cruise farther out than we have been yet; we shall get bigger fish, and not lose so many lines and hooks. I am afraid we shall soon have nothing else but fish to live upon, and though they are not bad food, yet, if there was to come a spell of foul weather, such as we have had now and then, we should not be able to get even them. Now what I want is to catch a good quantity, that we may salt them down for a store, should there be nothing else to be got.”

Charley was well pleased with the thoughts of a longer cruise, and early in the morning, having carried down some cocoa-nuts and boiled roots, with a few eggs and fish, which they cooked over night, they launched their curiously-built boat. She was, as Dick observed, a good one to run before a breeze, but where it came to sailing with the wind abeam, she was apt to go as fast to leeward as she did ahead. He, however, had made three oars, two of which he pulled himself, while he had taught Charley to steer with the third.

Though the wind blew off the land, it being light, Dick had no doubt he should easily be able to pull back again. Having examined the reefs from a height in the neighbourhood, and easily making his way among them, he reached the outer circle. Here he let down a big stone, to serve as an anchor, attached to a long rope; but he found the water deeper than he had expected, though, as the stone touched the bottom, he hoped that it would hold the boat.

The lines had not been long over the side before Charley hooked a big fish, larger than he had ever before seen. Dick helped him to haul it in, though, as he was so doing, it nearly broke away. Dick caught two or three, then Charley got another bite; he was again obliged to cry out for Dick’s assistance. Dick saw that, from the size of the fish, skill would be required to capture it, and he continued playing it a considerable time, before he ventured to haul it up to the boat. On getting it on board he found that the hook was twisted, and some more time was employed in putting on a new one. Thus eager in and occupied with the sport, Dick did not observe that the boat was slowly drifting along the reef, away from the entrance, by which alone he could regain the shore. The wind was also increasing, though as the sea was smooth he did not discover this. At length, looking up, he observed the position of the boat, and on going to the bows, found that the cable was slack and the stone no longer at the end of it. It had been cut through. Quickly hauling in the cable and the fish-lines, and telling Charley to take the oar to steer, he began pulling hard to regain the passage through the reefs. A strong current was, however, against him, as was the wind, which had shifted slightly, and though he exerted himself to the utmost, he could make no way.

“I have been so long ashore that I have forgotten my seamanship, and have done a very lubberly thing,” he said, as he tugged away. All his efforts were of no avail to urge the heavy tub-like boat against the forces opposed to her. She drifted farther and farther away from the land, and the farther she got the more she felt the influence of the breeze; while the sea also, though smooth near the land, began to tumble and toss in a way which made Dick feel more uncomfortable than he had ever before been in his life. The wind at the time blew only a moderate gale, but he could not help acknowledging that the craft he had been so proud of was very ill able to contend with the heavy sea which was rapidly getting up.

“There’s no help for it, and I don’t want the craft to capsize. I must run before the breeze, and may be it will shift, and we shall be able to get back again—but if not! well, I won’t think of that,” said Dick, to himself. “I must keep my own spirits up, for Charley’s sake. It will be hard, however, for the poor little chap to lose his life after being saved from the sinking ship and those villainous pirates. For myself I don’t care; I have well known ever since I came to sea that any day what happens to so many might happen to me.”

The heavy boat, though flat-bottomed, behaved better than might have been expected. Dick, who had taken the helm, steered carefully, keeping right before the seas. As he had not communicated his fears to Charley, the boy was delighted with the way in which she flew over the foaming waters.

“I didn’t think you were going to give me such a sail as this, Dick,” he exclaimed.

“No more did I, Charley,” answered Dick. “Maybe we shall not get back as soon as we wish, but the weather looks fine. I hope we may, some day or other.”

Dick, however, was disappointed. The wind continued to freshen, and he was compelled to stand on, fearing the risk of making another attempt to regain the shore.

Night came on. He told Charley to take some food; but he was too much occupied himself to eat. He then, making the boy lie down near him, covered him up with a piece of canvas.

All night long he sat steering his boat and praying that the wind might not further increase. As day dawned he cast a hurried glance astern; the land was not to be seen. He had no compass, and even should the wind change, he would have difficulty in regaining so small a spot. He had not the heart to awake Charley, fearing that he would be frightened on finding himself out of sight of land. At length, however, the boy got up and gazed about him with an astonished look.

“Why, Dick, what has become of our island?” he exclaimed. “You never told me you were going to leave it!”

“I wish I had never done so,” said Dick. Charley saw that his friend looked anxious.

“I don’t know if we are in any danger; but if we are, remember, Dick, that God took care of us on the raft, and can just as well take care of us now. That’s what you have taught me; and so I will pray to Him, and I am sure He will hear me.”

“Do, Charley, do,” said Dick; “and I’ll mind the ship.”

All that day the boat ran on. Charley insisted on bringing Dick some food, and putting it into his mouth, for he could not venture to leave the helm for an instant. Charley himself seemed perfectly happy, for after getting accustomed to the movements of the boat, the confidence he had in his friend prevented him from thinking of danger.

At length the wind began to fall, and the sea went down, and in a few hours a perfect calm came on. The boat floated without movement.

Dick determined, after he had had a few hours’ sleep, to try and pull back. He slept longer than he expected, and Charley, who sat watching by his side, would not awake him. When at last he did open his eyes, it was nearly dark. A thin mist spreading over the ocean and obscuring the stars, he had no means of ascertaining in what direction to pull.

“I might be working away all night, and find that I had only gone farther from the island,” he observed. “You and I, Charley, will keep watch and watch. You shall take one hour and I three; that will be about the proper proportion, seeing that I am about three times as old as you are, and want less sleep.” So the night passed by.

At last the sun rose, his beams dispersed the mist, and Dick, seizing the oars, began to pull away lustily in the direction he supposed the island to be. Suddenly a crack was heard—one of his oars had gone—he took the steering oar, but that in a few minutes went also.

“It cannot be helped, Charley,” he said. “We must trust to Him who knows well how to take care of us.”

The boat lay motionless. Hour after hour and day after day passed away. Dick, as he had before done, gave Charley the largest portion of provisions and water, he himself taking barely enough to support life. He felt, too, very sorrowful, thinking of the fate which he feared might be in store for the poor little boy, on whom he had bestowed all the love of his big and tender heart.

As long as he had strength he stood up and gazed around, in the hopes of seeing a sail approaching. At length he sat down, and felt that he should not be able to rise any more. Charley brought him some water.

“Drink it, Dick,” he said; “it will do you good; I am not thirsty.”

Dick took a few drops; they revived him, and once more he rose to his feet, holding on by the mast. As he turned his eye to the northward it fell on a sail; he gave a shout of joy, though his voice sounded hollow in his own ears. “Charley,” he said, “she is coming this way; pray to God she may not change her course.”

So eager was he that he forgot his weakness, and continued standing up, watching the vessel, which came on, bringing up the breeze. He was now sure she would pass near where the boat lay. On and on she came.

“She is an English ship, by the cut of her sails!” he exclaimed. “Charley, my boy, we are saved. I don’t think I could have held out many hours longer, and you would not have been far after me.”

The stranger approached. It was evident, from the way she was steering, that they were seen; still Dick could not help shouting out as loud as his weak voice would allow. The stranger hove-to, and a boat was lowered.

“I hope they are not pirates,” said Charley, “like the others.”

“I hope not; but if they are we shall soon find out, and we can but ask them to put us ashore again; for depend on it they will know the whereabouts of our island.”

This was said while the boat was approaching.

“What strange craft is that?” said the officer in command of the boat, examining Dick’s wonderful specimen of naval architecture.

Dick explained that he and the boy had been out fishing, and been blown off the island, of which they had been the sole occupants for some years.

“We will hear more about it when we get you on board,” said the officer, a fine-looking young man, in a kind voice, observing Dick’s exhausted condition.

With the assistance of the crew Dick was lifted into the boat, for he had scarcely strength remaining to move, though Charley scrambled on board by himself. Dick heard from one of the crew, as the boat pulled towards the ship, that she was the Dolphin, Captain Podgers, bound round Cape Horn.

“We’ve two petticoats aboard—the skipper’s wife and daughter, so your youngster won’t want for nurses to look after him,” said the man who told Dick this. “To my mind, however, he’ll be best off with the young lady, for t’other’s a curious one, and it will depend what humour she’s in how she will treat him.”

The officer helped Charley up the side, and Dick was hoisted on deck after him. When placed on his feet he sank down, unable to stand.

“He is almost starved,” said the doctor, who now appeared. “Take him below, and I will attend to him. But the youngster seems in good case.”

“Glad you say so, sir,” murmured Dick. “I could not let him want while there was food to be had, and I hope they’ll be kind to him aboard, for his parents are gentlefolks, and he wasn’t brought up to the hard life he’s had to lead of late.” Dick said this that Charley might be treated with more consideration than might otherwise have been the case. He was not disappointed; indeed, though roughly clad, the boy had the look and air of a young gentleman.

The captain, a stout, burly man, and his wife, Mrs Podgers, a much stouter woman, already mentioned, now appeared from below, followed by a slight, fair, delicate-looking girl, who offered a strong contrast to her parents—if such could possibly be the relationship they bore to her.

“Let me look at the little fellow,” said Mrs Podgers, as she waddled to the gangway, where Charley was still standing near the third mate. “He don’t seem as if he had been starved; yet I was told that he and the man were a whole week in the boat without anything to eat. But bring him into the cabin, Mr Falconer; I want to hear all about it.” Mrs Podgers, as she spoke, gave Charley a kiss, for which he seemed in no way grateful. He showed less objection, however, to the same treatment from the young lady, and willingly followed her into the cabin, keeping close to her, and at a distance from the stout captain and his wife. Finding, however, that Mrs Podgers did not again attempt to kiss him, he became more reconciled to her, and did good justice, while sitting next to Miss Kitty, to the ample supper placed before him.

Mrs Podgers, and more especially the young lady, listened with great interest to his account of his adventures, and he apparently made his way into the good graces of the elder personage. “Well, Kitty,” she said, “as he is too young to go and live among the men forward, and seems well-behaved, if you like to look after him, he may remain in the cabin, and you can teach him to read; which if he’s the son of gentlefolks he ought to know how to do, and it will be an amusement to you, my dear.” Miss Kitty said she should be very happy to take care of the boy, and asked him if he wished to remain.

“Yes, with you,” he answered, looking up in her face, “but you’ll let me go and see Dick whenever he wants me?”

“Oh, yes, as often as you like,” she answered; “and I am glad to find that you are grateful to one who seems to have devoted himself to you; for if we are not grateful to our earthly friends, we are still less likely to be grateful to our heavenly Friend.”

“I know whom you mean,” said Charley, nodding to her. “Dick has told me about Him; He took care of us all the time we were on the island and in the boat, and Dick has taught me to pray to Him every night and morning, and I shouldn’t be happy if I didn’t.”

“I am very, very glad to hear of that,” observed Miss Kitty, pressing the boy’s hand. “We shall be friends, Charley.”

Honest Dick, who had meantime been placed in a hammock, hearing that Charley was in good hands, felt satisfied about him, though still he begged the doctor to let him have a look at the boy as soon as possible, to assure himself that he was all right.

Chapter Six.

Captain Podgers.

The Dolphin under all sail was making rapid progress to the southward.

I have not hitherto mentioned the fact that I was the little Charley I have been speaking of; indeed, so indistinct is my recollection of the earlier events I have described, that had it not been for Dick, I could have known very little about them. Dick soon recovered, and I was delighted when, on having made my way forward, I found myself again with him. He scanned me all over, as if to ascertain whether any harm had come to me during our long separation. I assured him that I was all right, and was loud in my praise of Miss Kitty, though I was less complimentary to Mrs Podgers and the captain.

“They are not nice people,” I observed; “drink nasty rum, quarrel and fight, and then kiss and hug; then quarrel and fight again.”

My description was a correct one. Mrs Podgers, indeed, had come to sea sorely against her husband’s will, simply because she would, and had brought Miss Kitty, who had just come from school, with her—to save the expense of keeping her at home. Miss Kitty was evidently very unhappy, and did not at all like the life she had to lead. She was as refined in appearance, manners, and feelings, as Mrs Podgers was coarse in all three; but the captain, though fat and addicted to rum-drinking in large quantities, and somewhat sulky in his cups, was not nearly as bad as his wife. He was, moreover, greatly tried, both in the cabin by her, and on deck by his unruly crew: the latter was, indeed, about as rough a set of fellows as ever collected on board ship. The first and second mates were not unfitted, by the ready use they made of their fists, to manage them, but the third mate, Edward Falconer, who had brought Dick and me on board, differed from them greatly. He was refined in his appearance and manners, and gentle in his behaviour, though there was, at times, a look in his eye which showed that he was not lacking in spirit and daring.

The Dolphin, besides being bound on a whaling cruise, was a “Letter of Marque,” by which she had the right, without being considered a pirate, to take and plunder any of the enemy’s ships she might fall in with; but when Mrs Podgers, with Miss Kitty, came on board, the crew, suspecting that the captain intended to confine himself to the more pacific of the two occupations, were very indignant, and a mutinous and discontented spirit arose among them.

The captain never from the first took to me.

“I am bothered enough with women, and don’t want a brat in the cabin into the bargain,” he growled out one day when angry with his wife.

“Oh, but the little boy loves me so much,” said Mrs Podgers, drawing me towards her. “Don’t you, Charley?”

“No, I can’t say I do,” I answered; for Dick had charged me always to speak the truth. “But I love Miss Kitty, that I do, for she is sweet and pretty, and that’s what you know you are not;” and I broke away from her and ran up to the young lady.

“Ungrateful little wretch!” exclaimed Mrs Podgers. “Then out of the cabin you shall go, and live with your equals forward.”

“Yes, let him go at once,” said the captain, “or you will be changing your mind.”

“Not likely, after what he has said to me,” exclaimed Mrs Podgers. “I would pull his ears, as he deserves, that I would.”

Poor Kitty looked very much frightened, and held me close to her. “Oh, don’t, Mrs Podgers, pray don’t; the little boy did not intend to be naughty, and I will take care of him, and teach him better manners if you will let me.”

“No, Miss, I will do no such thing,” answered Mrs Podgers, her anger in no way diminished.

“Take him on deck at once, and tell the man who came with him to look after him. If he goes overboard that’s his own fault, not mine. I would have been a mother to him, but I cannot stand ingratitude, and he has no claim on my sympathy and affections, as you have, Kitty my dear.”

Poor Kitty gave no responsive glance to this remark, but turned away her head, and taking me by the hand led me to the companion stair, whence we went up on deck.

Mr Falconer, who was officer of the watch, stepped up as she appeared. She told him with tears in her eyes what had occurred.

“It is what might be expected,” he observed; “but let me entreat you not to be anxious about the little boy. You shall see him as often as you wish, and I suspect that he will be as well off with the honest fellow who had charge of him as he would with those people in the cabin.”

I did not understand at the time that there was anything peculiar in his remarks, or that Miss Kitty seemed to place far more confidence in him than she did in captain and Mrs Podgers. I only understood that I was to go back to Dick, and of that I should have been heartily glad, had not my satisfaction been mitigated by the idea that I should be thus separated from Miss Kitty, whose amiability and gentleness had greatly attracted me.

“Well, Charley, we will look after you,” said Dick, when I went forward. “There’s a vacant berth next to mine, and I’ll put your bedding in it. But I am afraid, boy, your manners won’t be improved by your new shipmates.”

Dick was right, for while I was rapidly increasing my vocabulary of English words, I learned to use some of the expressions constantly issuing from the sailors’ mouths, without knowing their meaning, or having any idea of their vileness.

At length, one day, when seated in the forecastle with Dick, I uttered several in succession, highly pleased with my own proficiency. Dick looked at me hard.

“Charley, do you know those are very bad words you are saying?” he exclaimed; “I didn’t think you knew such.”

“Why, Dick, I heard you say them yourself the other day,” and I reminded him of several occasions on which he had uttered some of the words I had made use of.

“Did I, Charley? are you sure of it?” he asked, evidently considering whether I had brought a true or false accusation against him.

“Certain sure, Dick,” I said.

“Well, now, I am very sorry for that, and mind, Charley, though you hear other people say what is bad, or see them do what is bad, it is no reason that you should say or do the same; and for my part, Charley, I must clap a preventer-brace on my tongue, and bowse it taut, or those sort of words will, I know, be slipping out. I mind that my good mother used to tell me that I must never take God’s name in vain, and that’s what I am afraid I have been doing, over and over again. Remember, Charley, if I ever hear you, I’ll punish you, and I’ll try and break the men of it; it’s a shame that they should set such a bad example to a little chap like you, though I am afraid it will be a hard job to stop them.”

Dick was as good as his word. From that day forward I never heard him utter an oath, though several times a round one rose to his lips. I at first was not so careful, but the rope’s-ending he gave me made me recollect for the future. The men cried shame when they saw him beating me, and were not a little astonished when he told them that it was their fault, and that of course if they swore the little chap would swear also. After this, I really believe that several of them, rough as they were, restrained themselves when I was within hearing, though the greater number went on as before.

Both on and after crossing the line the Dolphin was frequently becalmed for several days at a time, which did not improve the captain’s temper, nor that of the crew either. The voyage therefore was greatly prolonged. I was more with Miss Kitty than I had expected, for the captain and his wife very frequently, after indulging in potations long and deep, fell asleep in the cabin. On such occasions she used to make her escape on deck. She never seemed tired of watching the flying-fish skimming over the ocean, or the dolphins swimming by, or the sea-birds which passed in rapid flight overhead, or watching the magnificent frigate-bird as it soared on high, and then shot down into the ocean to grasp its finny prey.

Sometimes, however, I used to wonder what she could be looking at when Edward Falconer was by her side gazing with her over the ocean. To be sure, there were the stars glittering above, or the moon with her path of silvery light cast across the vast expanse of water, and she and he seemed never tired of gazing at it. Sometimes on such occasions she held me by her hand, and seemed always to wish to have me near her. I at first was not able to understand what she and the young mate were talking about, but in time, as I learned more English, I perhaps comprehended more than they supposed.

“I have been a wild, wayward, careless fellow, Kate,” I heard Mr Falconer say one evening as he stood by Miss Kitty’s side. “Instead of remaining at college, and taking advantage of the opportunities I possessed of rising in the world, I spent all my means, and then, to the grief of an excellent father, shipped on board a merchantman as a sailor before the mast. My knowledge of mathematics soon enabled me to become a better navigator than the captain himself, while I rapidly acquired a knowledge of seamanship, as from having been accustomed all my life to boating and yachting, I was at once perfectly at home. I soon became a mate, but I spent all my pay, and was glad to ship on board the Dolphin, the first vessel I could find which had a vacant berth. Had I known the character of the master and the officers with whom it was to be my lot to associate, I should certainly, as you may suppose, have avoided her. I had already found, like the prodigal son, that I had dry husks alone to eat, and bitterly mourning my folly, had, even before the ship sailed, contemplated returning home on the first opportunity and seeking my father’s forgiveness, when you came on board and I began to breathe a new existence.”

“You need not tell me more, Edward,” said Kitty. “I cannot bear the thoughts of having prevented you from doing what you considered right, and right it was, I am sure. You must not think of me; oh, let me urge you to go home, and occupy the position which from your education and family you should properly enjoy, for surely your father will receive you thankfully, and forgive your offences. As for me—humanly speaking—I am helpless; but I am not without hope—for I know in whom I trust. Were I not confident that God watches over and takes care of all who have faith in that love which induced Him to give us the greatest gift He could bestow on perishing sinners, I should indeed be miserable.”

Much more was said which I did not hear. Mr Falconer and Kitty took several turns on deck together, and I ran about near them.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Mrs Podgers’ head at the companion-hatch, as in an angry tone she summoned the young lady below. The mate walked aft, and I scampered forward to rejoin Dick.

Chapter Seven.

The Fire.

The Dolphin being greatly in want of water, put into the Falkland Islands to obtain it, as well as beef, which the captain understood could be obtained for the trouble of catching the animals on whose backs it existed.

The shore of the harbour in which we lay was rocky, but beyond it was a wide expanse of partly level, and partly undulating ground, reaching far away in the distance.

Dick told me he would take me on shore to see some of the fun, he being one of the men appointed to shoot the cattle.

Mounted Spaniards, or Indians, with their bolas and lassoes, would have killed them with perfect ease; but, armed as we were, with only heavy muskets which did not always go off, the chances were very great against the desired beef being obtained. Just as we had shoved off, the captain, seeing me in the boat, ordered me back. The men, however, having already begun to give way, pretended not to hear him, and we were soon beyond hailing distance of the ship. In a short time we saw another boat following us. After we had landed, who should step out of her but Miss Kitty and Mr Falconer; he had a gun on his shoulder, but had not intended coming till he found that she wanted to have a walk on shore. Whether or not she had asked leave of Mrs Podgers, I do not know; she did not always consider that necessary when she had a fancy for doing anything.

We pushed on some way inland, and though the herbage was high, it was not thick except in places where there were large tufts of tall tussock-grass, like waving plumes growing out of the earth, while the ground itself was tolerably smooth. We went on till we reached a rocky knoll rising like an island amidst the sea of waving grass that surrounded it. We climbed to the top, that we might discover where the cattle were to be found in greatest numbers. As yet, a few only had been seen, which scampered off before a shot at them could be obtained. Three or four herds were discovered in the distance. The mate, with half the men, agreed to go in one direction and to stalk them down, while Dick and the rest went in another. Miss Kitty said she was tired, and that she would remain on the top of the rock with me till their return. The mate begged to leave with her a flask of water and some biscuits, which he had brought, I suspect, on her account. Not knowing what sort of scenery she might meet with, she had brought her sketch-book, for she was a well-educated girl, and understood music, and a number of other things besides. She laughingly observed that a few strokes would quickly picture the surrounding scenery. She amused herself with copying a huge tuft of the tussock-grass which grew near, and then made me stand and sit, now in one position, now in another, while she took my portrait. Then telling me to play about near her, and to take care not to tumble off the rock, she sat down to meditate. What her thoughts were about I cannot say, but she certainly very often looked in the direction Edward Falconer had gone.

Several shots were heard from time to time. They grew fainter and fainter, as if the cattle had headed off away from the harbour.

The day wore on. The sun was already sinking in the sky.

“I wonder when they will come back?” she said once or twice. “Can you see any one, Charley?”

I looked, but could not distinguish any objects amid the expanse of grass.

A dull booming sound of a ship’s gun came from the direction of the harbour, then another and another.

“That is, I suspect, to recall the boats,” said Kitty to me. “I could find my way there with you, Charley; but I don’t like to leave this spot, lest those who have gone after the cattle on returning might wonder what has become of us.”

We waited some time longer—the sun set—the shades of evening drew on. Kitty became very anxious. It was too late now to attempt alone to get back to the boats; and it was evident that we should have to spend the night on the knoll. As there was plenty of tall grass around, I proposed that we should build a hut for ourselves, but, as we had no means of cutting it, we could not carry out my project. Miss Kitty was, as before, casting an anxious gaze around, expecting each moment that some one would appear, when suddenly she exclaimed—

“See, see, Charley! What is that?”

I looked in the direction she pointed, when I saw a dark line of smoke rising out of the plain, curling in wreaths as it ascended towards the sky. It might have been mistaken for mist, had there not appeared below it a thin red line with sharp little forks darting upwards.

“The grass is on fire! Oh, what will become of them?” she exclaimed, seizing my hand, and gazing, with dread and horror in her countenance, at the advancing line of flame and smoke. I did not suppose that we ourselves were in danger; but on looking round I observed the numerous tufts of grass which grew on every side among the rocks.

One part of the mound was composed entirely of bare rock. I pointed it out to my companion. Though we should be almost suffocated with smoke, we might there escape the flames. We hastened to it, and kneeling down, she prayed for protection for me, and for herself, and for Edward—I heard her mention the mate’s name—and for the rest.

I was not particularly frightened, because I did not see anything very terrible; only the red line of fire jumping and leaping playfully, and the wreaths of smoke, which looked very graceful as they curled round and round, till at length they formed a dark canopy which spread over the sky.

“They may have been on the other side of the fire,” I heard Kitty say; “but then he would have thought of me, and, I fear, have attempted to rush through the flames to my rescue, and Dick will not have forgotten you, Charley. We must pray for them, my boy—we must pray for them.”

On came the wave of flame; the whole island from one end to the other seemed on fire. Our communication with the harbour was well-nigh cut off. Though the men in charge of the boats might have seen it approaching, they could not have come to our assistance.

Happily, Kitty’s dress was of a thick material, and so was mine, for the weather had been for some time cold, and Dick had made me a winter suit. Kitty saw clearly that the flames would surround the rock, and creep up its sides; and the open space on which we had taken refuge was fearfully small. I fancied that I could hear the roaring and hissing of the flames, they were already so near, when a shout reached our ears.

“They are coming! they are coming!” cried Kitty; “but oh, I fear the fire will overtake them before they can gain the rock. I see them! I see them! It is dreadfully close!” She gasped for breath. Then she rose to her feet, and waved her white handkerchief, hoping that it might be distinguished through the gloom, for she in vain tried to cry out in answer to the shout we had heard. The glare of the approaching fire fell on her figure. At that moment a man dashed up the rock—it was Edward Falconer. He could only utter, “You are safe, dearest!” and sank on the ground. Kitty stooped down and tried to raise him, pouring some water from the flask into his mouth. He speedily revived. Three other men followed him—the first was Dick; he seized me in his arms, and gave me a hug and put me down on the rock, and then he and the rest dashed back towards the flames, and began with their guns to beat and trample down the surrounding grass. The mate joined them, but the flames quickly reached the spot, and in a few minutes we were surrounded by a sea of fire. Dick sheltered me in his arms, and Edward Falconer supported Kitty in the very centre of the rock, turning their backs to the scorching flames from which they attempted to shield us. The smoke curled round our heads, and we had great difficulty in breathing. I could not help crying out from the pain of suffocation, which made Dick almost distracted. He first lifted me up above his head, that I might get more air; and when he could support me no longer, he threw a handkerchief over my face, and held me in his arms as a mother would her child.

How long we stood thus I do not know; it seemed a very long time. At length the fire had burned up all the grass around us, and the smoke grew less. Still it was impossible to reach the harbour, and might be so for many hours to come.

The whole party sat down on the rock, Miss Kitty inviting me to come to her, while Edward Falconer sat by her side.

“As you like, Miss,” said Dick; “but I would not give him up to any one else.”

“I hope the rest got off safe, as they were not far from the shore,” observed one of the men. “But I say, Dick, I wonder what has become of the beasts you and Mr Falconer killed?”

“They must be well roasted, at all events,” answered Dick. “The sun won’t have been long up either before every bone will be picked clean by the galiñasos and other birds.”

“It’s mighty possible, I’m afraid, that two or three of our fellows have been caught. It will be a cruel job if they are, for though a sailor lays it to his account to get drowned now and then, he doesn’t expect to be frizzled into the bargain,” observed Pat O’Riley.

They went on joking for some time, notwithstanding the fearful scene they had gone through, and although even at that moment some of their shipmates might be lying scorched to death on the plain below them. I, however, was soon asleep, with my head on Kitty’s lap, and therefore cannot say what she and Edward Falconer talked about. All I know is, that before I closed my eyes I saw him endeavouring to shield her from the wind, which blew sharply over the knoll.

At daylight we set out, Edward and Dick insisting on carrying Kitty in a chair formed with their hands, while Pat O’Riley carried me on his shoulders.

“Well, Miss Kitty, we had given you up for lost,” exclaimed Mrs Podgers, who met us at the gangway.

It struck me, young as I was, that her address did not show much maternal affection.

“Had not Mr Falconer and some of the crew come to our rescue, the boy and I would have been probably burnt to death, but they bravely risked their lives to save ours,” answered Kitty, firmly.

A boat was sent back to look for the remainder of the men; some at length arrived, but three could not be found, though search was made for them in every direction. Some thought that they had run away, others that they had been destroyed by the flames. A portion of one ox only was brought on board, but the captain would not wait to obtain more, and having filled up the water-casks, the Dolphin again sailed to go round Cape Horn.

We had got very nearly up to the southern end of America, when we met a gale blowing directly against us, which sent us back far away to the eastward and southward. The wind, however, again coming fair, we ran before it under all sail to make up for lost time.

Finding Dick’s berth empty one evening after it was dark, and not feeling inclined to sleep, I crept up on deck to be with him, as I had been accustomed to do in more genial latitudes. I found him on the look-out on the forecastle.

“What do you want to see?” I asked, observing that he was peering into the darkness ahead.

“Anything that happens to be in our way, Charley,” he answered. “An island, ship, or an iceberg; it would not be pleasant to run our jib-boom against either of the three.”

“What is that, then?” I asked, my sharp eyes observing what I took to be a high white wall rising out of the sea.

“Down with the helm!” shouted Dick at the top of his voice. “An iceberg ahead!”

“Brace up the yards!” cried the officer of the watch from aft.

The mast-heads seemed almost to touch the lofty sides of a huge white mountain as we glided by it.

“In another half-minute we should have been on the berg, if it hadn’t been for you, Charley,” said Dick, when we had rounded the mountain, and were leaving it on our quarter. “I’ll back your sharp eyes, after this, against all on board.”

Chapter Eight.

Jonas Webb.

We were a long time regaining our lost ground. I remember at length finding the ship gliding over huge glass-like billows, which came rolling slowly and majestically, as if moved upwards and onwards by some unseen power, with deep, broad valleys between them, into which the ship sinking, their sides alone bounded the view from her deck ahead and astern. On the right rose however, above them, a high, rocky headland, which the third mate told Miss Kitty, as she stood on the deck gazing at the shore, was Cape Horn.

“I could fancy it some giant demigod, the monarch of these watery realms,” she observed. “He looks serene and good-tempered at present; but how fearful must be these mighty waves when he is enraged, and fierce storms blow across them.”

“You are indeed right, Miss Kitty,” he answered; “and for my part, on such occasions, I prefer giving his majesty a wide berth and keeping out of sight of his frown. Provided the ship is sound, and the rigging well set up, we have little dread of these vast waves. A short chopping sea is far more dangerous. However, we shall soon be round the ‘Cape,’ and then I hope for your sake we shall have fine weather and smooth water.”

She stood for some time holding on to a stanchion, gazing at the scene so strange to her eyes.

The captain coming on deck to satisfy himself that all was going on properly, the mate stepped forward to attend to some duty. As the former’s rubicund visage disappeared beneath the companion-hatch, Mr Falconer returned aft.

“I have been thinking, Edward, that I was wrong to give the reins to my fancy, as I did just now,” said Kitty, in her sweet, artless way. “I should have remembered that He who made the world governs the wide ocean—the tides and currents move at His command, and He it is who bids the waters be at rest, or sends the whirlwind sweeping over them. I feel that it is wrong, even in poetry, to assign to beings of the imagination the power which alone belongs to Him. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, though I should not have thought you wrong,” answered the young officer, gazing at her with admiration. “But I do understand you, and I am sure that you are right. God is a jealous God, and cannot of course admit of any detraction from His authority by the creatures He has formed. I see that every form of idolatry, whether the idol be worshipped or not, must be offensive to Him—whether men assign His power to others, or attempt to approach Him in prayer through the mediation of saints or angels, when He has told them to draw near to the throne of grace according to the one way He has appointed.”

It may seem strange that I should have recollected this conversation. In truth, I did not, and it was not till many years afterwards that I was told of it. Indeed, I may confess once for all, that had I not possessed the advantage of communicating with some of the principal actors, I should have been unable to describe many of the events which occurred at that period of my existence. I remember, however, the captain, and his amiable consort, Mrs Podgers, and the snappish cruel way she spoke to sweet Miss Kitty and Edward Falconer. She appeared, indeed, to detest him, and took every opportunity of showing her dislike by all sorts of petty annoyances. He bore them all with wonderful equanimity, perhaps for Kitty’s sake, perhaps because he despised their author. Sometimes, when he came on deck after dining in the cabin, he would burst into a fit of laughter, as if enjoying a good joke, and would continue to smile when Kitty appeared with a look of vexation and pain on her countenance, supposing he must have been annoyed beyond endurance.

We had just doubled the Cape, when another sail was seen crossing our course, now rising up against the clear sky, now sinking so low that only her upper canvas was visible. We approached each other, when the stranger made a signal that she would send a boat aboard us. We also hove-to, and began gracefully bowing away at each other, as if the ships were exchanging compliments. A seaman with his bag stepped on board when the boat came alongside, and offered to remain, if the captain would receive him as a volunteer. The mate who came in the boat, saying he was an experienced hand, and had been in the Pacific several years, the captain at once accepted his services. We gave the mate the last news from England and several newspapers, and he, in return, offered to take any letters our people might have ready to send home. In a short time we each filled, and stood on our respective courses.

From what the mate had said, our captain was eager to have a talk with the new-comer, Jonas Webb by name. The latter said he had gone out many years before in a South Sea whaler, and when on her homeward voyage he had exchanged into the ship he had just left, then outward-bound. Both ships had been very successful in fishing and making prizes, and he had saved a great deal of money. Not content with what he had got, he wished to make more. He had been all along the coast, and knew every port. Among other pieces of information, he told the captain that two South Sea whalers, captured by the Spaniards, lay in the Bay of Conception, and advised that they should be cut out, declaring that it might easily be done, as the harbour was unguarded by forts. I don’t think Captain Podgers was fond of fighting, but he was of money, and he believed that by getting hold of these two ships, he should make more than by catching a score of whales.

After this, both fore and aft, the only talk was about the proposed undertaking. Miss Kitty looked very grave, but though she knew the captain would take very good care to remain safe on board, she guessed that Edward Falconer would be sent on the expedition; and, though he made light of it, he had observed that Jonas Webb was wrong with regard to the place being unfortified. Captain Podgers had got angry, and declared that the man, an experienced old sailor, who had just come from thence, must know more than a young fellow, as he was, could do. Mrs Podgers, with a sneer, also remarked that perhaps he would rather not have any fighting, lest he might get a cut across his face, and spoil his beauty, or the smell of gunpowder would make him faint.

I am sure that the third mate was as brave as steel, and did not think a bit about his good looks; but the sting, somehow or other, struck deeper than most of her venomed darts.

Hoisting American colours, we stood in towards an island off the Bay of Conception. Here heaving to, as night closed in, four of the boats were manned under charge of the three mates and the boatswain. Jonas Webb and Dick went in Mr Falconer’s boat.

Those who remained on board anxiously watched for their return, expecting, as the night was light, to see them towing out their prizes.

Some hours passed by, when the rattle of musketry and the boom of great guns came over the calm waters.

“Why, that fellow Webb mast have deceived me!” exclaimed the captain, stamping about the deck in a state of agitation. “Falconer was right. There will be more glory, as he will call it, than profit in the expedition. Bah! I cannot afford to lose men.”

Eager eyes were looking out for the expected ships. They did not appear, but at last first one boat and then another was seen emerging from the gloom.

“Well, gentlemen, what has become of the whalers?” exclaimed the captain, as the two first mates stepped on deck.

“The Spaniards peppered us too hotly to enable us to tow them out, sir, and the wind afforded no help,” was the answer. “I am afraid Mr Falconer’s boat, too, has got into a mess—he had taken one of the whalers, but would not leave his prize, though I suspect several of his men were killed or wounded.”

“Was Mr Falconer himself hit?” asked Mrs Podgers, who had come up to hear the news.

“I cannot say, ma’am,” answered the first mate. “His boat must have been terribly mauled, and I am afraid that she must have been sunk, or that her crew must have been taken prisoners. I cannot otherwise account for his not following us.”

I had hold of Miss Kitty’s hand. I felt it tremble; she seemed to be gasping for breath.

“You should have gone back and looked for them,” said the captain, who had judgment enough to know that the third mate was one of the best officers in the ship.

“Oh! do, do so!” exclaimed Miss Kitty, scarcely aware of what she was saying. “It was cowardly and cruel to leave them behind.”

“Not far wrong,” growled the captain, who, if not brave himself, wished his subordinates to fight well—as has been the case with other leaders in higher positions.

The mates were returning to their boats when the shout was raised that the fourth boat was appearing. She came on slowly, as if with a crippled crew. Kitty leaned against the bulwarks for support.

“Send down slings; we have some wounded men here,” said a voice which I recognised as Dick’s.

“Let the others go first,” said another voice. “They are more hurt than I am.”

Miss Kitty sprang to the gangway and looked over. Three men were hoisted on board; one especially was terribly injured—it was Jonas Webb. The last who appeared was Mr Falconer.

“I am only wounded in the shoulder, though I am faint from loss of blood,” he said, in a feeble voice. He spoke so that Kitty might hear him. “We should have got the prize with more help.”

Kitty ran to his side to assist him along the deck, not caring what Mrs Podgers or anybody else might say to her. The exertion, however, was too much for him; and if Dick and another man had not held him up, he would have fallen, for Kitty’s slight frame could scarcely have supported him. He was taken to his cabin, and after the doctor had attended to the other men he allowed him to examine his wound.

I have not before mentioned our doctor. The men used to say he was only fit for making bread pills, and they, poor fellows, had better means of forming an opinion of his skill than I had. After his visit, Mr Falconer would not let him dress his wound, though he did manage to get out the bullet. It was dressed, however, and Kitty used to say that I was the doctor. I know that I went every day into the cabin with her and Dick, and that we used to put lotions and plaster on his poor shoulder. Mrs Podgers declared that it was very indelicate in her to do so, but Kitty replied that if women were on board ship, it was their duty to attend to the wounded.

We visited the other men who were hurt, especially poor Jonas Webb; but Kitty confessed that his injuries were beyond her skill—indeed, it seemed wonderful that, mangled as he was, he should continue to live on.

The miscarriage of the expedition was owing also to him. Mr Falconer had gallantly carried the prize, got the Spaniards under hatches, and taken her in tow, when, on passing the batteries, Webb’s pistol went off. This drew the attention of the garrison to the boat, and they immediately opened a hot fire. Webb was the first struck, and soon afterwards several of the other men were hit. Mr Falconer, who had remained on deck, on this let himself down into the boat to assist in pulling, and, in spite of the hot fire, would have continued doing so, had not the Spaniards broken loose, and, getting hold of some muskets on board, began firing at the boat. Mr Falconer, on being himself wounded, cut the painter, and the boat escaped without further injury.

Dick was very angry with the other officers, and did not mind expressing his opinion of them. I never saw him so put out. He felt much for poor Webb, and I heard him declare that he was very doubtful about Mr Falconer’s recovery. If he died, what would become of poor Miss Kitty?

Chapter Nine.

A Ministering Angel.

Mr Falconer did not die. Kitty asked him to live for her sake, and I dare say he was glad to do so. Dick and the doctor were out of hearing at the time, so that I don’t know whether I ought to repeat it.

She often, as she sat by his side, spoke very seriously to him, and used to read the Bible. One day she asked whether he truly believed it to be God’s word, and to contain His commands to man. He said he did with all his heart, and that he had always done so.

“Then,” she asked, “how is it that you have not always lived according to its rules?”

“First, because I did not read the book,” he answered; “and, secondly, because I liked to follow my own will.”

“And preferred darkness to light, because your deeds were evil? That is what the Bible says, Edward, and you believe that it is God’s word,” said Kitty, in a firm voice. “But can you now truly say, ‘I will arise and go to my Father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son?’”

She gazed with her bright blue eyes full upon him as she spoke, so innocent and free from guile.

“Indeed, I truly can,” he said.

“Hear these words,” she continued, turning rapidly over the leaves of the Bible she held before her. “‘God so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’”

“The faith, the belief, must be living, active, not a dead faith, and then how glorious the assurance, if we remember what everlasting life means—a certainty of eternal happiness, which no man can take away, and which makes the pains, and sufferings, and anxieties of this life as nothing. I always think of those promises, Edward, whenever I am in trouble, and you know I very often am, and I remember that God says, ‘I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.’ That, and that alone, has enabled me to endure the dreadful life I have had to lead on board this ship, until I knew that you loved me. But the being possessed of that knowledge, though it affords me unspeakable happiness, does not, I confess, make me more free from anxiety than I was before. Then I knew that nothing could take away what I possessed, because it was treasured in my own heart; but now I cannot help feeling anxious on your account—exposed to numberless dangers as you are, and must be, in the horrid work such as I understand this ship is to be engaged in. When that dreadful woman insisted on my accompanying her, I understood that the ship was to make an ordinary voyage, visiting interesting lands, trading with the natives, and catching whales. Had I known the truth I would have resisted her authority, and gone out as a governess or into service as a nursery-maid, or done anything rather than have come on board. But left an orphan and penniless, and under her guardianship, so she asserted, I thought it my duty to obey her. I do not regret it now,” she added, quickly; “but I felt that you must have been surprised at finding me dependent on such a person as Mrs Podgers. I have never told you my history—I will do so. When, about ten years ago, my dear mother was dying, just as I was six years old, this woman was her nurse, and pretended to be warmly attached to her. My father, Lieutenant Raglan, having married against the wishes of his family, they, considering that my mother, though highly educated and attractive, was inferior to him in birth and fortune, cast him off, and refused to hold any further communication with him. Just before the time I speak of, he sailed for the East India station, and my dear mother being left at a distance from her own friends, who resided in the West Indies, she had no one of her own station, when her fatal illness attacked her, to whom she could confide me. When, therefore, her nurse promised to watch over me with the tenderest care, and to see that I was educated in a way suitable to my father’s position in society, and to restore me to him as soon as he returned, she thankfully left me and all the property she possessed under her charge. Such is what her nurse, now Mrs Podgers, has always asserted. Providentially, my mother had written to a lady, Mrs Henley, at whose school she herself had been educated, saying, that it was her express wish that I should be under her charge until I was sixteen, although I was to spend my holidays with nurse till my father’s return. I suspect, that at the last, my poor mother had some doubts about leaving so much in the power of a woman of inferior education; and I remember seeing her write a paper, which she got the respectable old landlord of the house and his son to witness, and it was to be sent, on her death, to my kind friend, Mrs Henley. That paper, or one very like it, I afterwards saw my nurse destroy.

“On my mother’s death, I was sent to Mrs Henley, my nurse insisting that I should spend the holidays with her. For the first year or two she was very kind, and I had nothing to complain of; but after she married Captain Podgers, her conduct changed very much, I suspect in consequence of her having taken to drinking. I did not find this out at the time, though I thought her occasionally very odd. She insisted that she was my guardian, and showed me my mother’s handwriting to prove her authority; and I felt that it was my duty to obey her, though I lived in hopes that by my father’s return I should be freed from her control.

“Year after year passed by. Then came the account of the capture and destruction of his ship and loss of many of her officers, though no information as to his fate could be obtained. All I knew, to my grief, was that he did not return. Still I have a hope amounting almost to confidence that he is alive. The thought that I might possibly meet with him made me less unwilling than I should otherwise have been to obey Mrs Podgers’ commands to accompany her on the voyage she was about to make. Her sole motive, I suspect, in wishing me to go, was to save the expense of my continuing at school. Still I wonder sometimes how I could have ventured on board, suspecting, as I had already done, the hypocritical character of the woman who had pretended to be so devoted to my mother and me.”

“You have, at all events, proved an inestimable blessing to me,” said the young officer. “Even when I first saw you, I could not believe that you were really the daughter of such people as the captain and his wife.”

I do not know that I had before thought much about the matter, but when I heard now, for the first time, that Miss Kitty was not related to the captain and his wife, I felt a sort of relief, and could not help exclaiming, “Oh, I am so glad!” She smiled as she looked at me, but she made no reply either to mine or Mr Falconer’s remark. She gave us both, I have no doubt, credit for sincerity.

Although our visits to the wounded mate occupied a good deal of our time—I say our visits, for I always accompanied Miss Kitty—we did not neglect the other wounded men.

We went, indeed, to see poor Jonas Webb several times a day. Sorely wounded as he was, he yet could listen to what Miss Kitty said to him, though he was too weak and suffering to utter more than a few words in reply. She one day, finding him worse, asked him solemnly if he was prepared to meet his God.

“What! do you think I am dying, young lady?” he groaned out, in a trembling voice.

“The doctor says that he has never known any one wounded as badly as you are to recover,” she said, in a gentle, but firm voice.

“Oh, but I cannot die!” he murmured. “I have made well-nigh five hundred pounds, and expected to double it in this cruise, and I cannot leave all that wealth. I want to go home, to live at my ease and enjoy it.”

“You cannot take your wealth with you,” she answered.

Without saving more, she read from the Bible the account of the rich man and Lazarus. She then went on to the visit of the wealthy young lawyer to Jesus, and paused at the reply of the Lord; she repeated the words, “How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God. For it is easier for a camel to go through a needle’s eye than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.”

“Now,” she continued, “you have been trusting in the wealth which, with so much toil and danger, you have been collecting, to enjoy a life of ease and comfort on shore. Suppose God said to you, ‘Thou fool, this night thy soul shall be required of thee!’ as He does to many; can you face Him?”

“But I don’t see that I have been a bad man. I have always borne a good character, and, except when the blood was up, and I have been fighting with the enemy, or when I have been on shore, may be for a spree, I have never done anything for which God could be angry with me.”

“God looks upon everything that we do, unless in accordance with His will, to be sinful. He does not allow of small sins any more than great sins; they are hateful in His sight; and He shows us that we are by nature sinful and deserving of punishment, and that, as we owe Him everything, if we were to spend all our lives in doing only good, we should be but performing our duty, and still we should have no right in ourselves to claim admittance into the pure, and glorious, and happy heaven He has prepared for those alone who love Him. He has so constituted our souls that they must live for ever, and must either be with Him in the place of happiness, or be cast into that of punishment. But, my friend, Jesus loves you and all sinners, and though God is so just that He cannot let sin go unpunished, yet Jesus undertook to be punished instead of you, and He died on the cross and shed His blood that you might go free of punishment. If you will but trust in Him, and believe that He was so punished, and that, consequently, God no longer considers you worthy of punishment, but giving you, as it were, the holiness and righteousness which belong to Christ, will receive you into that holy heaven where none but the righteous can enter.”

The wounded man groaned and answered slowly, “I am afraid that I am a sinner, though I have been trying to make out that I am not one. But I really have had a very hard life of it, and no good example set me, and shipmates around me cursing and swearing, and doing all that is bad; and so I hope if I do die, as you say I shall, that God won’t keep me out of heaven.”

“Jesus Christ says, ‘There is only one way by which we can enter; there is but one door.’ ‘I am the Way, the Truth, and the Light.’ ‘He that believeth on him is not condemned, but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed on the name of the only-begotten Son of God.’ Jesus also says, ‘He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death unto life;’ and again, ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.’ Jesus came not to call the righteous, or those who fancy themselves good enough to go to heaven, as you have been doing, but sinners, to repentance—those who know themselves to be sinners. Think how pure and holy God is, and how different you are to Him, and yet you must be that holy as He is holy to enter heaven. Christ, as I have told you, gives you His holiness if you trust to Him; and God says, ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool;’ and, ‘As far as the east is from the west, so far will I put your sins from me.’ Believe what God says; that is the first thing you have to do. Suppose Jesus was to come to you now, and, desperately wounded as you are, tell you to get up and walk; would you believe Him, or say that you could not? He said that to many when He was on earth, and they took Him at His word, and found that He had healed them. There was, among others, a man with a withered hand. When He said, ‘Stretch forth thine hand,’ the man did not say, ‘I cannot,’ but stretched it forth immediately. Just in the same way, when God says, ‘Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved,’ do believe on Him, and trust to Him to fulfil His promise. God never deceives any one; all His words are fulfilled.”

Day by day the young girl spoke to the dying seaman, and, though witnessing scenes abhorrent to her feelings, influenced by God’s grace, she overcame her repugnance, and faithfully continued to attend him. She had the satisfaction of hearing him cry, “Lord, be merciful to me a sinner!” and confess that he had a full hope of forgiveness, through the merits of Jesus alone.

Two of the other men, though apparently not so severely injured as Webb, owing to the ignorance of the surgeon, sank from their wounds. They died as they had lived, hardening their hearts against the Saviour’s love.

Had Miss Kitty not been very firm, Mrs Podgers would have prevented her from attending the mate or the other wounded men.

Mr Falconer, though for some time confined to his cabin, was at length able to get on deck.

“Glad to see you about again,” said the captain, as he appeared, in his usual gruff but not unkind tone. “When I brought the ladies aboard, I didn’t think that they’d prove so useful in looking after the sick; though I doubt if she,” and he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at his wife, “has troubled you much with her attentions.”

Before the mate could speak, Mrs Podgers waddled up to him. “Well, Mr Falconer, you’ve found your way out of your cabin at last,” she said, in her nasty wheezy tone. “I should have thought that when an officer was only slightly hurt, as you were, he might have managed to return to his duty before this.”

The mate said nothing, but the remark made Miss Kitty very angry. I should have said, that as Mrs Podgers would not allow me on the quarterdeck, the appearance of the bows in her bonnet above the companion-hatch was the signal for me to escape among my friends forward; and that it was from Dick, who was at the helm, I afterwards heard of the unpleasant remarks made by that most unattractive of females.

Chapter Ten.

Whaling and Fighting.

The Dolphin, after her first ill-success at privateering, stood away from the coast towards a part of the ocean where it was expected that whales would be found. Look-outs were at the mast-head.

I was sitting with Dick forward, for as Mrs Podgers was sunning herself on deck, I was keeping out of her way. Miss Kitty was reading, and Mr Falconer was pacing up and down, as officer of the watch, taking care not to approach her till Mrs Podgers should dive below. Most of the crew were knitting and splicing, spinning yarns, or performing other work, of which there is always plenty to be done on board ship, while some few of them were lying lazily about, doing nothing.

I have not before mentioned a personage who was dubbed the officer of marines, Lieutenant Pyke. His figure was tall and thin, as the captain’s was short and broad, and though their noses were much of the same colour, being as red as strong potations and hot suns could possibly make them, Lieutenant Pyke’s was enormously long. He was now engaged in drilling twelve of the most ruffianly and ill-conditioned of the crew, whom he called his jollies. They were of various heights and dimensions, and though they wore red coats and belts, knee-breeches and gaiters, and carried muskets, they were, as Dick, who held them in supreme contempt, declared, “as unlike sodgers as they could well be.” Lieutenant Pyke, however, was proud of them, and boasted that they would follow him to the cannon’s mouth, whenever he led the way.

“Likely enough they will,” observed Dick, “because, you see, there’s little chance of the lieutenant ever getting there.”

He had for some time been drilling these troops of his, as he also occasionally designated the fellows, making them march up and down, and pointing every now and then to an imaginary enemy, whom he ordered them to charge and annihilate, when there came a shout from aloft, “There she blows!” In a moment all the crew jumped to their feet. Our stout captain tumbled up from below, crying out, “Where away!” and four boats being lowered and manned, off they pulled, led by Mr Falconer in the direction in which the look-out pointed. We could see, about a quarter of a mile from the ship, a huge hump projecting three feet out of the water, while from the fore part of the monster’s enormous head arose at the end of every ten seconds a white jet of foam.

“There again! there again!” shouted the crew. Away dashed the boats at full speed.

“His spoutings are nearly out,” said Dick.

“He is going down,” cried others.

Again a spout rose, and we could see the small, as it is called, of his back rise preparatory to his descent.

“His tail will be up directly,” said Dick, “and they will lose him, I fear;” but at that moment Mr Falconer’s boat dashing on, as he stood up in the boat with his glistening harpoon raised above his head, away it flew with unerring force, and was buried in the side of the huge animal. A loud cheer rose from the men in the boats and those on deck, and the whale, hitherto so quiet, began to strike the water with his vast tail, aiming with desperate blows at his advancing enemies. Now his enormous bottle-nose-shaped head rose in the air—now we saw his flukes lashing the water, his body writhing with the agony of the wound the sharp iron had inflicted. The water around him was soon beaten into a mass of foam, while the noise made by his tail was almost deafening.

Kitty stood eagerly watching the scene, and looking somewhat pale, for it seemed as if the boat could scarcely escape some of those desperate blows dealt around.

I had felt very anxious about my friend.

“Never fear,” said Dick; “he knows what he is about. See, it’s ‘stern all.’”

The boat backed out of the way; the monster’s tail rose for an instant and disappeared.

“He has sounded,” cried Dick.

Away ran the line. An oar was held up in the boat.

“That means that the line has run out,” said Dick.

The nearest boat dashed up, and a fresh line was bent on. That soon came to an end, and another, and yet another was joined to it.

“He has eight hundred fathoms out by this time,” shouted Dick, “and if he does not come up soon, he will be lost. But no, it’s ‘haul in the slack;’ he is rising; they are coiling away the line in the tubs.”

Directly afterwards the blunt nose of the animal rose from the sea, and a spout was projected high into the air. Mr Falconer’s boat was being hauled rapidly towards it. A long lance with which he was armed was quickly buried in the side of the huge creature, going deep down into a vital part. The other boats gathered round it, from each a lance was darted forth, the whale rolling over and over in his agony, and coiling the rope round him, when suddenly, with open jaws, he darted at one of the boats, and then attacked another. Kitty shrieked out with fear, for it was Mr Falconer’s boat which was overtaken, and was seen, shattered to fragments, flying into the air, while the other was capsized; and now the whale went so swiftly along the surface, that it seemed he must after all escape. Two of the boats were not yet fastened, and, without stopping to help the men in the water, away they dashed in chase of the whale. Impeded by the shattered boat he was dragging after him, and by several drogues fastened to the lines, he was soon overtaken, when another harpoon and several more lances were darted into his body. Still unconquered, away the animal again went, and up rose his tail: he was attempting to sound, but this his increasing weakness prevented him from doing. Then he stopped, and his vast frame began to writhe and twist about in every possible way, beating the surrounding sea into foam, and dyeing it with his blood. The boats backed out of his way. The captain had sent another boat to the assistance of the men in the water, when it was seen that the one upset was righted, and that the people belonging to the shattered boat had been taken on board her. She soon joined those which were fast to the whale, and when the monster at length lay motionless on the water, assisted them in towing it up to the ship.

Kitty could scarcely conceal her joy when she saw Mr Falconer steering one of the boats. I shouted with satisfaction.

The whale was soon alongside, and the operation of cutting off the blubber, hoisting it on board, and boiling it down in huge caldrons placed on tripods, commenced.

As night came on, the fires lighted under the pots shed a bright glare across the deck on the rigging and on the men at work. I thought them wild and savage-looking enough before, but they now appeared more like beings of the lower world than men of flesh and blood.

“I have no fancy for this sort of work,” observed Dick, who was a thorough man-of-war’s man. “The decks won’t be fit to tread on for another week.”

However, we had the decks dirtied in the same way many a time for several weeks after that, being very successful in catching whales.

At last the fighting part of the crew, who were not accustomed to whaling, began to grumble, and wished to return to the coast, to carry on the privateering, or, as Dick called it, the pirating work, which they looked upon as the chief object of the voyage.

Lieutenant Pyke was especially urgent about the matter, and proposed that a descent should be made on some of the towns, which he and his brave troops, he asserted, could capture without difficulty.

On reaching the coast, we brought up in a small bay with a town on its shore.

We had not been long at anchor, when in the evening a boat came off, manned by natives, with three Spaniards in her. The captain received them very politely, and introduced them to his wife and Kitty. They seemed highly pleased, and said they had come to trade, taking the Dolphin to be a smuggler, many English vessels visiting the coast for the purpose of landing goods free of the high duties imposed on them by the Spanish Government. As many pieces of cloth and cotton as could be found were shown to them as samples. The captain told them that if they would return on board with their dollars, the goods should be ready for them.

Mr Falconer, when he heard of the shameful trick which it was proposed to play the unfortunate Spaniards, was very indignant, and I believe would have warned them if he could. The captain, hearing what he had said, backed by Lieutenant Pyke and one of the other officers, declared that he would shoot him through the head if he did any such thing.

During the night, two boats came off with our former visitors and four others, all bringing a large supply of dollars. On going down below, great was their dismay on finding that they were prisoners, and that, when released, they would have to leave their money behind them and go without the goods.

In the morning, another boat appeared with two more merchants, who were treated in the same way. Altogether, ten thousand dollars were thus stolen from the Spaniards.

“They are breaking the laws of their country,” observed Dick to me, “and they deserve punishment. For my part, I don’t like this way of doing things; but if Mr Pyke is as good as his word, and was to land with his marines and attack the town, it would be more ship-shape and honourable.”

I mention the circumstance to show the abomination of the privateering system, but people generally did not see it in the same light in those days.

A suspicious sail appearing in the offing, the Spaniards were allowed to go on shore, though Lieutenant Pyke declared that if he had his way they should all have been made to pay a heavy ransom first. The anchor was hove up, and we stood out to sea. We were becalmed during the day, while still at a distance from the stranger. As evening approached, a breeze springing up, she neared us, with a black flag flying from her peak. From the cut of her sail and the appearance of her hull, she was an English vessel, fully as large, if not larger, than the Dolphin; but there could be no doubt of her character—she was a pirate. The drum beat to quarters, and preparations were made to give her a warm reception. Mrs Podgers and Kitty were sent down into the cockpit, where they might be out of harm’s way. It was by this time nearly dark, but still the stranger could be seen gliding towards us through the thickening gloom. Dick took me up and carried me to them, in spite of my entreaties to be allowed to see the fun.

“It will be no fun, Charley, if yonder scoundrels do as they intend, and try to take the ship,” he remarked. “At all events, there will be some desperate fighting, and a shot may carry your head off, my boy—so below you must go, whether you like it or not.”

Kitty took my hand and drew me towards her as soon as I appeared, thankful that I was not to be exposed to danger.

“I should think the little brat might be made useful, sitting on an ammunition tub,” exclaimed Mrs Podgers. “Why should he be more petted than the other boys?”

“No, no!” cried Kitty, holding me fast. “He is younger than they are, and it would be cruel to let him run the risk of being hurt.”

We waited for some time, no one speaking; for Mrs Podgers was too much frightened, and Kitty too anxious, to do so. At length there came the dull sound of a gun fired from the other vessel, followed by louder, clearer reports of several discharged by the Dolphin. The enemy replied with a still greater number, and several broadsides were soon afterwards rapidly exchanged between the combatants. The firing now ceased. We waited almost breathless to hear it begin again.

Chapter Eleven.

Attack on the Spanish Hidalgo.

As no wounded men had been brought below, we trusted that the Dolphin was having the best of it. At last I begged Kitty to let me go on deck and ascertain how matters were going on.

“No, no, Charley,” she answered. “They may again begin firing;” but I saw that she was very anxious herself to learn the state of affairs.

“I will be back again in a minute,” I said, and was just escaping from her, when once more the thundering sound of big guns, with the rattle of musketry, broke the silence, and she caught me and held me fast.

The firing went on with redoubled vigour, and cries and shouts reached our ears. The alarm of Mrs Podgers increased.

“O dear, O dear!” she cried out, wringing her hands. “If Podgers was to be hit, what would become of me?”

Once more there was a cessation of the firing.

“Do let me run up, Kitty,” I said. “Some of those we care for may be wounded, and the rest too busy to bring them below.”

I knew my argument would prevail. “Let him go,” said Mrs Podgers. “I do so want to know how the captain is.”

I broke from her and climbed up the ladder. I was as active as a monkey, and quickly reached the deck. The fighting lanterns which hung against the bulwarks shed their light across it, and showed me several human forms stretched out motionless. The crew, stripped to their waists, were at the guns, while the officers stood about here and there among them. I caught sight of the captain’s stout figure, but I looked in vain for Mr Falconer. I ran forward in hopes of finding him. I had got nearly to the forecastle when the matches were applied to the guns, and as they were discharged a shower of shot came hissing across the deck.

I made my way amidst the shower of shot and bullets and falling blocks, and the horrible din of battle, to the forecastle, where, to my great joy, I saw Mr Falconer directing the foremost guns. Dick at the same moment caught sight of me.

“Charley,” he exclaimed, “what business have you here? Go back, boy, and tell the ladies we are all right, and will make the pirate sheer off before long, if we don’t take her.”

I hurried below with the satisfactory intelligence. Miss Kitty kissed me when I told her I had seen Mr Falconer, and I was somewhat afraid that Mrs Podgers would bestow the same reward upon me when I said that the captain was unhurt.

“I wish he would make haste and sink the ship which has frightened us so much,” she observed. “It is a shame that those sort of people should be allowed to live.”

Mrs Podgers did not consider that the Spaniards would probably have said the same of us.

We heard our ship fire several broadsides in rapid succession; then all was silent.

Supposing that the fight was over, I persuaded Miss Kitty again to allow me to run on deck. Reaching it, I caught sight, a short distance off, of the tall masts and sails of the enemy’s ship.

At that moment loud cheers burst from the throats of our crew. Gradually the dark sails of our antagonist appeared to be sinking, and wild shrieks and cries came across the waters towards us. Lower and lower the sails sank, and in another minute the spot occupied by the pirate was vacant—she had disappeared beneath the waves. No boat was sent to help the drowning wretches. Mr Falconer proposed going to their assistance.

“No, no!” exclaimed the captain; “they would have robbed us or sent us to the bottom; they don’t deserve our pity.”

“But they are fellow-creatures, and we should try and save their lives,” exclaimed the mate.

“You are too tender-hearted, Falconer; you should not have joined a privateer,” was the answer; and the Dolphin glided rapidly away from the spot where her foe had gone down.

The surgeon was meantime busy with the wounded men, while five who had been killed were with little ceremony hove overboard. Mrs Podgers and Kitty returned to the cabin. The latter, as before, endeavoured to alleviate the sufferings of the wounded men, and often visited them, attended by Mr Falconer and me, notwithstanding the scoldings she daily got from Mrs Podgers for so doing.

After this, we again stood in for the coast, capturing several Spanish merchant vessels.

Mr Pyke declared that he wanted to find an enemy more worthy of his and his troops’ prowess than he had hitherto encountered.

“We will give you a chance,” said the captain. “I have discovered from some of the prisoners that there is a town on the shores of a bay not far off, which is unprotected by forts. We may easily make ourselves masters of the place, and shall probably find in it a good store of wealth. But we must be quick about the business, or some troops stationed at no great distance may be down upon us and interfere with our proceedings.”

“You may depend upon me for doing my part,” answered the lieutenant, drawing himself up.

We made the land early in the day, but hove-to till night, when it was hoped the inhabitants might be taken by surprise. The weather was fine, and the entrance to the harbour broad and safe. We waited till past midnight, and then stood in and came to an anchor. Four boats were ordered to be got ready; Lieutenant Pyke and his marines went in one of them, the others were commanded by the sea officers, with a party of blue-jackets.

I had heard the men talking of what they were going to do, and I thought that I should very much like to see the fun. I knew, however, that neither Dick nor Miss Kitty would approve of my going, and that Mr Falconer was also unlikely to take me, should I ask him to do so. The last boat which left the ship was commanded by the boatswain, a rough but good-natured man, with whom I had become somewhat of a favourite. I watched my opportunity, and slipped in directly after him, and the men, thinking that he intended I should go, allowed me to stow myself away in the bow before he saw me, the darkness favouring my design. The boats shoved off, and away we pulled, with muffled oars, towards the shore.

We landed just outside the town, among wild rocks. No lights were moving about the place, only here and there a few glimmering from the windows. Lieutenant Pyke drew up his marines; the other officers arranged their men in a compact body, I following the rear.

Daylight broke. When all was ready, the first mate ordered us to advance, and, stepping lightly over the ground, we made a rush into the town. There were no gates to stop us and no sentinels on the watch. A sort of town-hall and a church were first entered, and everything they contained, images, silver candlesticks, crucifixes, incense-pans, chalices, and several bags of money, with some silver-mounted guns and pistols, were taken possession of before the inhabitants were awake. We then attacked a large house in which lights were still burning, and where it was supposed the commandant of the place resided. The door yielded to the blows of the marines’ muskets, and rushing into a good-sized hall, we saw seated at the end of a long table a thin, tall hidalgo, and on either side of him a fat priest, with two or three other personages. The table was covered with rich plate and numerous flagons and wine-flasks. The party gazed at us with open mouths and staring eyes, but were far too tipsy to utter anything beyond a few expressions of surprise and dismay.

The commandant, rising, tried to draw his sword, but could not find the hilt, and tumbled back into his big armchair; while the fat friars, whose first impulse had been to make their escape, rolled over on the ground, upsetting the hidalgo’s chair in their struggles, when all three began kicking and striking out, believing each other to be foes. The rest of the party at once yielded themselves as prisoners. Our men, bursting into loud fits of laughter, let the trio fight on for some time, till our commander, fearing, should we delay longer, that the inhabitants would make their escape, or perhaps assemble and attack us, ordered them to be lifted up and carried off, with their arms bound behind them. It was no easy matter to do this, for the friars were so heavy that it required three stout men to each to set them on their legs.

While a party was left to guard them, the rest proceeded to break into the other houses.

The inhabitants, now aroused from their slumbers by the hubbub, put their heads, with their nightcaps on, out of the windows in all directions, but quickly withdrew them, uttering loud shrieks and exclamations of dismay and surprise. After a little time Dick caught sight of me.

“Charley,” he cried out, “what has brought you here?”

“I wanted to see the fun, Dick. I hope you are not angry.”

“But I am, though, Charley,” he answered; “and though, to my mind, it’s dirty work attacking sleeping people, who have never done us any harm, we may have some fighting yet, and you may get knocked on the head. Stick by me, however, and I’ll look after you, though you don’t deserve it.”

I felt ashamed of myself, and took good care to do as Dick told me.

He, with about half the number of our party, now proceeded to one side of the town, while the other marched to the farther end, three or four armed men entering any of the large houses which appeared likely to contain booty worth carrying off. My party had accompanied the marines under Lieutenant Pyke, who was shouting out “he only wished he could see a foe worthy of his steel.” As we went along, we came to a small square, at the other side of which a band of some twenty persons appeared, others coming up in the distance. I am not sure that all had arms, though they presented a somewhat military aspect. Our commander ordered the marines to charge them.

“On, lads, on!” cried the lieutenant, waving his sword, but he did not move very fast. The Spaniards, however, seeing the invaders coming, ran off as fast as their legs would carry them, when the lieutenant doubled his speed, waving his sword still more vehemently, and shouting out: “On, brave lads! Death or victory!” By the time he got across the square, no foe was to be seen, and after looking round the corner to ascertain that they had not reassembled, he marched back his men in triumph.

In a short time every house had been ransacked, and, with our booty and prisoners, we returned to the boats and regained the ship, not a shot having been fired nor a life lost.

The commandant having agreed to pay five thousand dollars as his own ransom and that of his companions, one of the fat friars was sent on shore to collect the money, having orders to return by noon. He shook his head, and declared that this was impossible.

“It might take four or five days, perhaps a week, to collect such a sum.”

“Very well,” said the captain at last. “By sunset, if the ransom is not brought on board, we shall have a fine bonfire out there,” and he pointed to the town.

“Arra’ now, captain, you may as well cook and eat us at once, for sorrow a dollar have ye left us, and all the crucifixes, and candlesticks, and beautiful images, which we might have pledged for the money, stowed away in your hold!” exclaimed the fat friar, betraying his Hibernian origin, and that he had understood every word which had been spoken.

“Are you an Irishman, and living among these foreigners, and pretending to be one of them?” cried the captain. “If I had known that, I would have clapped on another thousand dollars to your ransom.”

“Sure, captain, dear, it would have been more charitable to have taken them off,” observed the jovial friar. “However, just be after giving me four days, and ye shall resave the dollars all bright and beautiful, though not a quarter of one could all the blessed saints together collect in the whole of our unfortunate town and the circumjacent country.”

The friar’s eye twinkled as he spoke. At last he proposed paying even a larger sum, provided that the captain would prolong the time to five days for its collection. Captain Podgers, eager to get more money, and not suspecting treachery, agreed to the proposal, and Fra Patricio, chuckling in his sleeve, prepared to take his departure.

“Captain, dear,” he said, turning round with a comical look as he reached the gangway, “ye haven’t got a bottle of potheen, the raal cratur, have ye? It would just be after comforting me in my trouble.”

A bottle of Irish whiskey being handed to the friar, he tucked it away in his sleeve, and his boat pulled off towards the shore.

Mr Falconer, who understood Spanish, shortly after this informed the captain that he had discovered, from the prisoners’ conversation, that the object of Friar Patrick in asking for more time to collect the ransom, was that troops might be sent for to protect the town. The captain replied that he would hang his prisoners if any such trick was played.

We remained two days longer, and no news came from the Irish friar.

Our prisoners were well supplied with eatables and drinkables and tobacco, and appeared perfectly happy, talking freely among themselves, as they sat at table and smoked their cigarettes. Mr Falconer, though unwilling to be an eavesdropper, could not help hearing what they said, and as he had prudently not let them discover that he knew Spanish, they did not suspect that he understood what they said. He was sitting writing in his own cabin, which opened on the gun-room, when he heard one of them remark that, in a couple of days, at furthest, the tables would be turned, and that those who were now their masters would be prisoners, or hung up at the yard-arms of their frigate.

“Which, pirates as they are, will be their just fate,” observed another. On this, the rest of the party laughed grimly.

“The ladies we cannot hang, though.”

“No; they can be sent to a nunnery, or perhaps you, Seignor Commandant, who are a bachelor, would wish to wed the fat widow.”

Some remarks were made about Miss Kitty, which Mr Falconer did not repeat.

“How soon can the two frigates be here?” inquired another.

“In two days, or three at most,” was the answer. “But we shall be in no slight danger. I wish we could escape before then.”

“No fear about that,” answered one of the former speakers. “The Englishmen won’t attempt to fight against so overpowering a force, and will, depend on it, haul down their flag as soon as they see the two frigates enter the harbour.”

This idea seemed to make the whole party very merry.

Mr Falconer, after sitting quiet for some time, went on deck, and informed the captain of all he had heard.

Captain Podgers was not a little put out by the information he received. He was very unwilling to lose his dollars, but if he remained in harbour, he might lose his ship, and his own life into the bargain; for Mr Falconer did not fail to repeat the threat of the Spaniards, to have him hung up at the yard-arm as a pirate. He vowed that he should be ready to fight one Spanish frigate, but two were more than even the Dolphin could venture to tackle.

After pacing the deck two or three times, he summoned the officers into the cabin; and it was finally settled that the other fat friar should be at once sent on shore, with orders to make his appearance next day at noon at the landing-place, with all the dollars that had been collected, and should the amount not be sufficient, he was to warn the inhabitants that their town would be set on fire. That the Dolphin might run no risk of being entrapped, she was at once to put to sea, while the boats alone were to go in the following day and bring off the ransom.

The Spaniards were very much alarmed when they saw preparations going on for making sail.

Fortunately, a Spanish merchant among our prisoners spoke a little English, so that Mr Falconer had not to betray to them his knowledge of their language. The fat friar shrugged his shoulders when he heard what he was to do. He seemed, however, not a little pleased to get out of the clutches of the terrible privateersman. As soon as he had been landed, the Dolphin’s anchor was hove up, and the land breeze still blowing, we sailed out of the harbour.

We were standing on and off the island during the night. It was a calm and beautiful one. I had gone on deck to be near Dick, which I frequently did during his watch, when, the moon shining brightly from behind some light fleecy clouds which floated over the sky, we caught sight of an object gliding over the glittering waters. As it approached, Dick pronounced it to be a raft, with a small square sail set, and soon afterwards we distinguished two figures on it. He hailed. There came, in reply, a faint cry across the water. Directly afterwards the sail was lowered. Mr Falconer, who was officer of the watch, ordered the ship to be hove-to and a boat lowered, which quickly towed the raft and its occupants alongside. The men were hoisted on deck, for they were too weak to climb up by themselves. Dick and I, who had good reason to feel for them, hurried to the gangway. Dick, without asking questions, filled a cup of water and brought it to them; they both drank eagerly.

Mr Falconer while by his orders a couple of hammocks were being got ready for them, inquired who they were and whence they had come. One, who appeared the least exhausted, answered that they had been ten days at sea, and for the three last they had been without food or water, with the exception of half a biscuit apiece, and that they were the survivors of six who had embarked on the raft.

“I am the second mate of the Juno, armed whaler,” continued the speaker. “Our crew mutinied, murdered the captain and several of the other officers; but the third mate and I, with four men who refused to join them, were turned adrift on this wretched raft, with but a scanty allowance of water and provisions, which the mutineers gave us, asserting that it was enough to support us till we could reach the shore. Calms and light winds prevailed, and we were almost abandoning hope, when, this afternoon, we made the land, though I doubt if we should have survived had we not fallen in with you.”

Mr Falconer treated the two mates with great kindness, and did his best to make them comfortable, not doubting the truth of their story. They had farther added, that as soon as they had been sent off from the side of the ship, the mutineers hoisted the black flag, with three cheers, announcing that they intended to turn pirates and attack ships of all nations.

From their account, there remained no doubt that the Juno was the ship which had lately engaged the Dolphin, and met with so awful, though well-deserved a fate. They also told us that the Juno had been about to enter a harbour a short distance off, when two men-of-war were seen, with their lower masts only standing, that several boats had been sent out in chase of the ship, but, a breeze springing up, she had escaped.

This confirmed what Mr Falconer had heard from the Spaniards, and made the captain thankful that he had listened to his advice.

The next day we stood in to the mouth of the harbour, when the boats were sent on shore, each carrying half a dozen torches. Our prisoners were in a great fright on seeing this, saying that the friars would very probably be unable to collect the money, and earnestly urging that we would remain two or three days longer at anchor before setting fire to the town.

“We are not to be so caught, seignors,” answered the captain, laughing grimly. “If your friends bring the dollars, well and good; if not, we will make a bonfire which will light the two frigates you expect into the harbour.”

Away the boats pulled, one only being left alongside, in which the governor and his companions were ordered to seat themselves. We waited anxiously for some time, when wreaths of smoke were seen to ascend from various parts of the town, and the whole place was shortly in a blaze. The captain considered himself very humane, when he allowed his prisoners, after having been stripped of nearly every particle of clothing, to be put on shore on the nearest point. This he did to revenge himself for the loss of the expected dollars, which he knew, on seeing the town set on fire, had not been obtained.

Scarcely had the boats returned and been hoisted up, when two large ships were seen steering for the entrance of the harbour. Every stitch of canvas the Dolphin could carry was set. The strangers, on seeing her, made all sail in chase, and, from the way that they overhauled her, there appeared but little prospect of her escape.

Chapter Twelve.

Mr Newton.

The frigates continued to gain on the Dolphin. Captain Podgers was in a great state of agitation, dreading the punishment which the Spaniards would justly inflict on us for the injuries we had done them, especially when they found on board the articles we had carried away from the church. “If there was only one of them, I would fight her gladly, and, big as she is, we would beat her, too,” exclaimed the captain, as he paced the deck, eyeing the enemy through his spy-glass; and, to do him justice, he was a brave man and not a bad sailor, although he had few other good qualities.

Miss Kitty looked very pale, not from fear of herself, but she dreaded the danger to which those on deck would be exposed.

The wind increased and the sea got up: still we carried on, though our masts and spars bent and cracked. The sails were wetted—hammocks were slung, and men with shot got into them—indeed, every device was used to increase the speed of the ship. After a time, we appeared to be holding our own, if not drawing a little ahead of the enemy.

As evening approached, the wind dropped, and we could see the sails of the frigates hanging against the masts. Ours soon afterwards collapsed, and we lay perfectly becalmed. Some of the men forward expressed their opinion that the Spaniards would attack as with their boats.

“Little fear of that,” said Dick; “they know us too well to wish to come to close quarters. We should have a much better chance of taking them, if we were to try it. I don’t know if the captain will think of doing that.”

Darkness now came down upon us and shut out the enemy from sight. The captain might have expected an attack to be made on us by the frigates’ boats, for he ordered a bright look-out to be kept. Boarding-netting was triced up; the men wore their cutlasses at their sides and pistols in their belts, and pikes were placed ready for use.

Miss Kitty had come on deck, and, seeing me at a little distance, called me to her.

“If there is to be more of that dreadful work, you must come and stay with me, Charley, as before,” she said. “I cannot let you risk your young life; you must promise me now.”

I did so, though unwillingly.

“When will this fearful fighting end?” she said, sighing. “Though men seem to delight in it, I am sure that it is against all Divine laws, and brings misery and suffering to both parties.”

“I hope that we shall escape fighting this time,” I observed; “for Dick says that he is sure the Spaniards will not attack us. Perhaps before the morning we shall be able to get away from them.”

No one turned in that night, and the crew were kept at their quarters, to be ready for a sudden attack.

When the sun rose out of the ocean, his beams fell on the tails of our foes, throwing a ruddy glow on the calm waters, which shone like a plain of molten gold. Eager eyes were looking out for a breeze. Should it come from the direction of our foes, they would have every chance of catching us; but if ahead, we should have the advantage of them, and thus be able to slip out of their way.

Several hours passed by. We were still the same distance as before from the enemy.

I was on the forecastle with Dick, when I caught sight of a slight ripple which played over the surface. I pointed it out to my companion.

“All right, Charley,” he said. “Those catspaws are a good sign. There’s another and another.”

Presently the sails gave a flap. In a moment every one was in activity: the yards were braced sharp up, the royals filled, then the topgallantsails and topsails bulged out, and away we glided. Looking astern, we saw that the Spaniards still remained becalmed. The captain’s ruddy countenance beamed with satisfaction at the hopes of carrying off his booty in safety.

“We shall give the Dons the ‘good-bye,’” he shouted out to his wife below.

Kitty quickly came on deck, and I saw how thankful she felt.

Gradually our enemies’ sails sank beneath the horizon, and at length we had the satisfaction of losing sight of them altogether. Still the captain observed, that as they would guess the course we had taken, they might be after us; and until two days had passed by, he did not feel altogether secure.

We now steered back to the whaling-ground, where we remained for a couple of months, half filling the ship with oil.

After this we touched at two of the Society Islands. At one of them we saw, as we came to an anchor at some little distance from the beach, beneath a grove of cocoa-nut trees, a neat white cottage built in the English style, with two larger edifices near it, and Dick remarked that one of them looked very like a chapel. The numerous natives, who came off in their canoes, bringing fruits, and vegetables, and fish, were dressed in shirts and trousers, and all behaved in a quiet, orderly way. Two or three of those who came on board spoke English.

“Why, what has come over you people? You are very different sort of fellows to what you were a few years ago, when I was here,” observed the captain.

“We were then heathen savages; we are now Christian men,” was the answer. “There is our chapel, and there is our school-house; in yonder cottage lives our good pastor, the missionary, Mr Newton, and he will be very glad to receive any who like to visit him.”

“I have no fancy for those sort of fellows,” growled the captain; “they spoil trade, and prevent our men enjoying their freedom on shore.”

Kitty, however, on hearing the account given by the natives, expressed her wish to go and pay a visit to the missionary, and Mr Falconer offered to convey her on shore. The captain could not refuse his request for a boat, though he granted it with an ill grace. Dick was ordered to get one ready. Kitty desired to take me with her, and we were soon walking up a neat pathway towards the cottage.

How beautiful and quiet it looked—everything seemed smiling around.

A gentleman, whom we at once guessed was Mr Newton, appeared at the garden-gate, and cordially invited us into his house. Before entering, we were joined by his wife, a sweet-looking young woman. I thought that, next to Kitty, she was the most perfect being in the world: for almost since I could recollect, I had seen no other females, except the wild natives of the islands we had visited, besides Mrs Podgers. To her she certainly was a very great contrast.

On entering, Kitty was placed on a sofa by our hostess, who removed her bonnet and shawl, and spoke in the sweetest and kindest manner to her. To my surprise, Kitty suddenly burst out crying.

Mr Newton asked her what was the matter.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “how peaceful and happy all around appears! Oh, how I should like to remain here!”

Kitty then told her how she was situated. Mrs Newton replied that she should be very glad to receive her, and that she hoped she would assist in the work she was engaged in.

“Indeed, I would pray that I might be able to do so,” said Kitty.

Mr Falconer looked agitated—a struggle was going on in his heart.

“I have engaged to serve on board yonder ship—my duty forbids me to quit her,” he said, in a husky voice. “Yet you will be far, far better off here, and freer from danger, than on board.”

“We must not deceive you,” said Mr Newton. “Although the natives around us are Christians, there are still many savage heathens in the island, and many more in the neighbouring islands, and we are liable to be attacked by them. It is our duty to be here, but we are not altogether free from danger.”

“I should be thankful to leave Miss Kitty in a place of safety,” said Mr Falconer, “but that information alters the advice I might have given.”

“I will continue on board, and share the dangers the ship may have to go through,” exclaimed Kitty, suddenly. “I am, however, deeply grateful for the kind offer you, my friends, have made to me; and do not suppose that it is because I fear to run the risk you speak of, but,” and she looked up at Mr Falconer, “I have another reason, which I must ask you not to press me to name.”

I do not know whether the missionary and his wife suspected what that reason was, but they did not again urge Miss Kitty to stay with them.

She and I, however, spent the three days the ship remained in the harbour at the missionary’s house, and they were the happiest I could ever remember.

How rough and profane appeared my shipmates when I returned on board. Kitty, too, evidently felt the difference between the quiet abode she had left and the cabin of the Dolphin.

The Dolphin had been several months at sea, and during the time five or six more whales had been caught, when we touched at the Sandwich Islands, where we took on board ten natives, to assist in navigating her. We had also put into the Gallipagos, to refit. They are the most dreary group of islands I have ever visited, dark rocks rising up everywhere round their coasts, with wild black beaches, and huge tortoises, with legs resembling those of elephants, and serpent-like heads, and long lizard-like guanas crawling over them. As no water was to be procured there, we sailed northward till we came in sight of a beautiful island, with hills rising here and there into the blue sky, covered with the richest tropical vegetation.

Directly after, we brought up in a sheltered bay. A number of large canoes came off to us, filled with natives, the skins of the older chiefs almost black, from the elaborate tattoo marks with which they were covered. Those of the younger people were, however, of a light brown hue, the skins of some indeed being quite fair. The heads of the chiefs were decorated with crowns made of long feathers; they wore long loose cloaks of native cloth over their shoulders, and carried in their hands elaborately carved clubs.

The captain, through one of the Sandwich Islanders who could talk English, told them that his object in coming to this island was to get a supply of water, and to cut some spars to make yards for the ship. They replied in a friendly way that he was welcome to do as he wished, and that they would show him the trees likely to suit his purpose.

A number of them were parading the deck, examining everything they saw. When Kitty appeared, they gazed at her with astonishment, she being the first white woman they had probably ever seen. All the people appeared to be very friendly, and anxious to induce our men to go on shore in order to trade, but there being plenty of work on board, the captain would not allow this. At night the natives took their departure, promising to return the next day.

The following morning, several canoes came round the ship, and the captain proposed landing, to select the trees which he wished to have out down. Mr Falconer asked Miss Kitty whether she would like to go on shore. She answered that she did not like the appearance of the natives, and that, though they might profess to be very friendly, she did not trust them, but that she should be very glad to take a sail in the bay, and to make some sketches of the island from the water, and especially of some picturesque rocks which we had passed when entering. The mate gladly undertook to do as she wished, and ordered a boat, with four of the steadiest men in the ship, who were always ready to obey him, to be got ready.

As they expected to be away for some hours, he put some water and provisions into the boat. The steward, not knowing this, had filled a basket, which he also lowered down to the crew. Mr Falconer had intended that Dick should go, but the first mate had directed him to do some work, which kept him occupied, and had told me to attend on him. I knew that Miss Kitty would gladly have me with her, and felt disappointed when I saw the boat sail away down the harbour. The natives seemed to take little notice of the boat’s departure, probably they thought she had gone for a short distance only, and would soon return.

The captain, with the carpenter and his mates, and a boat’s crew, now went on shore. Dick and I were at work on the bowsprit, I sitting by him, holding the rope-yarn and grease-pot. As soon as the captain was gone, the natives began to invite our men on shore, and several of them, declaring that it was very hard that they should be kept on board, slipped into the canoes, and allowed the savages to carry them off. Others followed their example. The officers shouted to them to return, but their orders were not attended to. More canoes now came off, full of savages, who, as they got alongside, clambered on board, till the deck was crowded with them, so that the crew who remained at their duty could scarcely move about. The first mate, seeing this, ordered the natives back into their canoes. I had, while the mate was issuing his orders, turned my glance aft, when, at that moment, he cried out to Lieutenant Pyke, who was below, to get his men under arms, and then signed to the natives crowding the deck to return to their canoes. Thinking, apparently, to make the savages understand him better, he incautiously gave a shove to one of the chiefs who was standing near him. The savage, uttering a fearful cry, whirled round his heavy club and struck the poor mate dead on the deck. It was a signal to his followers. In an instant every club was upraised and aimed at the head of the nearest seaman.

Dick, hearing the savages shout, looked up from his work, and seeing what was taking place, laid hold of me by the collar and dragged me along to the jib-boom end, whence we witnessed the dreadful scene enacted on deck.

Chapter Thirteen.

In the Clutches of the Chief.

The crew of the Dolphin, though numerous and well accustomed to the use of arms, being thus taken unawares, were almost helpless. The sharp-edged war-clubs of the natives came crashing down upon their heads, as they ran here and there in search of weapons to defend themselves. Lieutenant Pyke was struck dead the instant he appeared at the companion-hatch. The second mate was treated in the same way, while the boatswain, with a few men who gathered round him, made a desperate attempt to defend himself; but he and his party were overpowered by numbers, and cut down, after they had killed several of the natives. Some of our men jumped down below, but were followed by the savages. Whether they were killed, or whether any escaped, we could not tell. A few ran up the rigging, where the natives appeared afraid to follow them.

In a few minutes, besides Dick and me, not a white man whom we could see, except those aloft, remained alive. The natives now began dancing frantically about the deck, whirling their clubs over their heads, and shouting at the top of their voices for joy of their victory. They either did not observe Dick and me, or knowing that we must at length come in, did not think us worth their notice. I felt almost overpowered with horror. In spite of that, however, I thought of dear Miss Kitty, dreading that she and Mr Falconer, with those in the boat, would, on their return, have to share the terrible fate of our other companions; while I fully expected Dick and I would soon be summoned off to be killed.

What had become of Mrs Podgers, and those who had been below at the moment of the attack, we could not tell.

“Oh, Dick, what are we to do?” I exclaimed, trembling with fear.

“We must trust to God, Charley,” he answered. “He will take care of us, though how that is to be, is more than I can say. I can only hope that the savages, fierce as they are, will not have the heart to kill a little boy like you; and it can matter little what becomes of an old fellow, such as I am. Say your prayers, Charley, though you cannot kneel down. That does not matter.”

The savages all this time continued dancing on the deck, as if they would beat it in, shouting at the top of their voices, and flourishing their war-clubs, looking more like a gang of demons let loose than human beings.

“It will be bad enough for us, Charley, even though the natives don’t kill and eat us, but my mind is most troubled about poor Miss Kitty. What will become of her, if they get hold of the boat? and there’s no chance that I can see of her escaping.”

“I was thinking of her, too,” I said, “and Mr Falconer. The savages will murder him and the boat’s crew, as they have the rest. Oh, Dick! I cannot stand it. I wish they would kill me at once!”

I felt, as I spoke, like the hapless bird fascinated by the glance of the serpent, and could scarcely restrain myself from clambering on board and rushing among the savages.

“Hold fast, Charley,” said Dick. “I wish I had not said what I did—you have got your best days before you. If the savages wanted to kill us, they would have done so before now. See, they are growing calmer, and are talking together; they, perhaps, will be satisfied with gaining possession of the ship, and all the plunder in her, and won’t kill those who make no resistance.”

Soon after Dick had said this, a tall chief with a high plume of feathers on his head, and his almost white skin only slightly tattooed, advanced to the heel of the bowsprit, and, looking towards Dick and me, shouted out some words, and beckoned us to come in.

“What shall we do, Dick?” I asked. “Will he kill me, do you think?”

“There’s no help for it, Charley,” answered Dick. “But don’t be afraid; he shall kill me before he hurts you. Just get round and keep close behind me, and I will ask him to take care of you; he does not look as savage as the rest.”

I followed Dick, though I confess my alarm was so great that I could scarcely hold on. As we got to the inner end of the bowsprit, I observed that the chief placed his bloodstained club against the bulwarks; he then lifted up both his hands, to show that they held no weapon. Dick, therefore, advanced more boldly, and getting on deck, still keeping me behind him, confronted the chief.

“I make bold to ask you to let this little chap go free, Mr Savage,” said Dick, pointing to me. “He has never done you no harm, and never will. It cannot do you any good if you kill him, and he is so thin, he would make but a poor meal, if you want to eat him.”

Although the chief could not have understood a word that Dick said, he seemed to comprehend his meaning, and, putting his hand on his head and mine, he signified that we were his property, and that he would take care of us. He even smiled when he looked at me, and seemed to inquire whether I was Dick’s son, so Dick fancied; for he replied, “He is all the same as my child, and if you hurt him, it will be the worse for you.” Our friend then called up two other men, who appeared to belong to him as a sort of bodyguard, and then charged them to take care of us, while he went aft and spoke to the other chiefs.

Meantime the natives had begun to hoist up the goods from the hold, and to load their canoes with them, our new friend being apparently engaged in securing his share of the booty. Dick and I were thus left on the forecastle, and could observe what was going on. We often turned our eyes towards the mouth of the harbour, dreading to see the boat return. And yet, what could become of her, with no friendly port near, should she not come back?

A considerable time having passed, the young chief’s canoe came round under the bows, and he made signs to us to lower ourselves into her. Just before I did so, I cast my eyes once more seaward, and there I caught sight of a boat’s sail. Mr Falconer and Kitty were returning, unsuspicious of the dreadful circumstances which had occurred. How I wished that I could go off and warn them.

We had scarcely thought about the captain and the rest of the men on shore. If they had escaped, we need not have much apprehension about ourselves; but if they had been put to death, we, I still dreaded, on reaching the shore might meet with the same fate.

“What can we do, Dick, to let Miss Kitty and the mate know their danger?” I asked. “If they come up the harbour, there will be no chance for them.”

“We can do nothing, Charley,” he answered. “They are in God’s hands, as we are, and we must trust to Him to take care of us all.”

The young chief now made another sign to Dick and me to get into the canoe, so we lowered ourselves down, and went up to where the chief was standing. His canoe, like many others around, was of considerable length, fully forty feet, though not more than a foot and a half wide, and of about the same depth. She was kept from upsetting by outriggers projecting from the bow, middle, and stern, with a long piece of light wood secured to the extremity of each. On the upper part of the stem, which projected about two feet, was a carved head of some animal; while the after part also projected six feet or more beyond the actual stern, something like the shape of a Dutch skate. The paddles were neatly made of a hard black wood, highly polished, with slender handles, and the blades of an oval form. I afterwards examined the canoe, and found that it was composed of many pieces of the bread-fruit tree, cut into planks and sewed together with the fibres of the outside shell of the cocoa-nut. The seams were covered inside and out with strips of bamboo sewed to the edge of each plank, to keep in a stuffing of cocoa-nut fibre. The keel consisted of one piece, which ran the whole length, and was hollowed out in the form of a canoe, being, indeed, the foundation of the vessel. Three pieces of thick plank, placed as partitions, divided the interior into four parts, and served for timbers to keep her from separating or closing together. She had also a mat sail, broad at the top, and narrowing to a point at the foot.

The chief told as to sit down, and directed his crew to paddle towards the shore. This they did, accompanied by several other canoes, which were apparently under his command.

We frequently turned our eyes towards the boat, but the wind was scant and light, and she made but little progress up the harbour. Probably Miss Kitty and the mate were in no hurry to return on board. The men who had escaped up the rigging were still there; but whether the captain’s wife and those who had fled below had survived the massacre we could not tell. The ship was still crowded with savages, who were busily employed carrying up what they could find below and had strength to remove. The oil-casks must, however, have been beyond their power to lift, though Dick observed that they would be sure to try and get hold of the iron hoops, and be rather astonished when the oil burst out over them.

Our captor directed his course towards a small inner bay, on the shores of which were several huts, where we concluded that he lived. Though some of his men cast savage glances at us, and looked as if they would like to knock out our brains, we were not ill-treated, nor was anything taken from us.

On landing, we were allowed to remain by ourselves while the crews of the canoes were busy in unloading them as fast as they could.

There was close at hand, forming one side of the little bay, a high rock, whence Dick thought that we could get a good sight of the whole harbour. We set off, and, unnoticed by the busy natives, made our way to the top of it. We were not disappointed in our expectations, and from it could see both the ship and the boat. The latter had made but little way, and, finding the wind against her, had lowered her sail and taken to the oars. More canoes were collecting alongside, and we concluded that the chief and his followers were going to return for a further supply of booty. We were allowed to remain on the rocks, the natives probably knowing that we could not make our escape.

The wind after a time freshened a little, and the boat was drawing nearer. As we were looking towards her, a loud report reached our ears, and, turning our eyes towards the ship, we saw the masts and deck rising upwards, surrounded by a dense smoke, and a thick mass of the shattered fragments of numberless articles, mingled with the boom-boats, companion-hatch, caboose, and human beings mangled and torn. For a few seconds they seemed to hang in the air, and then were scattered far and wide around the ship. The masts falling into the water, crushed several of the canoes alongside, and the shrieks and cries of the natives, who had escaped with life, while they paddled away in dismay, came over the waters towards us.

Dick and I held our breath, and I saw horror depicted in his countenance.

“Though the savages deserve what they have got, it may be the worse for us,” he muttered. “They will now knock us on the head, to a certainty.”

I made no reply, but I feared that what Dick said would prove true.

Flames now burst out from the ship, and several guns which were loaded went off, sending their shot flying among the natives, and creating still further dismay.

So absorbed were we for some minutes in watching the ship, that we had almost forgotten the boat. Again looking towards her, I saw that her sail was hoisted, and that she was running before the wind towards the harbour’s mouth.

“Mr Falconer guesses what has happened; I am sure of that,” said Dick, “and he would rather trust to carrying Miss Kitty off into the wide ocean than to the mercy of the savages, though I am afraid they will have a hard time of it, even if they get clear.”

“Oh, Dick!” I cried out, “see, there are some of the savages after them, and they may be overtaken.”

Such, indeed, was the case. Several canoes which at the time of the explosion had been at a distance from the ship, watching, apparently, the approaching boat, on seeing her standing seaward, began to paddle after her. Though they had no sails, they glided rapidly over the water, and there seemed but little probability that our friends would effect their escape.

Chapter Fourteen.

Motakee.

So absorbed were Dick and I in watching the boat with Miss Kitty on board and the savages pursuing them, that we did not think of ourselves or the fate which too probably awaited us. The savages paddled with might and main, resolved, it seemed, to revenge on our friends the destruction which had overtaken so many of their people. They were gaining rapidly on the boat, though her crew were pulling hard at the oars. I felt inclined to cry with agitation as I thought of what Miss Kitty would have to endure, when the boat’s sail filled out, and a freshening breeze carried her along faster than she had hitherto been moving. The wind still further increased. Away she shot ahead, distancing her pursuers. She gained the harbour’s mouth, and, steering out to sea, ran on till her white sail appeared a mere speck in the horizon; while the savages, disappointed of their prey, paddled back towards the shore.

Meantime the ill-fated Dolphin continued burning, and was now in flames fore and aft, the savages having been too much alarmed to make any attempt to extinguish the fire. The men who had been aloft had clung to the mast when it fell, though we could scarcely hope that they had escaped uninjured. We saw, however, that several of them were still hanging on to it, while it floated free of the burning ship. The natives, on discovering them, approached the mast, and dragged them into their canoes. What they intended to do with them we could not tell, but we feared that they would murder them, as we supposed they also would us.

The young chief who had taken possession of us had not reached the ship when she blew up, and we now saw him and his people landing in the little bay above which we were seated. We had made no attempt to conceal ourselves. He beckoned to us to come down.

“We must put a bold face on the matter,” said Dick, taking my hand. “Cheer up, Charley. I don’t think he intends to hurt you; and if he kills me, remember, do your best to escape, and don’t turn into a savage, as they are sure to try and make you, and cover you all over with tattoo marks.”

“Oh, they must not kill you, Dick; they sha’n’t kill you!” I cried out. “I will let them kill me first.”

I felt, indeed, that I would much rather be put to death than see my kind friend murdered before my eyes.

Dick, leading me by the hand, approached the chief, whose club I expected every moment to see upraised to strike us dead. Instead of doing so, however, looking at me kindly, he took me by the hand and made a speech to Dick, which we, of course, could not understand, but which, from its tone, relieved us somewhat from our apprehensions. I afterwards discovered that it was to the effect that he had promised to befriend us; and knowing that the destruction of the ship and the death of his people was not owing to as, that would not alter his purpose.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” said Dick, touching his hat sailor-fashion. “If you will treat this boy well, it’s all I care for. I speak him fair, Charley, for your sake,” he said to me, “and by the cut of his jib, I think he will be as good as his word.”

The chief, whose name we found was Motakee, or “The good-looking one,” now addressed his people, who had been casting somewhat threatening glances at us, and, I suspect, had we been left to their tender mercies, would very soon have knocked us on the head. Our new friend having appointed several of his people to guard us, told us to follow him along the shore. After going a short distance, we reached another much larger beach, on which a number of canoes were drawn up and a large concourse of people assembled. We looked about for the captain and our shipmates, who had at first landed. On going a little farther, what was our horror to see the greater number of them lying dead on the shore, with their heads so battered that we could scarcely recognise them. We knew the captain, however, by his figure and dress; we had, therefore, too much reason to suppose that we were the only survivors of the Dolphin’s crew, with the exception of those who had escaped in the boat and the men who had been saved on the mast. We saw the latter alive in some of the canoes still afloat. Whether the captain had been killed before the destruction of the ship, we could not at first ascertain, but I believe he and the rest were murdered after the accident.

The chief held a long consultation, while Dick and I stood at a little distance watching them, uncertain what was to be our fate.

“Cheer up, Charley,” said Dick. “I would fight for you as long as there’s life in me, if it would be of any use; but I don’t think, savages as they are, that they will have the heart to kill you; and as for me, as I said before, they may do as they like, though I wish I was sure they would not eat me afterwards.”

“Oh, Dick, Dick!” I cried out, “don’t think of anything so horrid! I will ask the young chief not to hurt you, and I will tell him he had better kill me first.”

Just then the consultation came to an end, and Motakee, coming up to us, made signs that we need not be afraid, and that he would protect us.

I afterwards found, when I came to know their language, that he had told the other chiefs that on seeing me he had been reminded of a little boy he had lost, and that he had saved Dick on my account, supposing that he was my father, or, at all events, my friend.

Six men, one of whom was a Sandwich Islander, named Tui, who had been saved on the mast, were now brought on shore. As we watched them, we fully believed that the savages would put them to death, as they had the other poor fellows. Tui, however, stepped forward and addressed the natives in a language which they appeared to comprehend. They again consulted together, the unhappy men standing apart, uncertain whether they might not at any moment find the clubs of the savages crashing through their brains. Trusting to Motakee’s protection, I felt inclined to rush forward and plead for them, but Dick held me back.

“You will do no good, Charley,” he said, “and one of those savages may in a moment give you a tap with his club, and kill you, as an idle boy does a fly.”

The five poor fellows stood collected together, looking pale as death, but they were as brave as any of the men on board. Among them I recognised Tom Clode, the armourer, and Mat Davis, the carpenter’s mate.

The discussion seemed to last a very long time. Tui was listened to attentively, as he every now and then put in a word. At length five of the principal chiefs rose from their mats, and, stepping forward, each put his hand on one of the men. At first I thought they were going to kill them, as they led them away; but Tui, coming up, told us that they were only going to be taken as slaves. Another old chief now advanced and put his hand on Dick’s shoulder.

“He going take you for slave,” said Tui.

“I have no wish to be idle, but I would rather have chosen a master with a better-looking mug of his own,” observed Dick. “I hope the old gentleman lives not far from your friend, Charley; for I can’t stand being separated from you.”

I burst into tears as Dick said this, when Motakee, coming up, tried, in a gentle way, to soothe me.

“He is a good young fellow, that he is,” cried Dick; “and as you are likely to be well off with him, it’s little odds what happens to me.”

Motakee, finding that my tears continued to flow, endeavoured to persuade the old chief, Toobo Cava, to allow Dick to continue with him. This, however, he refused, and replied that he might rather allow me to accompany Dick. Tui told us what was said.

“I would like to have you, Charley,” said Dick, “but you will be much better off with Motakee, and, indeed, I doubt if he would let you come, however much you may wish it.”

Dick was right; for after another long palaver, Motakee took me by the hand, while old Toobo Cava led off Dick.

“Keep up your spirits, Charley, and don’t forget the lessons I have taught you; say your prayers, and be a good boy,” cried Dick, looking back towards me. “We will manage to see each other, or these talking fellows are cleverer than I take them to be.”

Motakee, accompanied by his people, conducted me back to the bay where we had landed, and thence to his house, which was situated in a valley but a short distance from the shore. It stood on a platform of large stones, nearly twelve feet above the ground, and was fully thirty feet in length, though considerably narrower. The back of the house was fourteen feet in height, the roof sloping down towards the front, which was scarcely more than five feet high, but the walls were of a uniform height all round, thus the farther part of the house between them and the roof was entirely open. The front part, into which we first entered by a very small door, had a floor composed of the rough stones of the platform, but the inner part, separated from it by a partition, was covered with fine mats. At one end was the bed-place, which consisted of two horizontal poles, about a foot from the ground, with matting stretched between them. On this the chief and his family reclined, resting their heads on one of the poles, which served as a pillow, while their feet extended towards the other. Around the walls, which were also composed of matting, were hung numerous weapons, spears, clubs, axes, slings, and stilts, on which I found that the people were very fond of walking.

These stilts are elaborately carved poles, with carved figures towards the lower end, on the heads of which the feet rest. The chief took down a pair, and, to amuse me, mounted on them, and ran over the ground with great rapidity, now standing on one leg, now on the other, and twirling round and performing all sorts of extraordinary feats. He having set the example, others followed it, till nearly all the men and the boys in the village turned out on stilts, and began chasing each other over the rough ground, as much at home as if they were treading it with their feet, instead of being mounted high above it.

The sports being over, Motakee led me to the farther end of the village, where there was a sort of temple. In front of the temple were a number of little buildings a couple of feet high, on each of which stood a carved figure, surrounded with shells, and feathers, and whales’ teeth. He and his people sat down before them, and bowed, and uttered certain words, and then bowed again, leading me to suppose that they were performing some religious ceremony.

Having finished his prayers, if such all this bowing and muttering words could be intended for, the chief conducted me back to his house. Here he introduced me to his wife, pretty-looking young woman, of a bright brown colour, clothed in somewhat scanty garments, composed of cloth, manufactured from the paper-mulberry tree. She received me very kindly, and we sat down to a supper consisting of fish, and various roots, and other vegetables and fruits.

I had till now been under the dreadful impression that the people were cannibals; but there was nothing in the repast set before me which made me unwilling to partake of it. On the contrary, as I was very hungry, I set to with a will, and the people standing round seemed pleased at seeing me eat with so good an appetite.

Several days passed by; the chief and his wife seemed to consider that I had taken the place of their lost child, and treated me as such with much kindness. I had, however, neither seen nor heard anything of Dick, and I gave Motakee to understand that I wished to go out and look for him, to which he, by signs, replied that it would be dangerous for me to wander about by myself, as the people of other tribes might kill me, and that I must remain quietly where I was.

I remembered Dick’s plan of keeping time when we were in our solitary island, and I cut a stick, on which I marked the days of the week. I did not forget either his parting advice to me, and every night and morning I knelt down and said my prayers. The natives understood what I was about, and never interrupted me, and treated me with more respect than even some of the men did on board the Dolphin.

At the end of a couple of months I saw that something unusual was taking place in the village. The men were polishing up their arms, and the women were engaged in making baskets and cooking provisions. This led me to suppose that an expedition of some sort was about to take place.

Motakee called me to him one day, and told me by signs that he was going away, and that he would place me under charge of some one who would take good care of me during his absence. I told him that I should be very sorry to be parted from him, and asked him to let me go, hoping that by some means I might hear of Dick. He shook his head, and told me that as danger would have to be encountered, I was too young as yet, but that when I grew older, he would teach me the use of the native weapons, and allow me to accompany him to war. He then led me to another house, somewhat smaller than his own, in which the principal inmate was an old woman. Though Moola—that was her name—was very old and dry and withered, from the expression of her countenance and the way in which he treated her, I was led to suppose that she was Motakee’s mother. Such, indeed, was the case. She spoke kindly to me, and I had no reason to fear that I should be ill-treated.

After this Motakee led out his people, all armed with clubs, and hatchets, and spears; the heads of the principal men being decorated with plumes of feathers, but, with the exception of cloths round their waists, entirely destitute of clothing. From this I knew that they were about to proceed on some warlike expedition, and, though they felt confident of success, I could not help remembering that they might be defeated; and should they be so, what would become of me? Again I asked the chief if he could give me any information about Dick? My heart sank within me; for, from the reply he made, he led me to suppose that some accident had happened to my faithful friend.

Chapter Fifteen.

Moola.

Old Moola kept a watchful eye on me, as if she divined my intention of trying to make my escape to go in search of Dick on the first opportunity which might occur.

I concluded that if the warriors were away he would be less carefully looked after than usual, and would try to find me; for I was very sure that he was as anxious about me as I was about him.

There were a good many other boys in the village, and I used to play with them, and did my best to excel them in all their sports. I found, after some practice, that I could walk on stilts as well as they could. I induced them to run races, and I very frequently came off the victor. They had an advantage, from being more lightly clad than I was, that is to say, while I wore my shirt and trousers, they had no clothing whatever.

The women, meantime, were employed in their usual domestic occupations, in making cloth by beating out the bark of the paper-mulberry tree, and manufacturing mats and baskets. I afterwards observed that they were always employed in such occupations, while the men, when at home, cultivated the fields, and caught fish with nets and fish-hooks, the latter formed of mother-of-pearl, as also with bone, and wooden harpoons. Besides the articles I have mentioned, they make calabashes from gourds, and kava-cups formed of the cocoa-nut, as also cradles for their children, hollowed out of a log with great neatness. They also use small chests, which are in like manner hollowed out of solid pieces of wood, with covers to them, and wooden bowls and stands, on which various objects are hung out of the way of the rats. Those animals are great pests, and to preserve their more valuable articles, the natives suspend them in baskets from the roofs of their houses, by lines passing through the bottoms of inverted calabashes, so that, should the creatures reach the polished surface of the calabashes, they slip off on to the ground, without being able to climb beneath them.

Moola’s house was furnished with all the articles I have mentioned, supplied to her by the people of her tribe, who looked up to her with great respect. As I was under her charge, and was moreover regarded in the light of a chief’s son, no one interfered with me, or questioned what I thought fit to do. This was a great advantage, and I hoped would enable me to carry out my plan. Besides my amusements on shore, I soon learned to swim and to paddle a canoe, and other boys and I used frequently to go out in the bay. It occurred to me that, by gradually extending our excursions, I might be able to get along the shore to some distance, and there land and make my way into the interior. To do this, however, I found that I should require two or more companions, and they might not be disposed to assist me. I became expert in fishing with the line and hooks and in spearing fish, but I could not manage to dive in the way the natives did. Some of them, with a hoop-net in one hand, and a stick in the other, would dart down into the deep water among the coral, and with the stick drive the fish hidden among its recesses into the net. This operation was not unattended with danger. Sharks were constantly prowling about, to snap up a person unprepared for their attacks; and one day, a young man who, according to custom, wore his hair loose, was caught by it among the coral, and, unable to extricate himself, was drowned before his companions could go to his assistance. When the sea rolled in a heavy surf on the shore, it was common amusement for boys, and even for girls, to paddle out on little rafts, mounting to the top of the surf, and if the raft was upset, which frequently happened, they would dive under the sea, and come up again on the other side.

Besides these amusements, in which I took a part, I tried to learn some of the arts practised by the natives. I never found the time hang heavily on my hands, still I was continually thinking how I could manage to find Dick. After considering the matter, I abandoned the idea of making the attempt by water, and resolved to try and escape by land. Fearing that the warriors would return, I determined to put it into execution without delay. I had secreted as much food in the pockets of my jacket as they could hold, and, late in the day, I challenged my companions to a race on stilts across the country, pointing to a rock which projected from the hillside at some distance. They laughed at me when they saw me dressed in my jacket, declaring that I should have no chance, and willingly agreed to give me a short start, believing that, encumbered as I was, they could easily come up with me. Old Moola, not suspecting my intentions, came out from her hut, and promised to reward the victor. We took our places, and away we started. I exerted myself to the utmost to keep ahead of my competitors, and found, as I had hoped, that I was at first gaining on them rapidly, although they in the end, I have no doubt, would have overtaken me. As soon as I felt sure that I was well out of sight, hidden by a ridge over which I had passed, I turned off to the right, and ran on along the valley, where the even ground allowed me to continue at a good speed. I then, turning into a wood, jumped off my stilts, and, having concealed them among the hushes, continued my flight on foot. I went on and on, avoiding cultivated land or any huts where I might meet with inhabitants, till the increasing darkness compelled me to stop. I had no dread of wild beasts or venomous snakes, as I knew the island was free from them. I could therefore lie down on the dry grass, and recover my strength without fear; and I hoped that the other boys would make their way to the goal, and not think of looking for me till the darkness prevented them from doing so.

I slept soundly, and soon after I awoke the first streaks of dawn appeared in the sky. Having taken a little food, and drank some water from a rivulet which flowed by, I proceeded onwards, intending to lie in wait near the first village I should come to, in the hopes that one or other of the captive Englishmen might be there, and might give me information about Dick, should he himself not appear.

I went on for some way, keeping myself concealed as much as possible among the trees, till I saw several native huts before me, just on the borders of a wood. Making my way through the wood, I discovered a tree which I could climb. I managed, not without difficulty, to get up it, and, when near the top, concealed by the leafy boughs, I could survey all that went on in the village below me. The people at length began to come out of their huts, but I saw only women, or old men and boys, showing that the fighting part of the population had not returned. In vain I watched for Dick, or one of the other white men. Disappointed at not seeing them, I descended from my perch, afraid that some of the people might come into the wood and discover me. Hurrying on, I had got to no great distance, when I heard voices from among the trees behind me, showing that, had I not escaped when I did, I should have been found out.

I could by this time speak the native language quite well enough to make myself understood, and I resolved, should I meet any one, to go up and speak with confidence, as if I had full right to be at liberty.

In a short time I reached another village. Here I watched as before, but though several natives were moving about, none of my shipmates were to be seen, and the dreadful idea occurred to me that they had all been murdered. My heart sank, still I determined to continue my search.

The direct path from village to village was very much shorter than the road I was compelled to take, as I had to make wide circuits to avoid observation. I was now at a considerable distance from Motakee’s village, and I hoped, even should I be seen by any of the natives, there was not much risk of being sent back. This made me less cautious than before. Feeling thirsty, I had gone to a bright spring which gushed out of a rock, to drink, when, on looking up, I saw a young girl with several gourds, which she had brought to fill with water. She cast an astonished glance at me, and inquired where I had come from. I told her at once that I knew from her looks she was kind, and could only wish to do me good; that I had belonged to the ship which had been taken by her people, and that I was in search of my guardian. “I have not mistaken you,” I added; “you will help me, if you can?”

She looked pleased, and replied that she could feel for me, away from my country and friends, and that she certainly would not betray me. She added that she had heard that there was an Englishman living in the next village, kept a prisoner by an old chief who ruled there, who was very stern and cruel, and made him work very hard, and that he had become very ill.

“The chief himself has gone away to fight, and you will have less difficulty in seeing your countryman than would have been the case had he been at home.”

I thanked the young girl very much for her information, and she having pointed out the road I was to take, I proceeded on my journey. I went on till I came to the village. I could easily distinguish the chief’s house, which was considerably larger than that of the other natives. Some short distance from it was a small hut. It was built in a different fashion to that of the natives, and not so neatly put together. On one side was a garden, apparently lately formed, and carefully cultivated. It struck me at once that it must be the work of an Englishman. I concealed myself, as before, so that I could watch the proceedings of the inhabitants. After a time, I saw a woman, with a basket in her hand, approach the hut: she looked cautiously round, to ascertain, apparently, that no one was watching her, and then went in. She was old, and far from comely, but, even at the distance she was from me, her countenance looked kind and gentle. She soon came out again, looking about as before, and hurrying away. I observed that her basket was empty. This convinced me that she had been to take provisions to the inmate of the hut, whoever he might be. I determined to ascertain this.

“May I come in,” I asked, in the native language.

“Who’s there?” was the reply, in English.

I knew the voice; it was Dick’s.

He lay on a bed formed of dry grass and mats; I hurried up to him.

“I have found you at last, my dear, dear Dick!” I exclaimed.

“Charley, is it you, yourself? Then you are not dead,” he cried out. “I was told you were, and it well-nigh broke my heart. I shall get well now though. Where have you been? what have you been about?”

I soon told him, and how I had managed to elude my captors. He expressed his delight that I had not been ill-treated, as he had been.

“That old chief is a regular tyrant; he made me work for him till I could work no longer, and then would have let me die of starvation, if a good woman had not, at the risk of her life, brought me food. Bless them! they are all alike, black and white, when a fellow is in trouble, however bad they may be in other respects. Things were not so bad at first. Tui, who lives not far off, came over with Mat Davis, and helped me to put up this hut; or otherwise, as far as my old master was concerned, I should have had to sleep out of doors. He, however, would not let them come again, and I have had to look out for myself. The only pleasant thing that has happened to me was seeing Toobo Cava go off to the war, but he will be back again soon, I fear, and then the hard work will begin once more. But you must not stay here, Charley; I don’t know what he would do if he caught you, though it will be a sore grief to me to have you separated from me.”

I told Dick that I was determined at all hazards to stay with him.

“We will argue the point, Charley,” said Dick.

He at last allowed me to remain till the following day. He had been so well supplied with food, that he was able to give me as much as I required. I spent half the night sitting up talking to him, and had the satisfaction of seeing that my visit was doing him good, his complaint being more the result of anxiety and ill-treatment than anything else.

“I scarcely know what to advise you to do, Charley,” he said. “If you are caught here, you may be hardly dealt with, and yet I don’t like to tell you to leave me; though, as you say the people you have been living with have treated you well, it will be best for you to make your way back to them.”

“Come what will, I am not going to run away and leave you while you are sick and helpless,” I answered. “God will take care of me if I ask Him; you have often told me that, and so I will say my prayers and go to sleep.”

I did so, and coiled myself away on a heap of grass by Dick’s side.

The next morning we were awoken by hearing a great noise in the village. We found that we had both overslept ourselves. Dick went to the door of the hut, to ascertain the cause of the hubbub, telling me to keep concealed under the mats. After some time he came back.

“I guessed how it is,” he said; “the fighting men have returned from the war, but, as far as I can discover, the old chief is not among them. He has, I suspect, been knocked on the head, and serve him right too. They are mourning for him, it seems, and it will be as well to keep out of their way, lest they take it into their heads to sacrifice us to his ghost, as I know is the fashion among these savages.”

Dick spoke quite coolly, but our danger was great. He again told me to keep snug under the mats, and I saw him walking up and down the hut, evidently very unhappy. “I don’t care for myself,” I heard him say. “Poor dear Charley, I wish that he was out of the scrape. Well, well; we have been saved before, and we may be saved again. It’s a great thing to know that God looks after us poor fellows better than we can look after ourselves.” While he was speaking, the noise increased. Never did I hear such savage shrieks, cries, and howls.

“The people are cutting themselves with knives, and flints, and spear-heads, to show their grief for their dead chief,” observed Dick, after he had taken another look outside the hut. He sat down, and seemed considering what he should do. After some time, I heard a footstep approaching the hut, and the old woman I had before seen entered.

She looked very anxious, and told Dick he must get out of the way, and hide himself for some days, when he would be safe. Dick thanked her warmly.

“You have been kind to me, and you will be kind, I know, to my son; and if you will hide us away together I shall be happy.”

Dick then told me to come forward. The old woman looked very much surprised at seeing me, and on hearing that I had been taken care of by Motakee, advised me to go back at once to him, and to take Dick along with me. There was no time to be lost. Having ascertained that the coast was clear, she told us to hurry off into the wood, and to make our way as fast as we could to Motakee’s village, promising, if she could, to put her people on a wrong scent, should they think of pursuing us.

We did as she had advised. We had not, however, got far into the wood, when, as we were making our way along the hillside, as I looked back through an opening in the trees, I saw a number of people advancing towards the hut, shrieking, and shouting, and flourishing their weapons. There could be little doubt that their intention was to get hold of Dick. We hurried on, and did not stop till we were far away beyond the sound of their voices.

Chapter Sixteen.

Dick and Charley Reunited.

The natives in the villages were so busy celebrating their victory, or mourning for their slain warriors, that Dick and I escaped observation and reached the spot where I had left my stilts.

“Now, Dick,” said I, mounting on them, “come along; you shall hide near the village, and I will go boldly into it, as if I had been taking only a longer walk than usual. Then, as Motakee will be glad to see me back, I will tell him that the other old chief, Toobo Cava, is dead, and you ought to be set at liberty, and ask him to protect you. If he says he cannot, you must make your escape, and I’ll follow; but if he says yes, we will live together happily till we can get away from this savage country.”

Dick agreed to my plan. As we got near the village, I left him, hid away in the wood, and stalked forward on my stilts.

I saw Motakee haranguing the people, and recounting his exploits, so I at once advanced and saluted him, as if I had no reason to be ashamed of anything I had done. He did not look angry, but told me he was happy to see me. The boys shouted, and asked where I had been.

“I told you I should beat you,” I answered; “and I took a somewhat longer run than any of you, I’ve a notion. When shall you be ready for another race?”

“We will beat you next time, though,” they cried out, not putting any further inconvenient questions to me.

My appearance had somewhat disturbed the usual formality of the meeting, and the chief, having commanded silence, went on with his speech.

As soon as it was over, I descended from my stilts, and begged him to grant the petition I had to make. I praised Dick as he had deserved, and told the chief all he had done for me; and, to my great joy, he replied that he would protect him, as, his owner being dead, no one else could claim his services.

On this I hurried off and brought in Dick, who was well received by the people. I afterwards told the chief the trick I had played, at which he was very much amused.

Dick at once set to work to make himself useful, and soon gained Motakee’s confidence, so that he allowed us both to roam about as we chose.

The victory gained by our friends over the Typees, the tribe they had attacked, had put them in excellent humour. They had burned down their villages, destroyed their fruit trees, and carried off their canoes. The slaughter had been, we were sorry to hear, considerable on both sides; for the Typees possessed several strong forts, formed of large stones and huge pieces of timber. These had been taken by assault, when all within had been put to the sword. Dick said he was surprised that savages could construct such strong works, for it would have proved a tough job, even to English sailors, to take some of those he had seen.

Months and months passed by, and yet no vessel had come near the island, in which we might make our escape. The people had got, we suspected, a bad name; for the Dolphin was not the only vessel, we found, they had cut off, while they had attempted unsuccessfully to capture several others. Our only hope was that a man-of-war would come in, which might carry us off by force, should the natives refuse to give us up.

The chief, who had adopted me as his son, seemed determined not to let me go, and I found that I was narrowly watched wherever I wandered.

Dick managed, at length, to communicate with some of the other men; though one or two were content to remain among the natives, having married and adopted their customs: the rest expressed an earnest wish to escape.

A tremendous storm having occurred, when it seemed as if the whole island would be carried away by the fury of the waves, the wreck of the Dolphin was cast up on the beach.

Dick told me that Mat Davis had long been thinking of building a vessel, and that the carpenter’s tools having been among the first things landed, he hoped, if he could get hold of them, to be able to build a craft which would convey us to the coast of South America. He had persuaded the chiefs, that if they could have such a vessel as he described, they might not only overpower all the neighbouring tribes, but sail in quest of foreign lands, which they might conquer. The chiefs listened eagerly to this proposal, and promised to assist him in carrying out his undertaking.

Mat Davis, who was a clever fellow, was the chief architect. Assisted by the armourer, a forge was put up for the ironwork, and he set the natives to cut down trees and hew out timbers and planks. Others were employed in rope-making and in manufacturing fine matting for the sails, as all the Dolphin’s canvas had been burnt. Dick and I were allowed to lend a hand, but as, with the exception of Davis and Clode, all were unskilled, the work proceeded but slowly. The hopes of escaping encouraged the Englishmen, and the thoughts of the victories they were to win induced the natives to labour on.

Dick had followed his own plan of notching the days on sticks, several of which he had tied up in a bundle. By his calculation we had been two years among the savages, and I could now speak their language perfectly well. Our clothes were worn out, and I had to dress like the natives. The chief told me, when I grew older, that I must be tattooed, an operation for which I had no fancy, and I hoped to make my escape before he should insist on my undergoing it.

The vessel was at last built, and ready to be launched. She was a schooner of about forty tons, and capable of carrying sixty or eighty men. The natives declared that none of their island canoes would be able to contend with her. It took some time to rig her, and to obtain suitable provisions and casks for holding water.

I don’t know whether Motakee suspected the design of the Englishmen; but when I spoke of taking a cruise in her, he replied that he would not expose me to the dangers she might encounter, and I found that I was more narrowly watched than ever.

Dick came back one day, looking very much out of spirits.

“The other men have formed a plan for escaping, but I cannot agree to it,” he said. “They intend to let as many natives as choose to come on board, and, as soon as they are out of sight of land, to rise upon them and heave them overboard, so that their provisions and water should not be exhausted, should they have to make a long voyage. And another thing is, Charley, I won’t go without you.”

Motakee had not entered into the views of his countrymen with regard to the vessel the Englishmen were building: he either suspected their design or believed that she would not prove as successful in attacking their foes as the rest supposed. When I asked his leave to go on board, he took me by the arm and whispered—

“I know your tricks; you should not have told me how you managed to get away and join your friend. No, no; I shall shut you up till the vessel has sailed.”

He was as good as his word, and from that day I was not allowed to leave the hut without the company of one of his most trusted followers. He allowed Dick, however, to go about as he chose, apparently caring but little whether or not he made his escape.

Dick had been absent for three days. I could not believe that he had gone without me, and yet I felt very anxious about him. On the fourth day he returned.

“They have gone, Charley,” he exclaimed; “all our people and thirty natives. I stopped to the last, trying to persuade them to give up their wicked plan; but they answered that the natives had murdered our friends and burned our ship, and that they had a right to treat them as they chose. I said that I was sure we ought not to return evil for evil, and that they might have found some other way of making their escape, and that no good could possibly come of what they were about. They abused me, and asked me if I was going to betray them, and that if I would not come with them, I must take the consequences, as the natives were sure to murder us, as soon as they discovered what had become of their countrymen. Even now I think I was wrong in not warning Motakee, for I consented to evil, though I would not join in it.”

When Motakee found that the schooner had sailed, he allowed me to go about as usual, and treated Dick with far more respect than before. Dick, indeed, soon became his right-hand man, or councillor, and the people looked up to him as the person next to the chief, in consequence.

Some days after this it came on to blow very hard, and the sea beat with tremendous fury on the rocky coast. Dick and I wished to have a sight of the huge breakers outside the harbour. We went along the shore for some distance, to a part exposed to the whole sweep of the ocean. As we were looking along it, Dick exclaimed that he saw a vessel on the rocks. We made our way as near as we could get to the spot.

“Charley, I am afraid that is the schooner,” Dick exclaimed; “but there is not a living being on board.”

We crept on still closer to the little vessel. We shouted loudly, lest any one might have been washed on shore, but no reply came to our cries.

“I am afraid every one has been washed away,” he observed. “If the natives had been on board, they are such first-rate swimmers that some of them would have managed to reach the land.”

We looked about in every direction, but could discover no boats on the beach nor any sign of a living man.

“It’s too likely that our people did as they intended, and having got rid of the natives, were themselves caught in the hurricane and driven back here; but we shall never know, I suspect, what has happened.”

After spending a considerable time in searching about, being unable to get nearer the wreck, we returned home. We told Motakee what we had seen; but, of course, did not mention our suspicions.

“I knew that the voyage would work us no good, to your people or mine,” he observed; “and I am very glad you did not sail in the vessel.”

We were, indeed, thankful that we had not.

Next day, when the hurricane was over, we went back with some of the natives to examine the wreck; but, on getting on board, we could find nothing to explain the mystery. Dick’s opinion was that the crew had been on deck, and were washed overboard before the vessel struck, some time after they had disposed of the unfortunate natives in the way they had proposed.

I have not spoken of the various events which had taken place since we came to the island. Several times Motakee had gone out to fight his enemies, and had invariably returned victorious.

At length another expedition was talked of against a powerful tribe at some distance. He told Dick he must prepare to accompany him. I begged that I might go, too.

“No, Charley; you must stay at home,” answered Dick. “I have no wish to go and fight other savages in a quarrel in which I have no concern, and I would not go if I could stay away without offending the chief. I don’t want to kill any of the fellows, and I don’t wish to be killed either.”

The warriors were preparing to take their departure, when, early in the morning, as I was looking out over the sea, I caught sight of a ship approaching the island. I watched her eagerly, and when, at length, I felt sure she was standing towards the harbour, I ran back to tell Dick. The natives had been so busy in preparing their weapons, that they had not observed her. Fortunately, no one saw me.

“Now is our chance, then,” exclaimed Dick. “Come along, Charley: we will jump into a canoe, and maybe we shall get away from the shore before the savages miss us.”

Without a moment’s delay we hurried down to the beach, taking some paddles out of a canoe-hut on our way. We launched a canoe, which we found hauled up on the shore, and paddled with might and main out to sea. The water was smooth, and, though the wind was against us, we made good progress. The ship came on. We were alongside. Ropes were hove-to us, and, making the canoe fast, we scrambled up on deck.

Chapter Seventeen.

Escape from the Island.

“Some savages come on board, sir,” I heard the mate sing out to the captain, a fine-looking man, who was standing near the wheel; “an old and a young one.”

“No, please you, sir,” said Dick, stepping aft. “We are not savages, but unfortunate Englishmen. We have had a hard job to make our escape from the savages, though, and if you will take my advice, sir, you will not go into that harbour; for if you do, you will run a chance of being treated as our ship was.”

“How is that, my man?” asked the captain; and Dick thereupon told him the way in which the Dolphin had been cut off, and how all had been kept prisoners for upwards of two years by the natives.

“I thank you for the warning, my friend,” said the captain, “and we will be on our guard against treachery. I think, however, that if we show that we are well armed and on the watch, we need not fear them. We are in want of water, wood, and vegetables, and by letting the natives understand that we will pay fairly for them, we shall, I hope, obtain what we require.”

“As to that, sir, Charley Laurel and I can talk well enough to them; and we will take good care to tell them that they must play no tricks.”

“You may be of much service to me, then,” said the captain, “and I shall be glad to carry you and Charley Laurel, as you call him, to any place we touch at where you may wish to land.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Dick; “but we can both work our passage, and though it is better than two years since I was afloat, I don’t think I am less handy than before.”

The ship, which we found to be the Phoebe, Captain Renton, having brought up in the bay, a number of canoes came off to her. The captain told me and Dick to say to them that he could allow no one on board. The natives looked much surprised at seeing us on the deck, and they of course guessing that we had told the captain what had happened to the Dolphin, some of them paddled back again in a great fright, supposing that he had come to punish them for what they had done. By the captain’s directions we told them not to be alarmed; that he wished to be friends with them; and that if they behaved well, they would be treated as friends.

In a short time Motakee came off. When we told Captain Renton who he was, he was invited on deck. He seemed greatly concerned at the thought of losing me, and asked me reproachfully how, after being treated as a son, I could think of deserting him. I assured him that I was very grateful for all his kindness, but that I wished to go back to live among people of my own colour and habits, and that otherwise I would gladly have remained with him. He soon made himself at home on board, and when invited into the cabin behaved with great propriety, and told me to express to the captain his regret for the massacre of the Dolphin’s crew.

He put off his expedition on account of the arrival of the Phoebe, and while she remained in harbour he was constantly on board, and used every exertion to obtain what the captain wanted.

I at last parted from him with real regret, though Dick would not let me venture on shore, lest he might show his affection for me by keeping me a prisoner.

Captain Renton was a very different sort of person to poor Captain Podgers. We had prayers every evening in his cabin, and he would allow none of the officers to use abusive language towards the men, while he maintained strict discipline on board.

He proposed cruising for some time for whales in those latitudes, and then sailing south, to touch at one of the Society Islands.

The day after we sailed, the captain called me into his cabin.

“I have heard your history, my lad, from your friend, Dick Driver, and I find that you have had no advantages of education, while I am afraid that you are very ignorant of gospel truth, without which all education is of no avail in God’s sight.”

“As I have not seen a book since I was on board the Dolphin, I suspect that I should prove a bad hand at reading, sir,” I answered: “but I have not forgotten what Miss Kitty told me about the love of Jesus to sinful man; how He willingly offered Himself up to be punished instead of us, that all who believe on Him may be free, and be able to go to God as children go to an affectionate father, and ask Him for all they want; and that when we die we may be sure that we shall be taken to live with Him in great joy and happiness for ever and ever.”

“Ah, my dear boy,” exclaimed the captain, his eye brightening with pleasure, “you already know then the most important truths I can tell you. And do you indeed believe that Jesus died for you, and is your Saviour, and loves you, and watches over you, and sends His Holy Spirit to help you to love Him, and serve Him, and to keep you out of temptation?”

“Yes, indeed I do, sir,” I answered. “I pray to God through Him every night and morning, and I believe that He has preserved me from the many dangers I have gone through.”

Though I have not mentioned it, I had often talked with Dick of all Miss Kitty had taught me, and the knowledge of God’s love more than anything else had supported us; and I am very sure that Dick felt as I did, though he might not have been able to explain himself so clearly. I had made great progress indeed under Miss Kitty’s instruction; thus, although for some time I at first found it difficult to read the New Testament, which the captain put into my hands, I gradually regained the knowledge I had lost.

The kind captain, after the conversation I have mentioned, invited me into the cabin every day, and took great pains in instructing me in reading and writing. Until I could do so myself, he read a portion of God’s Word, which he explained to me in a very simple and clear manner. I did my utmost to learn, as I was now of an age to be ashamed of my ignorance, especially when I found that the two ship’s boys read and wrote far better than I did. Every moment that I was off duty I was at my studies, and when Dick found what progress I made, he declared his intention of setting to work to learn to read himself. I did my best to help him, and the captain kindly lent him some books that he might instruct himself. In about four months I could read with perfect ease and write very fairly, besides having gained some knowledge of arithmetic and geography. As to history, I found I had a very confused knowledge, and jumbled events together in a curious way.

I had not forgotten dear Miss Kitty, and I often talked about her, and wondered whether she and the mate had made their escape. Dick always said that he thought they had, as Mr Falconer was a good navigator, and that they were very likely to have fallen in with some whaler, as he was sure to have steered his course over the ground most frequented by them.

At length, after sailing for some time south, and passing several islands, we sighted one at which the captain said he intended to touch, as the natives were Christians, and they could supply all his wants on equitable terms, without the risk of treachery, which he must run at the heathen islands. As we drew near I recognised the scenery, and on asking Dick, he told me it was the very island at which the Dolphin had touched when Miss Kitty and Mr Falconer had gone on shore to the house of the missionary.

As soon as the anchor was down, the captain ordered a boat to be lowered, and told me that I might accompany him.

Mr Newton, the missionary, who knew Captain Renton, came down to the landing-place to welcome him, and conduct him up to his house. I followed, but as he did not recognise me, I felt unwilling to address him. They entered the house together.

“Come in, my lad,” said Mr Newton, seeing me standing outside. “You are heartily welcome.”

I followed the captain into the sitting-room, where I saw two ladies. One, whom I guessed was Mrs Newton, came forward to greet him as an old acquaintance; the other rose, and as she did so and turned her face towards me, my heart leaped with joy, for there I saw Miss Kitty, looking as bright and blooming as ever.

“Miss Kitty!” I exclaimed; “is it you? is it you?”

The first moment she did not know me, for I was greatly changed. She took both my hands, and looking into my face, she said—

“Charley, Charley Laurel, are you indeed alive and well? I had greatly feared that you were lost. And has honest Dick too escaped?”

She made me sit down by her side, and I rapidly told her all that had occurred.

“And how did you escape, Miss Kitty?” I asked; “we were fearfully anxious about you.”

“You had reason to be so,” she answered. “Mr Falconer had expressed some fears that the natives might prove treacherous while we were away in the boats, and, on our return, he was remarking that he must try and induce the captain to keep a strict watch on board, and to allow only a few natives at a time on deck, when, through his glass, he observed that the ship was surrounded by canoes, and that the natives in great numbers were clambering on board. Still we sailed on, when we saw a dreadful explosion, and shortly afterwards several canoes came paddling after us. Mr Falconer pointed them out to the men, who agreed with him that the ship had been taken by the savages, and that by some accident they had blown her up. He immediately put the boat about, exclaiming to me, ‘For your sake we will do our best to escape!’ The wind increased: we were standing out into the open ocean. Had it not been on my account Mr Falconer would, I am sure, have gone back at all risks to ascertain the fate of those on board. The fact, however, of the canoes following us, showed the hostile intentions of the natives, and the men declared that even had I not been in the boat they would not have run their heads into danger for no purpose.

“As the wind increased we lost sight of the canoes, which were unable to contend with the heavy sea to which the boat was now exposed.

“The prospect before us was a fearful one, but the alternative of returning to the shore was worse. Still we could rely on the protecting care of our heavenly Father, in whom we both trusted. We had but a small supply of food and water, which, with the greatest economy, could only last us three days. Mr Falconer, however, encouraged the men by telling them that he hoped, before the end of that time, to make an island, marked as uninhabited on the chart, where we might obtain water and provisions.

“Happily the wind, though continuing fair, did not increase, and, exactly at the time Mr Falconer expected, the island appeared in sight, when the last drop of water had been exhausted. Coasting around the island, we found a small harbour, which we entered. A grove of cocoa-nut trees greeted our sight, fringing the shore, and near them was a spring of fresh water. Mr Falconer shot several birds, and having fishing-hooks and lines, the men quickly caught a supply of fish. They then put up a hut for me, where I could enjoy that rest I so much required. At night, also, a number of turtle were observed landing on the sandy beach to lay their eggs, and we thus had no longer any fear of suffering from starvation.

“So well satisfied were the men with the island, that they proposed remaining, rather than venture again to sea. Mr Falconer inquired my wishes. I knew that I could implicitly trust him. Months would perhaps pass before any ship might appear. I begged that, if the men would be persuaded to go, we might continue our voyage. They agreed at length to do as he wished.

“Besides the casks, a number of cocoa-nuts were filled with water; birds, and fish, and turtle, were salted, and four live turtle and a number of cocoa-nuts were taken on board. Thus amply supplied with provisions, we again set sail.

“We had been a week at sea, when a vessel was seen, hove-to in the distance. We steered for her. Her boats were away in chase of a whale. We received a kind welcome on board the ship, which was the Harmony, from Captain Landon and his wife, who were Christian people. My satisfaction was very great when I found that the captain intended touching at this island, to refit his ship before proceeding to other fishing-grounds. The second mate had died, and he offered Mr Falconer the berth. He gladly accepted it. At the end of three weeks I had the happiness of finding myself with these kind friends.

“I knew how Mr Falconer felt when he told me that he must continue on board the Harmony, though he trusted on his arrival in England to be able to obtain the command of a ship in which he might return here. Since then no letter from him has reached me, nor have I received any tidings of him. Still I feel perfect confidence that he is faithful and true, and that he will return as soon as he can find the means of doing so.”

I felt very sorry when I heard the latter part of Miss Kitty’s narrative; for while I fully agreed with her that Mr Falconer would return if he could, I feared that, had he not lost his life, he might have been wrecked or taken prisoner, or detained somewhere by illness.

As Mr Newton afterwards observed to me, he had never seen any woman who was so thoroughly sustained under a great trial by her confidence in the man to whom she had given her heart, and her perfect trust that all was ordered by God for the best.

Chapter Eighteen.

On Stilts.

I felt very sorry at the thought of leaving Miss Kitty, and would gladly have remained with her and Mr and Mrs Newton, but Dick would not hear of my doing so; and Captain Renton insisted that I should return home with him, and go to school and obtain that instruction which I certainly greatly required.

“We will take good care of the young lady, Charley,” said Mr Newton; “and should you meet with Mr Falconer, tell him that she is still as well cared for as at first.”

Once more the Phoebe was at sea. Captain Renton gave me a berth in his cabin, and took so much pains to instruct me, that before the voyage was over I had made good progress in various branches of knowledge.

“Why, Charley,” said Dick, who was proud of the information I displayed, “you have become quite a scholar. Should not be surprised to hear of your bearing up to be a judge, or a bishop, or a big-wig of some sort.”

“No, no, Dick,” I answered; “my only wish is to be a sailor, though I own I should like to be a captain some day or other, though, of course, I must study to become that.”

“No fear of you, if you go on as you have begun,” remarked Dick, gazing approvingly at me.

We were about the latitude of Madeira, when one morning we sighted a ship standing to the south’ard. As the day drew on, just as we were close to her, it fell calm, and she made a signal that she would send letters on board us to carry home. A boat put off from her, and came alongside. The second mate of the ship came on deck with the letters.

“Captain Falconer, of the Harmony, begs that you will post these on your arrival in England,” he said, presenting them to Captain Renton, by whose side I was standing.

“Captain Falconer!” I exclaimed, turning eagerly to my captain. “May I go on board and see him, sir? I cannot help thinking that he was the mate of the Dolphin, who saved that young lady from the savages.”

Captain Renton at once ordered a boat to be lowered, to carry me on board the Harmony, letting Dick accompany me. Dick, who pulled the stroke-oar, gave way with a will, for he felt as eager as I was about the matter. We were soon alongside, and without waiting for the mate, who commanded the boat, I scrambled on board, followed by Dick. There, to my great delight, I saw Mr Falconer. He did not recognise me, as without ceremony I hurried aft, but when he saw Dick, he started, and then looked inquiringly at me.

“What, are you Dick Driver?” he exclaimed, as Dick, not forgetting his manners, touched his hat to him.

“Yes, sir. I am myself, and I am right glad to see you alive and well; and this is Charley Laurel, who, may be, you remember.”

“Indeed I do,” said Mr Falconer, shaking me warmly by the hand, and inviting us down in his cabin. “I feared that you had been both killed by the savages.”

I briefly narrated how we had escaped, and when I told him that we had visited Mr Newton, and left Miss Kitty well, only a few months before, I judged by the agitation and interest he showed that she had not misplaced her confidence in him.

“I am bound out to the South Seas, where I have hitherto in vain attempted to go,” he observed. “As soon as I reached England, I obtained a berth on board a ship bound for the Pacific, but she was unhappily wrecked not far from Cape Horn. I, with some of the crew who had reached the land, was taken off by a homeward-bound ship, in which I returned to England. I should immediately have again sailed, but hearing that my father was ill, I went to visit him. I had the happiness of being reconciled to him before he died, when I found myself the possessor of a small fortune. It is not, however, sufficient to enable me to live without a profession, and through the recommendation of the late captain of the Harmony, which her owners were about to send again to the Pacific, I obtained command of her, and trust before long of again having the happiness of seeing Miss Raglan.”

“I am sure, sir, she will be very glad to see you,” I could not help saying; and I told him that none of his letters had been received.

Captain Falconer kept me on board all day, and nearly the whole time was spent by him in asking me questions, and hearing all I could tell him about Miss Kitty. In the evening, he sent me and Dick back to the Phoebe in one of the Harmony’s boats.

Next morning a westerly breeze sprang up, and the two ships stood on their respective courses.

After this we had a quick run to England, and, arriving in the Thames, Captain Renton took me with him to the owners, Messrs Dear and Ashe, to whom he gave an account of my adventures. Mr Dear, the head of the firm, was a mild-looking pleasant old gentleman. He called me into his room, and asked me a number of questions, and then desired Captain Renton to send Dick Driver next day up to the office.

“If you can spare the lad, I will take him home with me, as Mrs Dear will like to see him,” he observed.

“I intended to have taken you to my house, Charley,” said Captain Renton, as he wished me good-bye, “but I am sure it will be to your advantage to accept Mr Dear’s invitation.”

In the afternoon, I drove out with Mr Dear to his country house, in the neighbourhood of London. It appeared to me a perfect palace. I had never before since I could recollect been in any house larger than Mr Newton’s cottage.

Mrs Dear, a very kind lady, soon made me feel perfectly at home.

“We are much interested in you, Charley,” she said, “and Mr Dear will do his best to discover your relations in the West Indies. In the mean time we think you will benefit by going to school.”

I was very sorry to leave Captain Renton, but said I was ready to do whatever she and Mr Dear thought best.

The next evening, when Mr Dear returned, he said that he could not ascertain from Dick Driver the name of the island from which I had been taken away. At the same time he observed: “I conclude that I shall be able to learn at the Admiralty what place it was the Laurel and her consorts attacked.”

I spent a couple of weeks with my new friends before they found a school to which I could be sent. Captain Renton, accompanied by Dick, came out to see me. Dick had agreed to sail again in the Phoebe, and promised that, on his return, he would not fail to pay me a visit. He looked very downcast.

“We have been together for the best part of ten years, Charley,” he said, as he wrung my hand, “and if I did not know it was for your good, I could not bear the thoughts of parting from you; but you are in kind hands, and I know it’s better for you to remain on shore, and I am not one to stand in your way—I love you too well for that.”

The next day Mr Dear drove me down to a large school at Hammersmith. I was introduced to the master, Mr Rushton, a tall gentleman with white hair, who looked very well able to keep a number of boys in order, and Mr Dear gave him a brief account of my history.

“The lad will do very well,” he said, patting me on the head. “I have boys from all parts of the world, and he will soon find himself at home among them.”

As soon as Mr Dear had gone, Mr Rushton, taking me by the hand, led me into the playground, where upwards of a hundred boys were rushing about, engaged in all sorts of games. He shouted “Fenwick,” and a boy of my own age came up. He told the boy that he wished him to look after me, and teach me the ways of the school. Having done this, he re-entered the house.

As soon as the master was gone, I found myself surrounded by a number of boys, who, having examined me from head to foot, began asking me questions.

Though I was ignorant of all their games, and had scarcely heard of cricket and football, yet I knew a number of things which they did not.

“Who is your father?” asked one fellow.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“Who is your mother?” inquired another.

I gave the same answer, whereon there was a general laugh.

“Have you many brothers and sisters?”

“I don’t know,” I again said.

“Where were you born?”

“That’s more than I can tell you,” I answered, quite quietly, and so I went on.

“I don’t think you have got much out of me,” I said, at last. “And now I want to know who among you can box the compass? Can any of you put a ship about? Can some one describe the Marquesas? or tell me where Tahiti and the Sandwich Islands are to be found?”

To none of these or similar questions did I receive any replies.

“Now I find that I have not got much out of you, either,” I observed, “so we are pretty equal. Now, you might have answered my questions, though no one, as far as I know, could have answered those you put to me.”

“The young fellow has got his wits about him,” observed one of the big boys; and the others at once seemed inclined to treat me with far more respect than at first.

“Now,” said I, gaining courage, “I have spent most of my life at sea, where we don’t play the games you have on shore, but if any of you will teach me, I shall be very glad to learn them; and perhaps I may show you how to do a number of things you know nothing about.”

From that day forward I was never bothered by having questions put to me. I soon managed to get hold of a piece of rope, which had lashed up one of the boy’s boxes, and began to initiate several who wished to learn into the mysteries of knotting and splicing. Before long a carpenter came to do some work, and I got him to make me a pair of stilts. Several of the bigger boys ordered others. I would not use mine till the rest came home. Many then tried to walk about on them.

“Who are going to try their stilts?” I asked.

“We want to see you, Laurel, walk on yours,” was the answer.

“No, no; you mount on yours first,” I said; and most of them tried to get up, each with the help of two or three fellows who stood round to support them. I then brought out mine.

“Shall we help you?” inquired three or four of the boys, who by this time were my chief friends and supporters.

“Thank you,” I said, laughing; while the others who were looking on expected to see me bungle as the rest had been doing. My friends collected round me and prepared to help me up. I did not undeceive them, but suddenly jumping on one side I sprang into my stilts.

“Who’s for a race?” I cried out. “Come along; let us start fair.”

We were at one end of the playground, and I began to move backwards and forwards, and in and out among the other fellows. They seemed satisfied that I was not going to do much better than they were. Several who had by this time managed to balance themselves, now formed a line.

“Away you go,” cried one of the big boys, who expected to see me and the rest tumble down on our noses.

Off we started. In an instant I felt as much at home as I had been when making my escape from Motakee’s village, and, as might be supposed, away I went. First one of the boys tumbled down, then another, and another, while I kept ahead, and, reaching the end of the playground, turned back again, to find all my competitors rubbing their arms and knees, only two or three having the courage to make an attempt to stand up again on their stilts.

“I don’t want to laugh at you,” I said, as I came back and stalked in and out among them, looking down with a complacent air from my lofty elevation. “I ought to have told you, perhaps, that I have had some experience in walking on stilts, though, as I had not used them for many months, I did not wish to boast beforehand. You will do as well as I can in time.”

“I should think you must have had experience,” cried out two or three of the big fellows; “and probably you can do a good many more things. We shall be on the watch not to be taken in again.”

Stilt-walking soon became the rage, though I continued to be far superior to all my companions. They looked up to me in consequence with even greater respect than before, and I found my position in the school as satisfactory as I could desire. I was able, consequently, to take the part of many of the weaker or less courageous boys who were bullied by the rest. Among others, there was a delicate boy called Henri de Villereine, and who, because he spoke with a foreign accent, was nicknamed Frenchy. Though a year or two my senior, he was not nearly so strong, and was ill able to defend himself against much smaller boys. He seemed a gentle, well-disposed boy, and when others, on my first going to school, had attacked me, he had always stood aloof. Though I had not had much conversation with him, I could not bear to see him bullied.

One day, when two or three fellows had set upon him, I rushed up to his assistance, and, without saying a word, knocked over his assailants one after the other. He gratefully thanked me, and said he was afraid that, as soon as my back was turned, the fellows would set on him again.

After this no one ventured to attack Henri de Villereine, and I was the means of rendering his life at school far pleasanter, poor fellow! than it had been before. He showed his gratitude by every means in his power, and as I liked him for his many amiable qualities, we became fast friends.

However, I have not space to give an account of my schoolboy days. I applied myself diligently to my studies, and while I believe that I was liked by the boys, I gained credit with the masters, and rose rapidly towards the head of the school.

Chapter Nineteen.

Dick’s Lesson not Lost.

I had been three years at school, and was now almost a man in appearance. Henri had gone to the island of Saint Lucia in the West Indies, where his family resided. I was sorry to lose him, as there was no boy in the school I liked so much. He had made me promise to come and see him should I ever be able to do so. This seemed not impossible, as I had not lost my affection for the sea, and Mr Dear had promised to send me in one of his ships, should I wish to follow it as a profession. I had, indeed, thought of no other.

He had made all the inquiries he could to discover my friends, but hitherto unsuccessfully.

I had spent my holidays at his house, when he and his wife treated me as kindly as if I had been their son.

The midsummer holidays were approaching. We had a large cricket-field just opposite the house, where one evening we were playing. I had become as good a cricketer as any of the big boys, though I never cared very much for that or any other game which seemed to lead to no result. I liked it, as it gave exercise to the body, just as I like chess because it requires mental exertion. My side was in, and I had just given up my bat, having been caught out, when, as I was going to throw myself down on the grass, I saw a sailor-like looking man enter the field. He looked about for some time. I went towards him and inquired what he wanted.

“Can you tell me, sir, if young Charley Laurel is at this school, and whereabouts I can find him?” he said, addressing me as a stranger.

The moment he spoke my heart leaped into my mouth, for I recognised my faithful friend and protector, Dick Driver. I could scarcely resist throwing my arms round his neck, as I should have done when a little boy, but the fancy seized me to try whether he would find out who I was when I spoke.

“Charley Laurel, the young monkey. You don’t suppose a big fellow like me would take the trouble to be looking after such a little jackanapes; but if you care for him, I shall be happy to try and find him out for you.”

“Care for him? I should think I do: he has never been out of my head all these years I have been away from home. I brought him up, I may say, since he was no higher than my knee, and I love him as if he had been my own son.”

I had led Dick, as he was speaking, to a shady spot under some tall trees on one side of the field, away from the rest of the fellows.

“I am sure you do, Dick; and Charley would be an ungrateful fellow if he did not love you from the bottom of his heart,” I answered.

Dick looked hard at me as I spoke, then grasping my hands, which I held out, he exclaimed:

“Why, as I live, you are Charley yourself! My dear, dear boy, what has come over my eyes, that I should not have known you? and yet, to be sure you are grown into a fine big fellow.”

I assured Dick that I had known him at once, and begged his pardon for the trick I had played him.

We sat down on the grass, and, as may be supposed, had a long yarn together.

Dick, as I knew, had sailed again in the Phoebe another voyage to the Pacific, and had only just returned.

“To my mind, Charley, it’s high time that you should go to sea, if you are going at all, or you will never get rid of your land ways—not that I have any fear of you now. The Phoebe is going into dock to receive a thorough repair, and I have promised Captain Renton to rejoin him as soon as she is ready for sea; and I feel sure, if you apply to the owners, they will appoint you. I set my heart on having you with me, and, to tell you the truth, I should not be happy without you. So just you ask them, and they will not say ‘nay.’”

I told Dick there was nothing I so much wished, and promised at once to write and ask Mr Dear. Dick was greatly pleased.

“The matter is settled then, Charley, and I hope, before many months are over, we shall be in blue water together again, and I shall be teaching you many of the things which I am afraid all your schooling must have made you forget.” As it was a half-holiday, I was able to spend several hours with Dick. We were at length discovered. The boys gathered round us, inquiring who Dick was; and on hearing that he was an old sailor, begged him to spin them some of his yarns. Dick indulged them to their hearts’ content, and, among other things, narrated some of the early events of my life. At last he was obliged to take his departure, that he might catch the evening coach for London.

When the school broke up, I returned to Mr Dear’s. He at once questioned me as to my inclinations about a profession; and when I told him that I wished to go to sea, he replied, to my great joy, that he would make arrangements for my sailing in the Phoebe.

I spent several weeks at his house, before she was ready for sea, employing my time, at his suggestion, in studying navigation.

On going up to town one day, I found Captain Renton at the office. He cordially welcomed me, and assured Mr Dear that he would do his best to make a sailor of me, and to fit me for my duties as an officer.

The Phoebe was, I found, bound out to Sydney, New South Wales. As she was by this time nearly ready for sea, Mr Dear thought it best that I should go on board at once and commence my duties. I found that Dick had already joined.

“I hope, Charley, you have not forgotten what you knew before you went to school,” he observed. “I have been mortally afraid that the book-learning would drive your seamanship out of your head.”

“I hope not,” I answered; “I feel myself perfectly at home already, but I shall be able to judge better when I get to sea.”

When Captain Renton left the ship that evening, I thought he looked very pale; and the next day the first mate, Mr Gibbs, received a message to say that he was too ill to come on board. Several days passed. We then heard that he was unable to proceed on the voyage, and had given up the command to a Captain Slack, who made his appearance the next morning.

“I don’t like his name,” observed Dick to me, “but he may be a very good man for all that: still, to my eye, he is very different to Captain Renton, but we shall find out all about him by-and-by.”

At length the Phoebe went out of dock down to Gravesend. Some of her passengers had already come on board, the rest here joined us.

We soon found when we got into blue water that Captain Slack was, as Dick feared, a very different sort of person from Captain Renton. We had no services on a Sunday, no prayers in the cabin; and, though he had appeared quiet enough in harbour, he now swore at the men and abused the officers if anything went wrong. Had Mr Dear known the sort of man he was, I feel sure that he would not have given him the command of the ship. The passengers seemed very indifferent to his conduct, as long as he did not abuse them, and that he took very good care not to do.

“Charley, I hope you have not forgotten to say your prayers,” said Dick to me, one day. “The more ungodly people are around us, the more need there seems to me that we should pray to be led aright, and kept from joining in their wickedness. You have got your Bible with you, I hope.”

I had, but I had to confess that I had not once looked into it.

“I have not sailed so many years with good Captain Renton, without learning his ways, and as I want to be guided by the Bible, I am very sure that I must read it every day. Sometimes I find it a difficult job, but I don’t mind the other men laughing and jeering at me, as they are fond of doing; neither, Charley, will you, if you are wise. It is better to fear God, than poor helpless beings like ourselves. That’s what I always say to myself when the others begin to jeer at me.”

I promised Dick that I would do as he advised, and that very day when I went to my berth, on the half-deck, I got out my Bible and began to read it. I remembered what Captain Renton often said to me, that I must not read it like a common book, but that I must earnestly pray to be enlightened by God’s Holy Spirit while I read it, to understand its truths. I did so, and I then saw that I was an utterly lost sinner, and, as far as my own merits were concerned, had no right to claim admittance into heaven. But then I saw also, that by trusting to the merits of Christ, and to His perfect and complete sacrifice offered up for me, my sins were washed away, and that God would receive me and welcome me as a dear son; and that at any moment, should I be called out of the world, I should be sure of eternal happiness. I also learned another glorious truth, namely, that Christ the great High Priest, who has entered into the Holy of Holies, is now at the right hand of God, and having taken my flesh upon Him, knows all my infirmities, and can be touched by them, having been tempted as I am, and thus acts as my mediator, my intercessor, my advocate; thus washing me daily, hourly, every moment, with His blood, from the sins which I commit. Yet I know that every sin grieves and offends Him, and I strive with the aid of His Holy Spirit to resist sin, to refrain from sin, and I sorrow heartily for the sins of which I know I am guilty. Yet I live in a constant sense of His boundless love and mercy. I do so now, I did so then. This gave me a contentment and joy I had never known before, and I no longer feared any danger, nor felt cast down by the annoyances which my ungodly shipmates were continually endeavouring to give me.

This knowledge, however, did not come all at once, and many weeks passed by before I attained to that happy condition which I am sure all Christians ought to enjoy. I at length spoke to Dick on the subject.

“Of course, Charley,” he said, “it’s a poor religion to my mind if a man does not take God at His word and believe what He says; and He tells us that all who believe on His Son have passed from death unto life, have entered the kingdom of heaven, and are heirs of eternal happiness. It seems to me all clear sailing when we know that, though Satan is always trying to place rocks and quicksands in our way, but when we have got the true Pilot aboard, we are sure to keep clear of them, for He can make no mistake. That makes me happy and contented, and afraid of nothing except that I should forget to pray for that help, which, if I pray, is sure to be sent me.”

Dick and I, knowing that we were not to keep our light under a bushel, as we had the opportunities, spoke to others, and by degrees several of the crew joined us to read the Bible and pray together.

The captain heard of our proceedings, and, declaring that he would have no prayers or psalm-singers on board, Dick was summoned aft to answer for his conduct.

“I only do what Captain Renton did, sir,” he answered, quietly; “and if I neglect my duty, I do not ask to be treated with more favour than others.”

“Just take care what you are about then,” answered the captain; “my eye will be upon you.”

Dick touched his hat respectfully, and without saying anything went forward.

I was soon afterwards called up.

“I should have expected, Mr Laurel, that you would have known better than to try and upset the discipline of the ship,” he observed, in a sarcastic tone. “How can you expect the men to obey me if you try and make them suppose that they are better than I am?”

“I am not attempting to do so, Captain Slack,” I answered, quietly. “The more I read the Bible, the more clearly I see that it is the duty of Christians to obey those set in authority over them; and I am very sure that those of the crew who follow its precepts will become more obedient seamen and more anxious to do their duty than heretofore.”

“As to that, I am a better judge than a youngster who has only just left school,” he observed; “and I warn you, as I warned your friend, to take care of what you are about.”

As we were only doing what his predecessor had encouraged, the captain did not dare to prohibit our meetings, and Dick and I continued as before to read our Bibles, and to induce all we could to listen. The third mate and one of the midshipmen, as well as several of the seamen and passengers, joined us, though the rest seemed more than ever determined to reject the truth, and to go on in their old ways.

As we neared Sydney, the captain resumed his shore-going manners, and did his best to make himself agreeable to the passengers.

On a fine morning, soon after daybreak, we entered the magnificent harbour of Port Jackson. As soon as the passengers had landed and the cargo was discharged, we had to turn to and prepare the ship for sea, so I had little opportunity of visiting the place. As we had orders to clean up the cabins, we knew that we were to take passengers home; and having received a cargo of wool, “Blue Peter” was hoisted, as a sign that we were ready to sail. Several passengers immediately came on board: among the last was a gentleman, who, by his dress, I knew to be a missionary or clergyman, and two ladies who accompanied him. No sooner had the younger lady stepped on deck than I felt sure she was my old friend Miss Kitty. I ran eagerly up to her. Her surprise was even greater than mine, for she did not recollect me. Her companions were Mr and Mrs Newton. They all expressed their pleasure at seeing me, and told me that they had come to Sydney, on their way to England.

Miss Kitty looked very sad. I was afraid of asking about Captain Falconer, fearing that something painful might have occurred connected with him. I waited, hoping to hear his name mentioned. At length I made the inquiry of Mr Newton.

“He has paid us two visits, and is still in these seas, though hoping soon to return home,” he answered. “He is as much attached as ever to our friend, but he is wisely anxious to secure the comforts of a home before he marries; and though she would not have refused to become his wife, had he pressed her, still, believing that her father is alive, and may return home, she wishes first to obtain his sanction.”

With a favourable breeze, the Phoebe soon ran the coast of Australia out of sight.

Chapter Twenty.

Overboard.

We had been some weeks at sea. Captain Slack showed his evil disposition by throwing every impediment in the way of Mr Newton when he attempted to hold a service on board. He could not, however, prevent him from having prayers in his own cabin, to which I and Dick, and those who were willing to come, were invited. Among them was a half-caste lad, called Bill Gennill, of a not over-prepossessing countenance, to whom I had spoken. While others scoffed, he listened, and had before we reached Sydney gladly accepted the truth. This exposed him to the sneers, and often to the ill-treatment, of his messmates, though Dick and I did our best to protect him. He expressed his gratitude, and, opposing gentleness to brutality, showed every day more and more earnestness. Mr Newton encouraged him to persevere. Miss Kitty often spoke kindly to him, and frequently brought up her Bible, and read such portions as he could best understand.

“I think that Bill understands the fundamental truths of the gospel,” she said to me: “that being all sinners by nature, and outcasts from God, and become again His dear children by simple faith in the glorious fact that Christ died, and was punished instead of us, and that our debt to God being thus paid, our sins are blotted out of His remembrance, and that we being clothed with the righteousness of Christ, we can approach boldly the throne of grace, and are made heirs with Him of that kingdom which He has gone before to prepare for us. He knows, too, that, being possessed of these privileges, we are called on by the aid of the Holy Spirit to try and imitate Christ, to live pure and blameless lives, to make His name known to others, and do all the good we can to our fellow-creatures, especially to those of the household of faith. I am thankful to find, Charley, that you, too, know these truths, and are not ashamed of Christ.”

“I have not understood them many months, though I ought to have known them long ago,” I answered. “Now that I do know them, I feel that nothing is so disgraceful to a Christian as to be ashamed of confessing the Master he serves, and therefore it is that Satan is always endeavouring to make us conceal our belief in the presence of our fellow-men. I feel how necessary it is to pray for grace for those who do not really acknowledge Christ, although they would be very angry if told that they were not Christians.”

“I found that to be the case in Sydney,” said Miss Kitty, “although during the time I spent with Mr and Mrs Newton it was a difficulty I did not experience. The poor heathens among whom I lived were sincere; they had discovered the worthlessness of their own idols, and felt their sinfulness, and, consequently, heard with joy the simple plan of salvation which God in His mercy has prepared for man. In Sydney, I found people so well satisfied with their forms and ceremonies, their attendance at their churches and chapels, and their almsgiving and moral conduct, that they stared when I spoke of the love of Jesus, which brought Him down from heaven to suffer for man, and of the utter inability of man to save himself; they apparently believing that they themselves were doing the work which was to merit salvation, making the sacrifice of Christ of no effect. This, it appears to me, is the belief of a large number of nominal Christians, while a still larger number live on from day to day without giving a thought to the future, or caring whether they are to pass it in glory, or to be cast out for ever from the presence of God. I cannot bear to think that those I know should be existing in so dangerous a state without trying to make the truth known to them, and urging them to accept salvation while the day of grace lasts.”

I mention this conversation, because it so exactly describes my own feelings, and the state of the greater number of people I have since met.

“How earnestly I pray that my dear father may have accepted the truth,” continued Miss Kitty. “I had almost despaired of again seeing him, when a sailor, who had been wrecked in the Pacific, made his way to our island. While conversing with the poor man, who was dying, he told me that he had been on board an outward-bound ship which had picked up an English officer, who had made his escape from a French prison; and I was certain, from the name and from the description he gave me, that the officer must have been my father. The ship touched nowhere till she was wrecked on some rocks in the Southern Ocean, between the Mauritius and Australia. My father was among those who escaped. They were rescued by a South Sea whaler, which my informant quitted to join another ship, leaving him on board. Where my father was going to he could not tell, but concluded that he intended returning home. Even should he have done so, he would have been unable to hear of me, and this makes me anxious in the extreme to return home, to try and find him out.”

I sympathised with Miss Kitty when she gave me this account, and told her how glad I should be to assist her in the search.

Some days after this, one of those furious gales which occasionally blow over the usually calm waters of the Pacific came on, and we unexpectedly made an island not marked in the charts, to avoid which our course was being altered, when a squall laid the ship almost on her beam-ends. Throwing off my jacket, that my arms might be perfectly unfettered, I sprang aloft with others yet further to shorten sail, when the main-topmast and the yard on which I hung were carried away. The next moment I found myself struggling amid the foaming waters. The ship flew on. To heave-to or lower a boat I knew was impossible. I gave myself up for lost: still I struck out with the instinct of self-preservation. The seas dancing wildly around circumscribed my view, and I could only just see the masts of the ship as she receded from me. Several other poor fellows I knew had been hove into the sea off the yard with me. Though dressed only in a light shirt and trousers, I was nearly exhausted. Had I retained my jacket, I believe that I should have been unable to keep myself afloat. Just then a shout reached my ears, and I saw Bill seated astride a piece of timber, not far from me. With my remaining strength I made towards it, and he, seizing me by the shirt, hauled me up, and made me fast with some rope attached to the spar.

“Glad to find you, Charley,” he said. “I saw the timber, when I thought there was no hope, and got on to it. Now we must trust that the ship will come back to pick us up, or that the wind will drive us to the shore, otherwise we shall be badly off.”

I thought so too; but having escaped immediate death so wonderfully, I could not help hoping that further means would be sent us for preserving our lives.

“We must trust in God,” I answered. “It is a happy thing for you and me, Bill, that we are ready to go into His presence, knowing that He will receive us as loved children.”

“Ah, yes, Master Charley, that’s what I have been thinking,” said Bill. “I knew you were on the yard, and the moment I was in the water I prayed that He would save you as well as me, and you see He has done so.”

We, however, could talk but little; indeed, what we said was uttered in disjointed sentences; for the foaming sea kept tossing the log on which we sat up and down, so that we could with difficulty hold on to it. The sea-birds kept wildly screaming over our heads, while nothing could be seen around us but the foaming, troubled waters. In vain we looked out for the ship. Evening was coming on, and the gloom increased. Had it not been for the rope, we could not have maintained our hold of the log. Each time after a sea had swept over us I looked up, hoping to discover the ship, but she was nowhere visible, and even had she been near, the increased darkness would have shut her out from our sight.

Hour after hour passed by, and, faint and exhausted, I felt that I could not hold on much longer. Poor Bill seemed in even a worse condition. I could hear his voice every now and then, amid the roaring of the waters, uttering a prayer, and I joined him in my heart. At last I fell into a state of almost insensibility, and I knew not how the hours went by. Again I aroused myself, and it seemed to me that the night must have well-nigh passed by. At length the roaring sound of the waters increased: it was that of a heavy surf breaking on the shore. Daylight appeared. As the log rose to the summit of the sea, I caught sight of a rocky coast close at hand. In a few minutes more the log might be cast on it, but the danger we ran was greater than ever, for if turned over and over by the surf, we might be crushed beneath it. I cast off the lashings which bound me, holding on instead tightly to the ropes, and urging Bill to do the same. He did not appear to comprehend me. I stretched out my hand to assist him, and had just succeeded in casting loose the rope which held him, when a foaming sea took me, and I was carried forward in its embrace towards the shore. What happened to my companion I could not see, for I lost all consciousness. Confused by the roaring and hissing of the waters in my ears, it appeared to me that I was lifted up and down, and swept backwards and forwards; then I felt my hands and feet touching the shore. I struggled on. Another sea came hissing up; I dug my hands into the sand ere it passed away. Exhausted, I could exert myself no further. Had another sea overtaken me, it would have carried me helplessly off.

How long I thus remained I know not, when I felt my head lifted from the ground, and opening my eyes, I saw an old man with long hair and beard, and a benignant expression of countenance, bending over me. Taking me in his arms, he carried me some way from the water, and then again placed me on the ground, unable to proceed farther.

“How came you here, lad?” he asked, when he saw that I had sufficiently recovered to speak. “Has your ship been cast away?”

I told him how I had been carried overboard, and inquired whether my companion had been saved.

“I have seen no one,” he said. “Indeed, I only just now came down to the spot to bathe, as it is one of the few places on the shore free from rocks; but I will search for him as soon as you are more recovered.”

I begged him to go at once, assuring him that I already felt better.

“I must give you some food first,” he said, hurrying away. He brought some fish and yams, which much restored my strength; but when I tried to get up and accompany him, I was unable to walk.

He went off with a long pole and a rope in his hand, telling me that I might rest without anxiety, as there were neither savages nor wild beasts in the island to injure me.

The warm sun soon dried my clothes, and, creeping under the shade of a rock, I fell asleep. I was awoke by hearing voices, and to my great joy, on looking up, I saw the old man, accompanied by Bill, who told me that he had clung to the timber, which had been drifted some way along the shore into a sheltered bay, where it had grounded. Thence he had scrambled over the rocks, and after searching in vain for me, had sat down in deep grief, under the idea that I had been lost.

Assisted by Bill, the old man led me to his hut, built against the side of rock at the foot of a high hill. Here he placed before us some more food.

“I cannot but welcome you, my lads,” he said; “for I have spent three weary years in solitude since I was wrecked off this island, I being the sole survivor of a whole ship’s company. Though I have constantly been on the look-out since then, not a sail has come near enough to see my signals—the flag I have hoisted by day, and the beacons I have kept burning at night. When I caught sight of your ship yesterday, I was in hopes that she was approaching; but when the gale came on I knew she could only do so with great peril, and was thankful when I saw her weather the island.”

I was glad to know from this that the Phoebe had escaped.

I knew by the tone of voice and manners of the old man that he was a gentleman, and, from his expressions, I guessed that he was a naval officer; but I felt a delicacy in putting questions to him, though I was anxious to learn who he was.

“We must not eat the bread of idleness,” I said, when the meal was over. “Is there no work you would wish us to do?”

“All you can do now, my lads, is to lie down and rest,” he answered, smiling. “When you are recovered, you will have to put up a hut for yourselves, and to cultivate some ground, as perhaps you may have to remain here as long as I have done.”

“We must not go to sleep without thanking God for His great mercy to us,” said Bill.

I felt rebuked. Without hesitation, I knelt down with my companion near a heap of dried grass and matting, which our host had prepared for us. He looked on, slightly astonished, but I heard him utter “Amen” at the end of my prayer.

Worn out with fatigue, we slept on till nearly daybreak the following morning.

Chapter Twenty One.

Reunion.

During the first few weeks we were on the island, Bill and I built ourselves a comfortable hut, and planted a plot of ground with roots and seeds given to us by our host, several boxes of which, he said, had fortunately been washed on shore from the wreck. Great had been my astonishment to find who he was. I had been narrating my previous adventures. When I came to give him an account of Miss Kitty, I saw that he was deeply interested. He asked me question upon question. I told him of her belief that her father was still alive, and of her resolution not to marry till his return home.

“Then, dear boy, I pray more than ever that we may make our escape ere long, for I am her long missing father, Lieutenant Raglan. Misfortune has pursued me for many years, but I shall be recompensed by finding my child all you describe her.”

I had not expected to find her father so old a man, but I discovered that care and anxiety had whitened his hair and furrowed his cheeks, and that he was not nearly so advanced in years as he had at first appeared.

But I must be brief in my account of our stay on the island. I have not, indeed, many incidents to describe. We employed our time in fishing, searching for birds’ egg and turtle eggs, and trapping birds. We also found a raft, on which we hoped to be able to push off to any vessel which might at length approach the coast.

I did not forget Miss Kitty’s earnest wish that her father should be brought to a knowledge of the Truth. This encouraged me to speak to him. I then expressed my regret that we had no Bible, observing what comfort it would have afforded us, how impossible it is without it for man to know God’s laws, and, consequently, to obey them.

“But surely, my young friend, men lead very moral and good lives without reading the Bible.”

“They owe their knowledge of what is good and moral to the Bible alone, sir,” I answered. “They get it secondhand, it is true, just as they get their knowledge of God from the Bible, although they may never look into it. Without the Bible we should still be worshipping blocks of stone, or creeping things, or the sun and stars. Without it man would never have discovered what God is, or how He desires to be worshipped.”

And I then went on, as well as I was able, to speak of God’s love to man, which induced Him to form His plan of salvation so exactly suited to man’s wants.

“I am sure, sir,” I continued, “God, who formed this beautiful world and filled it with wonders, cannot have left us without a revelation of Himself, and nowhere else but in the Bible can we find that revelation.”

I happily recollected many important passages from the Scriptures, which I quoted.

The old officer said he would think over the subject, and I left him in his hut, evidently meditating seriously on it. Day after day he introduced it, and now seemed only to take pleasure in talking of it. He was surprised to find how much Bill knew, and how clearly he could explain himself.

When people have absorbing subjects of conversation the time passes rapidly by.

I was one day seated with my new friend in the hut, when Bill rushed in, exclaiming:

“A sail in sight! a sail in sight! She is standing this way!”

We hurried to the top of the hill above the hut. A large ship was approaching the island. The wind was off shore, the sea calm. We hoisted the flag, and then hastily collecting some provisions, put them on our raft, and shoved off, determined to run every risk rather than allow her to pass us. It might have been a hard matter to get back if we failed to intercept her. We had brought a long pole with a flag at the end, to attract her attention. We exerted all our strength to paddle off. The wind was light, but in our favour. On she stood, as if intending to give the island a wide berth. We had got a considerable distance from the land. Mr Raglan moved the flag to and fro.

“We are seen, we are seen!” he exclaimed, as the ship altered her course directly for us. In a short time she hove-to; a boat was lowered and pulled up to us. We sprang into her. Questions were eagerly asked as to who we were.

“And what ship is yours?” inquired Mr Raglan.

“The Harmony, Captain Falconer,” was the answer.

I rejoiced to hear this.

We were quickly on deck, and welcomed cordially as strangers by Captain Falconer, who did not recognise me. I lost no time, however, in making myself known, and in telling him who Mr Raglan was. I need not say how great was his satisfaction on receiving this information. He bestowed all the care and attention he possibly could on the old officer, and treated him as a son would a father.

I had not, while on the island, mentioned Captain Falconer’s name to Mr Raglan, who had, therefore, no idea that he was his daughter’s affianced husband.

“I consider your friend one of the finest officers of the merchant service I ever met,” he said to me, one day. “A noble fellow. I can never be grateful enough for the attention he shows me.”

The Harmony was homeward-bound.

As there was no one to do the duty of third mate, Captain Falconer gave me the berth, and much gratified me by saying how well pleased he was with the way I performed my work. The discipline of the ship was excellent, favourably contrasting with that of the Phoebe. Captain Falconer, following the example of her former commander, had prayers every morning and evening in his cabin, and a regular service for the men on Sundays, while he had a supply of excellent books for their instruction.

Mr Raglan was always ready to enter into conversation on religious subjects with the captain, and from the day we got on board he became a diligent reader of the Bible.

We had a quick passage to England. As soon as we reached the Thames, Captain Falconer gave me leave to go on shore, that I might visit my kind friend Mr Dear, who would, I knew, be under the belief that I had been lost.

Mr Raglan accompanied me, as I hoped that Mr Dear would be able to inform him where his daughter was residing. He had left his office when we arrived, and we therefore took a coach and drove to his residence. We were shown by the servant into the drawing-room, while she went to call her master, who was in the garden. The window was open, and we saw him walking along a path, accompanied by two ladies. He soon came into the drawing-room.

“Oh, my dear Laurel!” he exclaimed, in a voice broken by agitation, as he took my hands. “You are as one risen from the dead; we had given you up as lost. My wife will, indeed, be rejoiced to see you; and there is another lady here who will be glad to find that you are in the land of the living. Poor girl, when we heard her history we invited her to stay here, and positively refused to let her leave us.”

He said this before he appeared to notice Mr Raglan. I felt somewhat embarrassed as to what to do, but I thought it best to introduce him before Mrs Dear and Miss Kitty came in.

I scarcely knew what effect the sudden announcement that his daughter was actually in his sight might have on the old officer. I resolved, in the first instance, simply to tell Mr Dear that his unknown visitor was a naval officer, who, having been shipwrecked, had come home in the Harmony, and then to get him to leave the room with me, that I might consult him in private. I did as I intended.

“I am very glad to see you, sir,” exclaimed Mr Dear. “Pray be seated on this sofa, and excuse me: my young friend here has a word or two to say to me. Come along, Charley,” and we left the room.

As soon as we were in the passage I told him who the officer was.

“Bless me!” he cried out, “that is extraordinary. I am, indeed, delighted. Will you go back and tell him that you hope his daughter will soon be with him, and then slip out again, and we will prepare Miss Kitty. I want your assistance, for I am afraid I shall be letting the truth out too soon.”

I felt somewhat nervous, but I managed to break the news to my friend, and then, hurrying out. I joined Mr Dear in the garden. We found the ladies seated in an arbour at the further end. Miss Kitty, knowing me at once, uttered a cry of surprise, and ran forward with outstretched hands to meet me.

“I do not believe in ghosts,” she said, “or I might have supposed that I saw yours. How did you escape?”

“What, is this Charley Laurel?” cried Mrs Dear, giving me a kind welcome, before I could answer Miss Kitty’s question, which she herself repeated.

I soon told them, and this gave me an opportunity of mentioning the shipwrecked officer who had saved my life. I went on describing him, keeping my eyes fixed on Miss Kitty’s face, till she exclaimed suddenly:

“Oh, Charley, tell me; is he not my father? And you say he came home with you?”

“Yes,” I answered; “and he is even now waiting to see you.”

“Oh, take me to him! take me to him!” she cried out.

Mr and Mrs Dear accompanied her to the house, and, leading her to the drawing-room door, left her with her long-lost parent.

I need scarcely say that Captain Falconer next day made his appearance at the house, and before he went away Mr Raglan gladly accepted him as a son-in-law.

I was glad to find that Captain Renton was again to take command of the Phoebe, though I should have preferred sailing with Captain Falconer. He, however, it had been arranged, in consequence of his marriage, should remain on shore for a year or two, to superintend the fitting out of Messrs Dear and Ashe’s ships.

I made two voyages in the Phoebe, and returned on the last as her first mate. So high a character did Captain Renton give me, that my employers promised me the command of a ship they were about to despatch to the West Indies. I passed the short time I was able to spend on shore in visiting Mr Dear and Captain and Mrs Falconer, with whom Captain Raglan, for I was glad to find he was promoted, resided.

My ship, the Ellen, was at length ready for sea. I felt as proud as I suppose most young officers do, when they first assume the command of a fine vessel; and as I surveyed the Ellen, I was satisfied that she was all I could desire.

“You need not be jealous of Falconer,” said Mr Dear, who accompanied me on board. “You have now got a wife of your own, and I hope she will prove true and faithful.”

Being allowed three mates, I offered the berth of third mate to Dick, who, though no navigator, was as good a seaman as I could desire to have under me.

“I am obliged to you, Captain Laurel, but I am afraid I ha’n’t make much of a hand of the quadrant, or managing those chronometer affairs,” he answered, modestly; “though I know the stars pretty well, and can dot down what is wanted in the log.”

“I won’t trouble you about that,” I said; “you can manage the men, which is more important. We have a rough lot, I fear.”

Dick without farther ado accepted the appointment.

We were bound, in the first instance, for Barbadoes, but expected to visit other islands on our return. We had a fine run across the Atlantic. Though at first I felt a little strange, sitting in dignified solitude in my cabin, I soon got accustomed to it.

The first and second mates were sensible fellows, and learned to esteem Dick for his excellent qualities. He managed the men admirably, and got more work out of them than they could, so that all things went smoothly. He did not abuse them for swearing or coarse language, but, by bringing out his Bible, he got them to listen; and then, pointing to God’s Word, asked them whether such and such things could be right in His sight. Thus by degrees they were induced to give up a habit which had become with most of them a second nature.

We had just made the north end of the Caribbean Islands soon after daylight, and were going about, to beat up to our port, as the wind was against us, when the look-out at the mast-head caught sight of a large ship which appeared to be on shore on a reef. Her sails were furled, and she was heeling over greatly. I accordingly stood on, to render her any assistance she might require. As we drew near her, we saw that she was, indeed, hard and fast, while a heavy sea broke on the reef and threatened her with destruction. Through my glass I could see that the crew were employed in lowering the yards, probably for the purpose of building a raft. I, ordering the first mate to stand off the land, lowered two boats. I took the command of one, and Dick of the other, and we pulled towards the wreck. The tide was rising, and as we got near we saw that the breakers were dashing with increasing fury against the ship. A boat crowded with people had got away on the lee side towards the land, and another, attempting to follow her example, was swamped, and we feared that all the people in her were lost. To approach on the weather side was impossible. I therefore directed Dick to follow me, and pulled away to the south’ard, hoping to get round it, as I did not believe that it extended many miles in that direction. We had, however, a long pull, and by the time we got into comparatively smooth water, having passed round the southern end of the reef, I was afraid that the fate of those on board must be sealed. When we again made out the ship, I feared that my worst anticipations had been fulfilled, for the sea broke completely over her. Her masts were gone and her upper works washed away. I got as near as I could, but could distinguish no human being on board. Her crew must either have been carried away by the sea, or made their escape in the boats, or on the raft they were forming, if, as I doubted, they had had time to finish it. Away to the westward rose a rocky island, which, from its appearance, I guessed was uninhabited, and I thought that in all probability any who had escaped would attempt to effect a landing on it. As in their hurry they were not likely to have carried either provisions or water, I determined to pull to the island, to relieve any of the people who might have reached it. As we drew near, I saw that the sea was breaking heavily on the weather shore, but I had no doubt of being able to land on the lee side. We had a long pull before us; but the men exerted themselves, and I still hoped to get back to the ship before night closed in.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Emilie.

On landing on the lee side of the island, I climbed to a high point near at hand, whence I could take a glance over the sea to the westward, but could discover no sign of either raft or boats, and therefore concluded that they must have been cast on the weather side; and if so, from the heavy surf which broke against it, I feared few could have scaped it.

However, with Dick and several of the men, I pushed across, carrying ropes and boat-hooks and some of the oars, to try and save any who might be clinging to the neighbouring rocks. We had not got far when I heard a voice hailing, and we caught sight of a man on the top of a rock in the centre of the island, waving to us. “Make haste! make haste!” he shouted, “or you will be too late.” The stranger hurried down the rock, and we followed him.

In a few minutes we again caught sight of the sea on the east side of the island. As we were climbing over the rough ground, I saw that a reef extended some distance from the mainland, with wild rocks rising out of it above the foaming waters. Midway between them and the land was a large boat, surrounded by people, some on the reef, others clinging to the boat; while several were at that moment being carried away by the sea, which, sweeping round the rocks, beat with violence against the shattered boat. The men with frantic efforts were attempting to drag her up farther on the reef, as the only hope of saving their lives. Now one poor fellow, now another, was washed away, as the sea swept round over the reef with ever-increasing force. We were hurrying down the rocks, when I saw just below us a young lady, for I could not doubt, from her appearance, that she was such. She had been gazing at the dreadful spectacle, and apparently unable to witness it longer, she sank on the rock, pressing her hand on her eyes, to shut it out. At this moment we were joined by the stranger who had called to us.

“I caught sight of your boat coming towards the island, and was hurrying across, to entreat you to try what you could do to assist our friends,” he said. “Help is at hand, Emilie; they may still be saved,” he exclaimed, as he made his way to where the young lady was seated.

We got as close to the people as the sea would allow us.

“Hold on to the rope,” cried Dick, securing the end round his waist. “I will swim out, and make it fast to the boat.”

Fearlessly he plunged into the boiling surf, but was soon carried down far below the boat, and we hauled him back, not without great risk of his being dashed against the rocks.

“I will try it again, and start higher up the shore,” he exclaimed, still undaunted.

“Let me go,” cried the young stranger; “they are my friends, and I ought to run the risk.”

“If I cannot manage it, you shall go the next time,” answered Dick, once more plunging into the water.

He swam on directly across the boiling current, which swept him down towards the boat. He had very nearly gained a footing on the rocks, when once more he was carried down, and we hauled him back, utterly exhausted. His bravery had encouraged the rest of the men, several of whom begged that I would allow them to make the attempt.

“I said that I would go next,” exclaimed the young stranger, fastening the rope round his waist, and, before I could stop him, he plunged into the water. He buffeted the waves bravely, but his strength was not equal to the undertaking. I trusted that, notwithstanding his light figure and delicate appearance, he would succeed. Every moment was precious, for one after the other the people were being carried away before our eyes, without our having the means of saving them. He had already got a footing on the reef. Just as some of the men were making their way towards him, and he had nearly got up to the boat, a sea lifted him off his feet, and he and those who were near him were swept away. My men and I hauled in the rope, but, unable to guide himself, he was dashed with violence against the rocks, and when we drew him on shore, he was almost insensible.

“Oh, my poor, poor brother!” exclaimed the young lady, who knelt down by his side. “Can nothing be done for him?”

“He will, I trust, recover,” I said, “though I fear he is greatly injured. But we must make another attempt to help the poor people on the rock.”

“Oh, do so, brave men!” she said, looking up with an imploring glance, her thoughts being evidently divided between her brother and those he had attempted to rescue.

Dick was preparing again to make the attempt. This time he fastened two oars under his arms, with a boat-hook lashed across them, and, supported by this simple sort of catamaran, he at length, by great exertions, reached the rocks, and secured the rope to the bow of the boat, round which the survivors were clinging. Among them were two females. Securing one of them to himself by means of a spare piece of rope, and pushing back some of the men, who were attempting to reach the shore by the rope, he began to make his way along it, resting on the oars. Every instant I dreaded to see him and his burden carried away, but he landed in safety, and we placed the almost senseless lady by the side of her friends.

We had fortunately brought a second coil of lighter rope. As I saw that Dick was exhausted I determined to go myself, and, making the rope fast round my waist, I hauled myself across, as Dick had done, though, from the difficulty I had to hold on, I judged of the danger he had gone through.

As the tide was still rising, I knew that the boat and all clinging to her must shortly be washed off the rock.

The youngest female was still safe. I secured her to my back, following Dick’s example, and began hauling myself across, though every moment I expected to be washed away. As soon as she landed, she threw herself into the arms of the young lady whom we had first seen, and, from their likeness, I judged that they were sisters. I was about to return, when I saw one of the men making his way across by the rope, and that others were preparing to follow, not waiting for the assistance which the oars might afford them.

“Oh, my father, my father, is he not coming!” exclaimed the young lady I had brought on shore.

I had observed among the people on the rock a gentleman who had committed the young lady to my charge.

“I will try and save him!” I exclaimed.

At that moment loud shrieks were heard, for the sea had lifted the boat and swept her and all clinging to her off the rock. The rope still held, and my men hauled on it with right good-will. The other rope was still round my waist. I plunged into the water, and swam towards the boat. I caught sight of the gentleman just at the moment that he had been forced from his hold. In another instant he would have been carried away, when, grasping him tightly, I shouted to my men to haul me in. Almost exhausted, I was drawn on shore with the person I had rescued. Of the rest, three were thrown on the rocks, one of whom was carried away before he could make good his footing, while the remainder were swept out to sea. Besides the two we had first seen, only eight were saved. The sorrow exhibited by the ladies and the old gentleman when they saw how severely injured the young man had been in his effort to help them, made me suppose that they were relatives.

“Oh, Henri, Henri!” they murmured, bending over him.

Their accent and the last words they uttered showed me that they were French.

The young man opened his eyes and tried to smile, as if to reassure them.

“I am not so very much hurt,” he answered, in a low voice.

Just then I was sure I knew the expression of his countenance; his eyes, too, glanced at my face.

“Are you not Frenchy?” I asked, “My old friend Henri de Villereine?”

“Yes, Charley. I thought I knew you,” he answered. “Thank you, thank you, for what you have done!”

His companions looked at me with surprise. “I am an old schoolfellow,” I said; “and I am doubly thankful that I have been the means of helping those belonging to him.”

There was, however, no time for conversation or explanation beyond this. Having formed two rough litters with our oars and ropes, we placed my old schoolfellow on one and the elder lady on the other, while I and the other gentleman assisting the young ladies, we proceeded back to the boats. The provisions we had brought somewhat restored all the party.

The evening was approaching, and when I looked out for the ship I could but just distinguish her topsails above the horizon. We had a long pull before us, and I feared we should not reach her before dark, and, if so, we might have to spend the night tossed about on the stormy sea. I cheered my men, and they did their utmost. Dick had taken the seamen in his boat, and I had the passengers in mine. They were much cast down at the loss of their companions and the horrors they had gone through.

I found that the young lady who had at first landed was Henri’s sister; the other I had saved was Sophie, his cousin; and the old lady and gentleman her father and mother. Thus the whole of one family had been saved, but several other passengers, men, and women, and children on board, had lost their lives.

They belonged, they told me, to the island of Saint Lucia, and were on their way to pay a visit to England, which neither of the young ladies had seen.

Emilie was an intelligent, interesting-looking girl, and appeared much attached to her brother, by whose side she sat, trying to support him in as comfortable a position as could be arranged in the stern-sheets. I was, however, more struck by the gentle and sweet look of Sophie, whose features also were decidedly prettier than those of her cousin, though few girls under the circumstances could have looked attractive; and it may seem strange that I should have thought about the matter, but I had saved her life, and naturally felt an interest in her. Henri, I observed every now and then, gazed at her when he could lift up his head, but she turned away her eyes, as if unwilling to meet his, and then he sank back with a sigh.

While we pulled southward inside the reef, although the sea was somewhat heavy, it was much smoother than outside, and I feared that we might have some difficulty in getting our passengers on board. I had fortunately brought a musket and powder-flask, with some blue lights, from the ship. The sun set before we reached the southern end of the reef, and we had barely light sufficient to steer with any degree of safety round it. At length, however, I judged that I might venture to do so, and we commenced our pull out to sea. The waves broke with a loud roar on the rocks close to us, and I could distinguish the surf rising up like a white wall as we made our way to the westward. I was thankful when I saw it well over the quarter. My men exerted themselves bravely. As soon as we had got to a sufficient distance from the reef, I fired the musket and let off a blue light. There was no answer from the ship. We pulled out still farther, and in half an hour made another signal. My relief was great when, about as I judged a mile away, a blue light burst forth from the ship, showing clearly her rigging and sails as she bore down towards us.

Scarcely an expression of anxiety or alarm had escaped my new friends, although to them the foaming seas, as we made our way over them that dark night, must have appeared truly terrible.

In a short time the ship appeared like a phantom moving over the ocean. I let off another blue light, to show our position. She hove-to, and we pulled up under her lee. As we approached, I ordered a chair to be slung, to hoist our passengers on board. The operation would be a dangerous one.

By the time we were alongside the chair was ready, with lanterns let down on either side of it. The old lady was first sent up, and then his sister and cousin entreated that Henri might go. I secured him in the chair, for he had not strength to hold on. He groaned as I did so, the boat all the time rising and falling, and there was a risk that, before he could be hoisted clear of her, she might be lifted up and strike the chair. This risk, indeed, was run by all the party. I was anxious to get the old gentleman to take his seat next, as I knew that I could with greater ease carry the lighter forms of the young ladies up in my arms. Henri was lifted on deck, and then, almost by main force, I placed Monsieur de Villereine in the chair. As soon as I saw him swinging well out of the way of the boat, taking Sophie round the waist, and telling my coxswain to follow with her cousin, I sprang up the side. It was well that I did so, for at that moment, a sea surging round almost stove in the boat and half filled her with water; but the men were ready, and, hooking on, the falls were let down, and the boat was hoisted up in time to save her being completely knocked to pieces. The party in Dick’s boat took but a short time in getting on board, and she also was quickly hoisted up.

While the ship stood off the land, I went down to the cabin to attend to my passengers.

I fortunately had plenty of berths. The steward set to work to get them ready, and the cook meantime was busy in preparing hot soup and arrowroot, and other things which he thought might conduce to the comfort of my unexpected guests. Having served in passenger ships, I was at no loss what to do, and the mates and I turning out our wardrobes, supplied clothing which might serve while that of the party was washed in fresh water and dried.

The night was stormy, and I was obliged constantly to be on deck, but whenever I went below, I visited poor Henri, who was suffering much. I did all I could to relieve him, and directed my steward, who was a trustworthy man, to remain by his side during my absence.

The next day the weather moderated, and I was thankful to find the rest of the party greatly recovered. They all expressed their gratitude to me for the attention I paid to their relative.

“You forget,” I answered, “that he is an old schoolfellow, and that I have the greatest satisfaction possible in being of service to him.”

“Ah, you must be the friend then of whom he has often spoken to us, who was so kind to him at school,” observed Emilie. “We have so longed to see you, to return the kindness you showed him when he was a boy, and we hope to do so, as he said you promised to pay us a visit should you ever come to the West Indies.”

I replied that I should be very glad to avail myself of the invitation he had given me, could I manage to do go, but that I feared my duty would not allow me to leave the ship on that voyage.

Henri appeared to get much better during the day. While I sat by him, he repeated the invitation his sister had given me, and entreated me to visit them, saying, his father and mother, he was sure, would be most anxious to see me.

None of the rest of the party suffered much from the exposure and alarm to which they had been subjected.

Within a week we were safely at anchor in Carlisle Bay, on the shore of which, Bridgetown, the capital of the beautiful island of Barbadoes, is situated.

Chapter Twenty Three.

A Hurricane.

As soon as the anchor was dropped and the sails furled, I conveyed my passengers on shore, that I might see them comfortably lodged as soon as possible. I had offered to supply them with funds, but Monsieur de Villereine, thanking me cordially, assured me that he was well known to several merchants in Bridgetown, and that he should have no difficulty in obtaining money.

“I should be very thankful, however, if you could convey us to Saint Lucia, as we should prefer sailing in your ship to any other,” he observed; “and as I am well known to your consignees, I may, perhaps, arrange the matter with them.” I of course replied that I should be truly glad if this could be done, though I could not venture on my own responsibility to go there.

“Oh, but my uncle will easily manage it,” observed Emilie, “so we will consider it settled. I should not like to trust my dear brother on board any other ship.”

Sophie seemed inclined to speak, but hesitated: though the glance she gave me, I fancied, showed that she hoped I would not decline.

“Oh, you must come, Laurel,” said Henri. “My father will, I am sure, be glad to pay any expenses of extra insurance and that sort of thing, so that the interest of your owners will not suffer.”

Having seen my friends lodged at a comfortable hotel, I had to return on board to attend to my duties connected with the ship.

I lost no time in discharging my cargo, and was not sorry to find that there would be some delay before the sugar and other produce I was to receive in return would be ready.

I of course visited my friends every day, to see how poor Henri was getting on, and spent as much time with him as I could. They insisted as regularly on my remaining to dine and spend the evening. Every day that I saw the young ladies, I liked them better, and confessed to myself that I had begun to feel more than an ordinary interest for Sophie. Her eyes brightened when I entered, and her manner towards me was so gentle and so confiding, that I could not help fancying that the feelings I had for her were returned. Then I began to ask myself the question, Have I, with the precarious profession I have to depend on, without a name or family, with only one friend able to assist me, any right to attempt to win the affections of a young girl accustomed to all the luxuries of a rich planter’s establishment? or is it indeed likely that her father would allow her to marry a person situated as I am? These and similar thoughts occupied my mind; and I determined, the next time I went to the house, to be very cautious in my manner, and, only paying such attentions to her and her cousin as common courtesy demanded, to devote myself rather to her uncle and aunt, or to Henri, who had now sufficiently recovered to be able to join the party in the drawing-room.

The next day, however, when I went to call on the merchants to whom the Ellen was consigned, they inquired whether I should have any objection to carry Monsieur de Villereine and his family to Saint Lucia.

“He has made the necessary arrangements with us, so that, if the ship is ready, you can sail the day after to-morrow.”

I tried to look unconcerned, and replied that I should be very glad to do anything to accommodate them.

“We will consider the matter settled then,” was the answer; “you can get ready for sea.”

I own that I had had my cabins burnished up, and had procured a new dinner and tea service, while I directed the mates to get the ship in as trim order as possible. As soon as the cargo was discharged, the painters had been busy in all directions about her; while Dick, who suspected the truth, got the decks holy-stoned and scrubbed till they looked almost as white as snow.

All things were ready by the day I had been directed to sail, and early in the forenoon I went on shore to escort my passengers on board. They too were in very different guise to that when they came on board after their shipwreck. Sophie looked more sweet and lovely than ever, in the light costume which the heat of the climate required, while Emilie was cheerful and full of conversation, doing her utmost to keep up her brother’s spirits. I was sorry to see less improvement in him than I had hoped. He looked pale and ill, though he declared that he had recovered from the injuries he had received when dashed against the rocks.

The weather was fine, and I did not expect to be long in running across to Saint Lucia, which is one of the nearest islands in the Caribbean Sea to Barbadoes. The wind, however, headed us soon after we got clear of the land, and a few hours afterwards it fell a dead calm, and we lay immovable on the glass-like sea. I cannot say that for my own sake I specially regretted this, though, knowing the wishes of my friends, I felt anxious to make the shortest possible passage.

I had an awning rigged, so that the ladies could spend the day on deck, where they sat busy with their needles; for, unlike the Creoles generally, they were evidently good housewives.

“As you may suppose, Captain Laurel, having lost all our things, we have plenty of work before us to make fresh ones,” observed Emilie, laughing. “Though as we intended to get rigged out, as you would call it, in Paris, fortunately our loss was not so severe as it would have been on our homeward voyage. Ah, but I am wrong to talk so lightly, when I speak of that terrible event. Still, you understand, that we fancy we can make our own things better than anybody else can make them for us, and therefore you must not expect to find us sitting, like other young ladies, with our hands before us.”

Sophie, however, was not so diligent as her cousin, and did not object to come to the side of the ship, and watch the strange creatures of the deep as they swam or floated by. When night came on, and the stars shone forth from the clear sky, each reflected in the deep as in a mirror, she stood with me while I told her their names. I was scarcely aware how time had passed by, when I heard Monsieur de Villereine’s voice summoning his niece, and telling her that it was time for her to retire to her cabin.

I was never addicted to whistling for a wind, and certainly should not have done so on that occasion. A breeze, however, came at last, and the Ellen gliding swiftly over the calm sea, we came in sight of that most beautiful and picturesque island of Saint Lucia.

Two lofty heights of a sugar-loaf form, shooting up from the sea, and feathered from base to summit with the richest foliage, were the first objects which attracted our attention. Beyond these rose a range of mountains, running north and south through the island, and broken into the most fantastic shapes. As we sailed along the shore, having the mountains still as the background, here and there appeared the most lovely little caves and bays, fringed with luxuriant cane-fields, and enlivened by the neatly laid-out mansions of the planters; while numerous fishing and passage boats, with their long light masts and lateen sails, were gliding over the calm waters.

“I used to tell you, Laurel, that our island was one of the most beautiful in the world—don’t you think so?” said Henri, as, while standing near his sister and cousin, I was watching the shore, and every now and then addressing them.

“Indeed it is. I am not surprised that you are so fond of it, and, could I leave the sea, I should be content to spend my days there,” I answered, speaking as I felt.

“Oh, do,” exclaimed Henri. “Come and turn planter; we can give you plenty of occupation, and my health as been so bad lately, that I should be glad if you could take my place.”

“I am afraid that, having lived so little on shore, I should make but a poor farmer,” I answered, laughing.

Sophie looked up at me, and remarked: “The difficulties to be overcome are not very great, I suspect, and I am sure you would soon learn all that is necessary.”

“The proposal is indeed a tempting one,” I answered; “and yet I love the sea, and should be sorry to abandon it.”

“Oh, you can take an occasional trip to England,” observed Henri. “Have a ship of your own, and just make a voyage when you get tired of the shore.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a shift of wind, which compelled me to issue orders for trimming sails.

The steward then announced luncheon, and I remained some time on deck after my passengers had gone below.

I had observed Dick, who did not often trouble himself about scenery, watching the coast with more than usual interest.

“Do you know, captain,” he said, coming up to me, “I have a notion that I have seen this island before. The look of the coast is very like that we sailed along when I was aboard the Laurel, before I picked you up. I shall be able to tell better when we come off the harbour, for then I think I should be sure to know the place again. It will be strange if it should turn out that I am right in my idea, and if so, I would advise you to make inquiries, and learn if any of the families on shore about that time lost a little boy in the way you were lost. Maybe, as the newspapers say, you will hear of something to your advantage; and if you don’t, why you won’t be worse off than you are now, and you may be very sure that as long as Dick Driver lives, you have got a friend who will stick to you, blow high or blow low.”

“I am sure you will, Dick,” I answered. “Though perhaps, as many years have passed by since you were last on these seas, you may be mistaken as to the island.”

Yet, although I said this, I could not help allowing strange hopes and fears to agitate my bosom. I might discover my parents, or they might be dead, and their successors might be unwilling to acknowledge a stranger coming among them. I could scarcely calm myself sufficiently to go into the cabin. I determined, however, to say nothing about Dick’s remarks, but to try and overcome all the hopes which I found rising within me. I apologised for being late to luncheon, on the plea of being detained on deck by duty, and did my best to perform the honours of the table and try to converse in my usual manner. The ladies were eager to know when I thought we should get in.

“The wind is so light that I do not expect to enter the harbour till to-morrow morning,” I replied. “I cannot pretend to regret this, as I know my stay will be very short, and it will defer the time when I must bid you farewell.”

Sophie looked up at me, and a shade of sadness passed over her sweet countenance. I could not be mistaken. I interpreted her feelings by my own, and just then I would have given a great deal to have had a proper excuse for remaining at Saint Lucia.

Night came on, and the Ellen floated calmly on the moonlit sea. Emilie had insisted on Henri going below, afraid of his being exposed to the night-air: indeed, the trying cough from which he suffered showed how necessary it was that all care should be taken of him.

Sophie still lingered on deck. I invited her to come to the side and watch the moonbeams playing on the waters.

“I know what sailors have to go through,” she observed, “but yet I fancy the enjoyments of a night like this must almost recompense them for the tempest and rough seas they have to endure.”

“We get so well accustomed to both one and the other. Though acknowledging the beauty of the ocean under all its various phases, whether sleeping as now under the beams of the pale moon, or glowing in the rays of the ruddy sun, we value them less, I fear, than those who only occasionally venture on the world of waters,” I remarked.

“Oh, but I am sure I could never look with indifference on such a scene as this,” said Sophie, “and should be content to make voyage after voyage to witness it.”

However, I do not feel disposed to say what else we talked about. I was young, and said what I certainly did not intend to say. I told Sophie that I loved her, and would never marry any one else. She did not withdraw her hand, and, whispering that I had made her very happy, promised that she would be faithful to me, and that she did not suppose her father and mother would object to me, especially as I was the friend of her cousin.

The time flew by faster than I supposed, as we thus stood talking; Dick, who had charge of the deck, keeping at a judicious distance.

Suddenly the light on the water disappeared, a cloud had obscured the moon; again the light shone forth, and again was shut out; still no wind filled our sails. I knew, however, that it might come ere long. Sophie still lingered by my side. Hitherto the ocean had slept in silence. Suddenly a rushing murmuring sound fell on my ear.

“Hands aloft, and shorten sail!” I shouted. There was not a moment to be lost.

“Go below, I entreat you,” I said, leading Sophie to the companion-hatch.

“Oh, what is going to happen?” she asked, in an anxious tone.

“A hurricane is, I fear, upon us,” I answered, “and you will be safer below.”

She no longer hesitated, and her father, aroused by my voice, happily came to assist her down.

“Turn the hands up!” I shouted to Dick, who hurried forward to rouse up the watch below.

In less than a minute the other mates and the rest of the crew were on deck. Courses were hauled up, topgallant sheets were let fly, topsails lowered. The crew had sprung aloft. The fore-topsail was hauled, but before the men were off the yards, the hurricane was down upon us. Over the ship heeled. In an instant the topgallantsails were blown to ribbons.

“Down, for your lives, down!” I shouted. No human power could have handled the canvas now, with wild roars lashing furiously in the wind. The main and mizen-topsails were blown out of the bolt-ropes, and soon with innumerable coils encircled the yards. The ship, relieved of the pressure of the sails, righted. Happily the wind was off the land, or in a few minutes she would have been driven on shore. Still there was the danger of it shifting; I therefore put the helm up, and ran off before the wind. Every instant the sea rose, and as she got farther and farther from the land, she began to pitch and tumble wildly about. Dick and several hands, going aloft with axes, at length cleared the topgallant yards, and we got them down on deck, and struck the gallant masts. Getting the main-topsail set, a lull occurring, I was able to heave her to.

Not till then could I venture to leave the deck. On entering the cabin, I found my passengers clinging to the sofas. By the light which swung to and fro in the centre, I saw that they all looked pale and alarmed, expecting again to have to encounter the fearful dangers from which they had lately escaped. I did my best to reassure them, by expressing my hopes that the hurricane would soon cease, and that, God protecting us, we might be able to enter port.

“Oh, then I have no fear,” exclaimed Sophie; and raising her head, she did her best to impart the same confidence she felt to her companions.

Not knowing, however, what might occur, I was compelled again to return quickly to the deck. The gale howled and whistled through the rigging, the waves roared, and the sea, as it rose in wild billows around, every now and then broke on board, threatening to sweep our decks clear of all upon them. The lightning, darting from the clouds in vivid flashes, played around our masts. At any instant the electric fluid might, I knew full well, come hissing down on deck, and set the ship on fire. Should also the wind shift, we should lose more of our sails, and might be driven before daylight helplessly on shore.

It was a very anxious time; for I felt that I had not only the ship to look after, but her whom I loved more than my life, and those dear to her, under my charge.

Still the confidence in God’s protecting care which has cheered me through life supported me on that trying occasion. I knew too that it was enjoyed by my friends; for, from the conversations I had had with them, I had discovered that they possessed the same faith as I did, and though, from living among those who differed from them, they did not speak in public on religious subjects, they made the precepts of the Bible the rule of their lives.

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Happy Discovery.

Morning broke at length. How different was the appearance of the ocean to that it had presented the previous day! The dark-green foam-topped waves danced up wildly, the sky was of a murky hue, the wind roared and whistled as loudly as before, and the ship, instead of gliding on with calm dignity, tumbled and tossed as if she was a mere cock-boat.

Sophie begged to come on deck. I assisted her up. Scarcely had she appeared, when there came a break in the clouds to the eastward, and the sun shone forth. “A good omen!” she exclaimed.

“We may take it as such,” I answered; “and I trust that before long the hurricane will cease, and He who holds the waters in His hands will save us from further danger.”

The wind ceased almost as suddenly as it had arisen, the sea went down, and in a few hours we were able to clear the yards and bend fresh sails. Once more the ship was standing for the land.

My first mate had frequently been at Saint Lucia, and he acting as pilot, soon after daylight the next morning we entered the harbour.

The ship of necessity must I found be detained some days, as the main-topmast was badly sprung, while she had received other damages in the gale. As these could be repaired under the superintendence of my first mate, I escorted my passengers on shore.

Monsieur de Villereine had begged me to come to his house, which was situated about a mile from the town, but I felt compelled to accept Henri’s invitation to accompany him and his sister to his father’s house, a short distance farther off on the side of the mountain; and more so, as from his weak state, he required my assistance in getting in and out of the carriage. Poor fellow! my heart grieved for him, as it seemed to me, though he had no apprehension of danger, that he was only returning home to die.

I had asked Sophie whether she had mentioned our engagement to her father and mother.

“I will do so immediately we get home,” she answered; “it would be better than saying anything at present.”

Monsieur de Villereine’s house stood on elevated ground, with extensive sugar plantations below it. It was of a considerable size, surrounded by a broad verandah. The handsome appearance of the interior, and the numerous domestic slaves, gave me an idea of the wealth of the owners. I could not help asking myself, “Will Sophie be content to exchange all this luxury for the limited income and small house which I should alone have the power of offering her?” I had but one moment to speak to her alone. She seemed to divine my thoughts.

“I do not value all these things,” she said, pressing my hand; “and I trust that my brothers will live to occupy this house.”

She had already told me of her two brothers, who were away on the other side of the island.

After resting some time, we continued our journey to the house of Henri’s father and mother. A messenger had been sent on to warn them of our coming.

I was much pleased with the elder Monsieur de Villereine and his wife. They received me in the most kind and cordial way, but I saw how deeply they were grieved at the altered appearance of poor Henri, and that they were evidently far more alarmed than Emilie had been, who had constantly watched him. Their house was even handsomer than that of Sophie’s father, though built in the same style. It commanded a beautiful view of the town and harbour and the blue sea beyond it, while on every side below stretched out the numerous sugar plantations; while here and there were seen the whitewashed houses of the inhabitants, with their gaily-painted verandahs and window blinds.

Though her manner was gentle and kind in the extreme, Madame de Villereine’s countenance wore an expression of sadness which seemed habitual to it. I concluded, however, that this arose very much from her anxiety about the health of her only son. Emilie tried to cheer up her parents by assuring them that Henri was better than he had been, and she hoped that before long they should be able to carry out their project of visiting England.

“Though not our native air, it is yours, you know, mamma, and I am sure it will effectually restore his health.”

Madame de Villereine shook her head.

“I had thought so,” she observed; “but I see a great change in him for the worse, and I fear he is sinking under the same complaint which carried off my dear sister.”

In the course of conversation she happened to mention that the sister of whom she spoke was a Mrs Raglan. I was struck by the name, and inquired who she had married.

“An officer in the navy,” she answered; “but he was ordered to the East Indies, and soon afterwards she died, leaving a little girl. We received notice of her death, but the island being at the time in the possession of France, and war raging, we were never able to ascertain what became of the child.”

Emilie I saw seemed anxious when her mother began to speak on this subject, and endeavoured, without appearing to do so, to change the conversation. Soon afterwards her mother seemed much affected, and left the room.

“I must ask you,” said Emilie, “not again to allude to the subject, as it recalls many painful associations.”

“I will do as you wish,” I answered, “but I feel sure that I am well acquainted with the niece she spoke of;” and I then told her all I knew of Kitty Raglan, my meeting with her father, and her marriage with my old friend Captain Falconer.

She expressed her pleasure at what I had told her, adding, “It will, I am sure, give great joy to mother, for she has always grieved at having lost all traces of my cousin, though she has still greater grief of her own.”

Just then Madame de Villereine returned, and Emilie cautiously prepared her for the interesting information I had to give.

“This is indeed joyful news,” she exclaimed, when I had told her of her niece’s happy marriage with Captain Falconer; when suddenly she stopped and sighed, and the sad expression which her countenance usually wore stole over it.

“Monsieur de Villereine will to-day drive you over to see his brother and his wife and daughter, and you must give them the account you have given me. They will be greatly interested; and oh, how I wish we could persuade Captain Falconer to come over and pay us a visit!”

A carriage shortly afterwards came to the door, and I accompanied my new friend—Emilie wishing to remain with Henri. Monsieur de Villereine, who had observed our approach, received as at the door. He welcomed me with marked politeness, but it struck me that his manner was much more stiff and formal than it had before been. He conducted us to the drawing-room, where I hoped to see Sophie, but her mother alone was there. I was struck also by the change of manner of the old lady, though she was as studiously polite and courteous as her husband. Having begged me to be seated, and made various common-place inquiries, he led his brother out of the room, while the old lady continued the conversation in the same formal strain. When I inquired for Sophie, expressing my hope that she had recovered from the fatigues of the voyage, she answered that her daughter was in her room, and that she did not think she would be able to leave it that morning.

After some time, when it seemed to me that we had exhausted all subjects of conversation, and my tongue had begun in a most uncomfortable way to cling to my mouth, for I somehow or other had forgotten all about Mrs Falconer, and that I had undertaken to narrate her history to her uncle and aunt, I was in truth thinking only of Sophie and myself, the two brothers returned and the old lady retired. They then sat down opposite to me, and I could not help feeling, by the expression of their countenances and their manner, that something not over agreeable was coming. Monsieur de Villereine looked at his brother and then at me, and hummed and hawed several times, as if he did not like to begin what he had to say. At last he mustered courage.

“My dear Captain Laurel,” he began, “I am sure that as a sailor you like open and frank dealing. Now, I need not tell you how much we esteem you, and how grateful we are for the inestimable service you have rendered us, and for your kindness and attention while we were on board your ship; but you must acknowledge that I ought not as a father to allow these considerations to bias me when my daughter’s future prospects are concerned. Now you will understand, my brother and I had agreed that she should marry her cousin Henri, although she herself is not aware of this arrangement. My astonishment was nevertheless very great when she told me that you had offered her your hand, and that she, young and inexperienced as she is, had, without consulting me, ventured to accept you. Such a thing, my dear sir, is against all precedent. The whole of society would be subverted, and all parental authority destroyed, were I as a father to allow what you do me the honour of proposing to take place. I am, I repeat, deeply grateful to you for the inestimable service you have rendered me, but I must ask you to be generous, and not insist on my giving you the reward you demand.”

“My dear sir,” I exclaimed, “I do not ask for your daughter’s hand as a reward for anything I have done, though I esteem it the highest prize I could win. The service you are pleased to say I have rendered you, I should equally have given to any fellow-creature, and I therefore ask your daughter’s hand as a free gift. I love her devotedly, and she has consented, with your permission, to be mine.”

“My permission I cannot give, Captain Laurel,” exclaimed the old gentleman, growing more and more agitated. “I desire to reward you to the utmost of my power, and you have my sincere and hearty gratitude; but more I cannot and will not offer. I regret deeply to say this, and I am grieved—greatly grieved. My brother knows my determination, and I am sure that you will agree that it is better I should express it at once.”

In vain I attempted to plead my cause. I entreated to see Sophie, but her father replied that that would only be painful and useless; and at length the elder Monsieur de Villereine observing that his carriage was ready, I took the hint, and, feeling as if I was walking in a dream, I got into it. I felt dreadfully cast down. It seemed to me that Sophie was lost to me for ever, and I might not again have an opportunity of seeing her.

“I have some few commissions to perform in the town,” said my friend, “and we will drive there. But notwithstanding what has occurred, I must insist on your coming back with me to see Henri: he and his sister will afford you all the consolation they can. But my brother is very determined, and I know him so well that I cannot tell you to keep up your hopes. It would be wiser for you to abandon them altogether.”

We reached the town, and when we got there I was much inclined to go on board the ship and remain: but Monsieur de Villereine pressed me so earnestly to return, that, for the sake of Henri, I agreed to do so. As, however, I wished to go on board for a short time, he undertook to wait for me. Taking a boat from the shore, I pulled out to the Ellen. I had not been long on board before Dick asked me to step into the cabin, as he had something of interest to communicate to me.

“Well, Captain Laurel,” he said, as soon as we were seated, “I went on shore yesterday evening and walked up the town, and I am as sure as I am alive that this is the very place where you came from. As I walked up the street, I came to the very spot where the black woman handed you to me when you were a little chap scarcely higher than my knee—I could swear to it in any court of justice, if it were necessary—and, as I think I have told you, I have always carried about me the very coral you had on at the time; and now I would advise you to lose no time in making inquiries about the matter among your friends.”

So wretched did I feel, that I was very little disposed to do this, and had I not promised to rejoin Monsieur de Villereine, I think that I should have remained on board, to get ready for sailing as fast as possible. I however told Dick that I would do as he recommended.

I found Monsieur de Villereine waiting on the quay for me. As soon as we had got clear of the town, I began to speak to him on the subject. As I went on, I was surprised at the extraordinary agitation he exhibited.

“Do I understand from you, my dear sir, that you yourself were carried away from this island when about four years of age?” he asked, pulling up his horse, as if he felt unable to guide the animal, and gazing at me earnestly.

“One of my mates, who has acted the part of a father to me, has assured me so,” I answered, “though I myself have a very indistinct recollection even of events which occurred much after that.”

“The ways of heaven are indeed mysterious,” exclaimed Monsieur de Villereine. “At the time you mention, my second son, two years younger than Henri, while in charge of a black nurse, was lost to us. The poor woman was wounded by a chance shot during an attack from an English squadron, and she died shortly afterwards without being able to give any account of what had become of the child, though we had hopes that he had been carried on board one of the men-of-war. As, however, two of them were afterwards lost, we abandoned all expectation of ever again seeing our son. I must not raise your hopes too high, nor my own, and yet when I look at your features, and think of what my son might have been, I cannot but believe that you are indeed my lost boy. His name, too, was Charles, which may be a remarkable coincidence. You tell me that that name was given you on board the ship.”

As may be supposed, my heart beat violently as Monsieur de Villereine said this; yet I could not help trusting that he was indeed my father.

That he might himself make inquiries of Dick, I offered to send on board at once for my mate. We accordingly drove back into the town. Dick soon arrived at the hotel, where we remained for him. Monsieur de Villereine cross-questioned him narrowly, and on his producing the coral I spoke of, any doubts he might have entertained vanished.

“My dear boy,” he exclaimed, embracing me, “you are indeed my long-lost son. Your recovery will, I trust, be the means of preserving your poor mother’s life, for she has, I fear, a great grief in store for her; for, although she hoped for the best, I cannot but see that your poor brother Henri’s days are numbered.”

I need not repeat what more my father said. Taking Dick in the carriage, we drove rapidly home. My father hurried in first to prepare my mother, and in a few minutes I had the happiness of being clasped in her arms, and receiving the affectionate kisses of my sister Emilie and the warm congratulations of poor Henri.

“I always loved you as a brother,” he exclaimed; “and now I am indeed delighted to find that you are so in reality.”

I was scarcely aware how quickly the time had gone by, when carriage wheels were heard approaching the house.

“I sent off a note to your uncle and aunt,” said Emilie to me, “as I was sure they would be glad to hear the news, and here they are.”

They entered the room directly afterwards, followed by Sophie. The formal manner my uncle had assumed had vanished. After he and my aunt had cordially welcomed me, the whole party disappeared from the room with the exception of Sophie.

“Papa has withdrawn his objection,” she whispered; “and I told him I would never marry any one but you.”

I must bring my yarn to a conclusion.

My first mate was so trustworthy a man, that I felt justified in sending the Ellen back to Barbadoes under his charge to receive her cargo.

Poor Henri entreated that I would not delay my marriage, and Sophie having no objections, in the course of a few weeks we were united. My brother’s death, which all expected, took place, to our great grief, a short time afterwards.

I was thankful to find that the consignees of the Ellen consented to allow my mate to take her home. On her next voyage my parents and sister, as well as my uncle and aunt, agreed to accompany me to England, leaving my brothers-in-law in charge of their two estates.

We had a prosperous passage, and having been invited by Mr and Mrs Dear to pay them a visit, we on our arrival repaired to their house, where Captain and Mrs Falconer had come to receive us; and I had the happiness of introducing my old friend, and now my cousin Kitty, to her aunt and to the rest of her relations.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Boy who sailed with Blake"

Preface.

The following story is not one of reckless adventure, nor one in which fighting and bloodshed are introduced to fan a spurious spirit of heroism. It is the reproduction of a page of history, and a most important one, when good men held not their lives dear to uphold and defend that which was dearer than life—civil and religious liberty.

The example of Blake is held up to the boys of to-day, not because he fought and conquered, but because he was a conscientious, God-fearing man, and his conscience told him that the best interests of his country demanded resistance to the Stuart rule. Such a man as Blake was a hero everywhere, and needed not a quarter-deck to display his heroism.

Chapter One.

My Friends and I.

“Hark! the bells of Saint Michael’s are sending forth a jovial peal!” exclaimed Lancelot Kerridge, as he, Dick Harvey, and I were one day on board his boat fishing for mackerel, about two miles off the sea-port town of Lyme. “What they are saying I should mightily like to know, for depend on’t it’s something of importance. Haul in the lines, Ben!” he continued, addressing me; “and, Dick, put an oar out to windward. I’ll take the helm. We shall fetch the Cob by keeping our luff.”

The wind was off shore, but as we were to the westward of the Cob, and the tide was making in the same direction, we could easily fetch it. The water was smooth, the sea blue and bright as the eyes of sweet Cicely Kerridge, my friend Lancelot’s young sister, while scarcely a cloud dimmed the clear sky overhead.

Lyme, then containing but one thousand inhabitants, where my two companions and I lived, is situated in Dorsetshire, near its western border, on the northern shore of a wide bay, formed by the Bill of Portland on the east and the Start Point on the west. Along the coast are several other towns, of which Dartmouth, owing to its excellent harbour, is the most considerable, besides numerous villages, including Charmouth and Uplyme. A line of cliffs of no great height extends away on either side of Lyme, which stands at the bottom of a valley; while beyond it rise the green slopes of Colway and Uplyme, hills overlooking the town.

On the eastern side was the house of my father, Captain Roger Bracewell. He had commanded several of the trading ships of Master Humphrey Blake, of Bridgwater, at one time a merchant of renown, and the father of Captain Robert Blake, who had already made his name famous for his gallant defence of Prior’s Hill when Bristol was besieged by Prince Rupert, until it was yielded in a dastardly fashion by Governor Fiennes. My father retiring from the sea with a competency, having married late in life, settled in Lyme, his native place. His house, which overlooked the bay, was of the better sort, with curious gables, and a balcony supported on strong wooden pillars in front, where he was wont to sit, smoking his pipe, and enjoying a view of the ocean he still loved full well, with the ships—their white canvas spread to the breeze—sailing by in the distance, or approaching to take shelter in our roadstead.

There were a few other residences of the same character; but most of the houses were built of soft stone, with thatched roofs, forming four irregular narrow streets, with several narrower lanes of no very dignified character. Still, we were fond of our little town, and had reasons to be proud of it from the events I am about to describe.

My two friends and I spent much of our time on the water. Lancelot, my senior by two years, was the son of the worshipful Master Kerridge, Mayor of Lyme, and Dick’s father was Mr Harvey, a man of considerable wealth and influence in the neighbourhood, brother-in-law of Mr Ceely, who had been made Governor of the town by the Parliament.

Our fathers were Puritans and staunch Parliamentarians. They had become so in consequence of the faithlessness of the King, and the attempt of Laud to introduce Popish rites and to enslave the consciences of free-born Englishmen. Who, indeed, could have witnessed the clipping of ears, the slitting of noses, the branding of temples, and burning of tongues, to which the Archbishop resorted to crush Nonconformity—who could have seen their friends imprisoned, placed in the pillory, and even scourged through the streets, without feeling their hearts burn with indignation and their whole souls rebel against tyranny so outrageous?

“It is a wonder that any honest man could be found to support that miscreant Laud,” I remember hearing my father say. “He and his faithless master are mainly answerable for the civil strife now devastating, from north to south and east to west, our fair English land.”

But I must not trouble my readers with politics; my object is to narrate the scenes I witnessed, or the events in which I took a part. I was too young, indeed, at that time to think much about the matter, but yet I was as enthusiastic a Roundhead as any of my fellow-townsmen. As we approached the little harbour we passed through a large fleet of traders, brought up in the roadstead for shelter, most of which, belonging to London merchants, dared not therefore put into any port held by the Cavaliers. Three or four had dropped their anchors while we were out fishing. We hailed one of them, which had come in from the westward, to ask the news.

“Bad news!” was the answer. “The Malignants have taken Exeter, and many other places in the west country, and are now marching in great force on London.”

“I hope they won’t come to Lyme on their way, for if they do, we shall have but small chance of withstanding them,” I observed to my companions as we sailed on.

“I have but little fear on that score,” replied Lancelot. “We’ll fight while a man remains on his legs, or a gun can be fired from our batteries.”

Lancelot’s enthusiasm inspired me. The breeze freshened. We soon rounded the Cob, when we pulled up among the small craft which crowded the harbour, to a spot where Lancelot usually kept his boat. As soon as we had moored her we sprang on shore, and hurried through the lower part of the town, which was almost deserted.

We found the greater portion of the inhabitants collected at the northern side; and I had scarcely time to ask a question of my father, whom I joined, before we saw a body of troops approaching, led by an officer on horseback. He was a strong-built man, of moderate height, with a fair and florid complexion, and, contrary to the fashion general among Puritans, his hair, in rich profusion, was seen escaping beneath his broad-brimmed hat, while he wore large whiskers, but no beard—his countenance unmistakably exhibiting firmness and determination. He returned in a cordial manner the salutes of the principal townsmen, who had gone out to meet him.

“Who is he?” I asked of my father.

“That, my son, is Colonel Blake. He has come with five hundred men of Popham’s regiment, to protect us from a large army of Malignants—twenty thousand men, it is said—under Prince Maurice, cousin to the King. He threatens to annihilate our little town; but though we shall have a hard struggle to beat them back, God will protect the right.”

The bells we had heard had been set ringing on the announcement of the approach of Colonel Blake; and now, as he and his brave followers entered the town, they pealed forth with redoubled energy.

While the men were sent to their quarters, he, accompanied by the Governor and Mayor, and several officers, rode round the outskirts of the town, to point out the spots where he judged it necessary that batteries and entrenchments should be thrown up.

He was accompanied by a young nephew, also named Robert Blake, son of his brother Samuel, who was killed some time before at Bridgwater, while commanding a company in Colonel Popham’s regiment. I afterwards became well acquainted with young Robert Blake, as we were much drawn together by the fondness for a sea life which we both possessed. His was rather a passion than mere fondness—indeed, like his noble uncle, he was enthusiastic in all his aspirations, and a more gallant, noble-minded lad I never met.

That evening the newly arrived troops, as well as every man in the place capable of labouring, set to work with pickaxes, spades, and barrows to throw up embankments, to cut trenches, to erect batteries, to barricade the roads, and to loophole all the outer walls of the houses and gardens. Officers were in the meantime despatched by the Governor and the Mayor to obtain volunteers from Charmouth, Uplyme, and other villages; while foraging parties were sent out in all directions to collect provisions, cattle, and fodder. Although, in addition to Colonel Blake’s five hundred regulars, scarcely more than three hundred fighting men could be mustered in the town, there were no signs of wavering; but high and low endeavoured to make amends for the paucity of their numbers by their dauntless courage, their energy, and unceasing toil; and even women and children were to be seen in all directions, filling baskets with sods, and carrying materials to the labourers at the earthworks.

Lancelot and I kept together, and did our best to be of use, though I could not do much, being a little fellow; but I know that I worked away as hard as my strength would allow me. Colonel Blake was everywhere, superintending the operations and encouraging the men. Stopping near where my friends and I were at work, he addressed the labourers.

“The haughty Cavaliers fancy that they can ride roughshod into your little town, my lads,” he said; “but I want you to show them that you can fight for your hearths and homes as well as did my brave fellows at Prior’s Hill; and I do not fear that a traitor will be found within our trenches to deliver up the place, while we have a cask of powder in our magazines, or a musket to fire it. And even should our ammunition run short, the Lord of Hosts being with us, we’ll drive them back with pike and sword.”

“Rightly spoken, Colonel Blake,” said my father, who had just then reached the spot where the Colonel was standing. “I am an old man, and had looked forward to ending my days in peace; but willingly will I promise you that the enemy shall march over my dead body before they get within our entrenchments. I served on board the ships of your honoured father, when we had many a tough fight with corsairs, Spaniards, Portingales, and Dutchmen; and I feel sure that I shall not draw my sword in vain when his son commands. Maybe you may remember Richard Bracewell?”

“Well indeed I do,” answered Colonel Blake, putting out his hand and warmly shaking that of my father. “And many a long yarn about your adventures have I listened to with eager interest, while I longed to sail over the wide ocean and to visit the strange countries you described. Who is that youngster standing by you?” he then asked in a kindly tone, looking down on me.

“My only boy, the son of my old age,” answered my father. “Though young now, he will, I trust, ere long grow big enough to fight for the civil and religious liberties of our country, or to defend her from foreign foes.”

“Judging by his looks, and knowing whose son he is, I would gladly have him with me when he is old enough, should heaven spare our lives; but at present he is too young to be exposed to the dangers of war, and I would advise you to keep him under lock and key when the fight is going on, or he will be running where bullets and round shot are falling, and perhaps his young life will be taken before he has had time to strike a blow for the liberties of our country.”

“I hope that I can do something now, sir,” I said, not liking the thoughts of being shut up. “I can fire a pistol if I cannot point an arquebuse; and since morning I have carried a hundred baskets or more of earth to the embankment.”

“You speak bravely, my boy, and bravely you will act when the time comes,” said the Colonel, and forthwith he addressed himself to others who came to receive his orders. Such was my first introduction to one with whom I was destined to serve for many a year.

I well remember the spot where we were standing. On one side lay the blue sea extending to the horizon, below us was the town with its white-walled, straw-thatched buildings, the church with its spire to the left, and before us were the green slopes of the hills sprinkled here and there with clumps of trees, while on the more level spots were to be seen corn-fields and orchards smiling in the rays of the setting sun. Beyond the town was Colway House, a substantial mansion, once the residence of the Cobham family; and about a mile from it, on the opposite side of the valley, was a collection of buildings known as Hayes Farm, both of which had been fortified, and occupied as outposts.

We had, we knew, not many days to prepare for the defence; and I am proud to say that, scrap of a boy as I was, I worked as hard as many of my elders. Late in the evening, when it was already dusk, my father found me, with Lancelot and Dick, still at our self-imposed task.

“Come, boys,” he said, “it is time for you to go home and get some sleep. You must leave it to stronger men to labour during the night.”

“Just let us carry a few more basketfuls, sir,” answered Lancelot. “See that gap; we have undertaken to fill it up, and, for what we can tell, the enemy may be upon us before the morning.”

“Well, well, lads, I like your spirit. I will not baulk you. Give me a spade; I will try what I can do to expedite the work.” And my revered father, as soon as the spade had been handed to him, began digging away with right goodwill, filling the baskets, which were carried up to the embankment. He soon became so interested in the work that he was as unwilling to knock off as we were.

“Run back and get a lantern. Its light will help us to finish our task more quickly. Maybe the host of the ‘Three Tankards’ will lend thee one; or Master Harris who lives opposite; or, if you cannot get one nearer, go home and bring our big lantern which hangs inside the hall door. See that it is well trimmed, though.”

“Ay, ay, father,” I answered, and set off. Knowing every foot of the way, I was not afraid of running, even though the gathering darkness made it difficult to see objects at any distance beyond my nose.

At the first places where I called, all the lanterns had been put into requisition, and so I had to run on until I reached our house. I found my sister Audrey, and Margaret our maid, wondering why we were so long absent. Supper was on the table, and the viands getting cold. On hearing why I wanted the lantern, they both wished to come and help us, Audrey declaring that she could carry a basket as well as either of us boys.

“You must stop and take care of the house,” I answered, feeling a little jealous that a girl should fancy she could work as well as my companions and I. “There are a good many strangers in the town, and it would not do to leave the house empty. Margaret can trim the lantern, as she knows how to do it better than I do. Be quick about it, for I must be off again as fast as my legs can carry me.”

“Take a crust of bread and a piece of cheese in the meantime, Master Ben,” said Margaret, as she took down the lantern, and examined the wick.

“I have no time for eating; I am not hungry,” I answered, and I watched her impatiently, while she poured in some fresh oil. Taking the lantern as soon as it was lighted, I hurried out, and, holding it before me, ran on without fear of rushing against any one coming from an opposite direction. I had got a short distance when I found myself in the midst of a body of men, who were coming up from the harbour carrying loads on their shoulder. They had, I discovered from the remarks which reached me, just landed.

“Do you bring any news?” I inquired.

“Fine news, young sir,” answered one of the men. “Prince Maurice has been driven away from Plymouth, which he tried to take, but couldn’t. But, as maybe he will pay a visit to Lyme, we have brought you powder and shot, and other munitions of war, and no doubt Colonel Blake will make good use of them.”

Having obtained all the information I could from the communicative seaman, I hurried on with the satisfactory intelligence to the works, where I found my father leaning on his spade, pretty well tired out by his unusual exertions. The light of the lantern I brought, however, enabled us to proceed, and he recommenced digging with as much energy as before.

As we were running backwards and forwards, I could see numerous other lights all along the line, within a few yards of each other, marking the spots where the people were working.

It was nearly midnight before our task was concluded. Not one of us had felt hungry or thirsty. My father then insisted on our returning home, and on our way we left Lancelot and Dick at their respective homes.

We found Audrey and Margaret sitting up for us, both looking somewhat pale, naturally supposing that if the finishing of the earthworks was so important, immediate danger was to be apprehended. Supper over, we knelt in prayer, which, on all occasions and under all circumstances, was our wont. Then retiring to bed, I for one slept like a top. Next day was like the previous one.

The news that Prince Maurice, at the head of a vast army, was marching into Dorsetshire, spread through the town and incited every one to renewed exertions. Volunteers, who came in from all sides, were being drilled by Colonel Weir and other officers, most of them having to learn not only the use of the pike and sword, but how to load and fire an arquebuse or musket.

The soldiers and townsmen were still labouring away at the fortifications, when one morning, as Lancelot, Dick, and I were employed at the top of an embankment, my father helping us, we saw a horseman who had been on outpost duty come galloping down the hill towards the town.

“The enemy are near at hand!” he exclaimed, as he rode up to where Colonel Blake and Governor Ceely stood. “They will be here anon. I could see them defiling along the road like a host of ants. I had to ride hard to escape their advance guard.”

On receiving this news, the colonel ordered the drums to beat to arms. Parties were sent out to strengthen the two outposts, and the troops and townsmen, with the volunteers, hastened to the lines.

“How many fighting men have we?” I asked of my father, as I watched the defenders taking up their appointed positions.

“Colonel Blake brought five hundred men with him, and, maybe, with the townsmen and volunteers from the neighbourhood, we shall muster well-nigh another five hundred,” he answered.

“A thousand men to withstand twenty thousand?” I asked in a doubtful tone.

“Each man of the one thousand will count for twenty when fighting in a just cause,” he answered. “Colonel Blake thinks that we can not only withstand, but drive back the Malignants, or he would not wantonly throw away our lives.”

We watched eagerly for some time, when at length horse and foot, gay banners flying, cuirasses and helmets glittering in the bright sun, appeared over the brow of the distant hills. On they came, until every height was crowned, and we saw drawn up in battle array what appeared to us an army sufficient at a single charge to overwhelm our slender defences.

There they remained. We could see horsemen galloping to and fro on the sides of the hills, but as yet not a shot had been fired.

Sentries were posted along our whole line, and the men were ordered to sit down and take their dinners. I saw my father look graver than usual.

“Ben,” he said, “I have been consulting with Master Kerridge, and he agrees with me that it would be wrong to allow you boys to expose your lives. I promise you that if you can render service to the cause you shall be employed; and you must all three give me your words that you will remain where I place you, and not come forth until you are sent for.”

Very unwillingly Lancelot and Dick and I gave the promise exacted from us, though we were more content when my father took us to the church, and told us that we might remain in the tower, whence, as it overlooked the greater portion of the lines, we could see through a narrow loophole what was going forward.

He then returned to the post which he, with Martin Shobbrok, an old follower of his in many a voyage, had undertaken to keep. He had directed me, should the enemy get into the town, to run home and try to protect my sister from insult, and our house from plunder. “Though I may never return, my boy, should the Malignants force an entrance, yet you, Ben, will, I trust, live to become a man, and serve our country either on shore or afloat,” he said in a grave tone, which showed, however, no signs of fear. I often afterwards thought of his words, and prayed that I might fulfil his expectations.

We had not long taken up our position in the tower before we saw the Cavalier forces moving down the slopes of the hill. One party advanced towards our outposts at Hayes Farm, and then attacked Colway House, at which their great guns commenced a furious fire, wreaths of white smoke filling the calm air. Presently the two little garrisons returned the salute with right goodwill.

Then we caught sight of them rushing at full speed towards our lines; and good reason they had to move fast, for, following them close, came horse and foot in battle array, with trumpets sounding, drums beating, lances in rest, pikes at the charge, and swords flashing in the bright sunlight. The enemy halted, however, when still at a distance, and a herald advanced, who blowing a blast on his trumpet summoned the town instantly to surrender.

Colonel Blake, mounting on the ramparts, answered in a loud tone, which reached our ears—

“Not while we have men to fight, or breastworks to defend the place. Go, tell the Prince who sent you that such is our resolve.”

Shaking his fist at the town, the herald wheeled round his horse and galloped off.

But a short time elapsed before the trumpets sounded a general charge, and the infantry rushed impetuously forward towards the lines, hurling immense numbers of hand-grenades among the defenders, which, bursting as they fell, filled the air with smoke and deafened our ears by their explosions.

Not one of our brave fellows wavered, but fired rapidly in return among the dense masses of the foe. The next instant we could see a large body of cavalry riding furiously onward, expecting to gain an easy victory. In vain the bravest attempted to ride over the earthworks, up to the very muzzles of the muskets; but they were driven back by the heavy fire poured into their ranks, and compelled to retreat up the valley, leaving many dead and wounded behind.

We three boys could not refrain from giving way to a shout of joy, believing that the battle was won; but we were grievously mistaken. Again the serried ranks of foot advanced with fierce shouts, threatening the destruction of our little garrison.

Chapter Two.

A Successful Disguise.

On came the enemy with determination. Fiercely the battle raged—again and again the foot advanced up to the embankment, each time retreating from the storm of bullets, case shot, and round shot poured into them, leaving the ground strewed with their comrades, some in the calm of death, others struggling in vain efforts to rise and escape from the field.

Again we thought that the fight for that day was over, when we distinguished a horseman riding along the broken ranks of the Cavaliers, waving his sword, as if to lead them on. He advanced, but not a foot would they budge. They had that day gained a lesson they could not so easily forget.

At length, losing patience, the Cavalier, who we had no doubt was the Prince himself, rode round to where his cavalry were posted. The advance was sounded, and now the horse, drawn up in the rear, urged forward the foot with lances and pistol shots at their backs.

“They must come on this time,” cried Lancelot; “if they don’t, they’ll get cut down by their friends in the rear.”

“Then I hope that such will be their fate,” said Dick. “See, the poor fellows are advancing. I pity them, for they well know how they will be treated by Colonel Blake.”

As the enemy got within range of our firearms they were received with showers of musket balls and case shot, which went through and through their closed ranks, striking down dozens at a time, but still, urged on by their officers—who, to give them their due, fought with the most heroic bravery—they advanced close up to our lines. Here they were met by pistols, pikes, and spears, and then, staggering, they broke and fled, followed by showers of missiles, until they were beyond our reach.

A loud shout rose all along our line, in which we in the tower joined right heartily, but our troops were too wearied with the ceaseless exertions they had made during the whole of the afternoon to pursue the fugitives; indeed, it would have been the very thing the Prince would have desired, as he would have been down upon them with his cavalry, and although they might have retreated to the lines, many a valuable life would have been sacrificed, and no advantage gained.

Colonel Blake therefore contented himself with the brilliant success he had achieved. He had shown those haughty Cavaliers that the garrison of Lyme was not to be so easily overcome as they had thought, and had taught them what they were to expect should they again venture to assail us.

Such was the termination of the first day of the siege. Descending from our tower with the satisfaction of having faithfully fulfilled our promise, we went down the lines to view more nearly the battle-field. The whole ground was strewed near and far off with the bodies of men and horses. Parties were at once sent out to bring in any who might be still living, and to bury the dead while the rays of the setting sun gleamed on the white tents of the Royalist camp, which could be seen in the distance.

Few doubted that another day would see a fresh attack made on our entrenchments, but some were sanguine enough to believe that the Prince, after the lesson he had received, would retire. I asked my father what he thought. He answered—

“The Royalists will not go away without further attempts to reduce the town, for they know too well that if they do they will leave a vigilant enemy in their rear, under whose standard thousands of honest Puritans will gladly gather to destroy the enemies of our country’s freedom.”

The next morning it was seen that the Cavaliers were busy erecting batteries and throwing up earthworks on all the neighbouring heights, so that they might command our forts and batter down our houses.

Notwithstanding the preparations made for the destruction of the town, Colonel Blake urged the garrison to resist to the bitter end, assuring them that ere that should come Parliament would send them relief.

I cannot attempt to give a detailed account of the siege. Soon after his first repulse, Prince Maurice opened fire from his great guns placed on all the heights commanding the town, from the effects of which not only the houses but our forts suffered. In a short time the fort at the Cob was knocked to pieces by a battery which had been thrown up at Holme Bush, which also swept the bay, so as to render it dangerous for any vessel to enter the harbour in the day time. Information was also received that the Cavaliers were busy throwing up another battery at Colway Hill, in front of Colway House, and into this battery they were seen dragging some of their largest ordnance. As it commanded Davies Fort, which was the key of our defences, the Colonel ordered a large body of men to strengthen that fort as rapidly as possible. Volunteers were not lacking, and Lancelot and I were allowed to help. We called for Dick Harvey on the way, and when the men saw three young gentlemen, the sons of the three principal persons in the place, labouring away as hard as any one, it encouraged them to still greater exertions, and in a few hours a bank twelve feet thick had been thrown up, which it was not likely the shot from the enemy’s guns could penetrate. Colonel Blake passing while we were thus occupied, patted me on the head.

“Well done, young comrade,” he said in a kind tone. “If we had a garrison of a few hundred boys like you, we might hold the place against all assailants, without the help of more veteran troops.”

The earthworks had been completed, and Lancelot and I were standing on the top, surveying with no little pride the portion we had assisted in throwing up, when I saw a puff of smoke issue from Colway Hill, followed by a thundering report, and a round shot plunged into the bank close beneath our feet.

“Come down, youngsters!” shouted my father, who had just before entered the fort. “More of those iron balls will be coming in this direction. You must not run the risk of losing your lives when you cannot advance our good cause.” We unwillingly obeyed, but we had not gone far before a succession of reports showed that the enemy had already got several guns into position, and had not the fort been strengthened, it would soon have been rendered untenable. Numerous successive attacks were made, but were repulsed as the first had been.

Poor little Audrey and Cicely were in a great state of alarm while the firing continued, naturally fearing that the whole town would soon be battered down.

At length, however, the Royalists drew off, and we were left in quiet for nearly a week. The time was spent in strengthening the fortifications and drilling the volunteers. We had spies in the camp of the Cavaliers, who managed under cover of the night to come into the town with information of what they were about. One piece of news they brought caused Governor Ceely and my friend Dick much anxiety. It was that Mr Harvey, Dick’s father, who, having been absent from the town when the Cavalier army arrived before it, had been unable to join us, was made prisoner, and was now in the camp. Dick was afraid that the Prince would hang him, as he had others, and talked much with Lancelot and me of a plan for rescuing him; still, for a long time we could strike out nothing feasible. Dick, like a good son, was ready to run every risk, and I was ready to assist him if I could obtain my father’s leave, as was also Lancelot.

We took Audrey and Cicely into our councils. Audrey proposed that she and Cicely should go to the camp and try to bribe the guards to let Mr Harvey escape.

“Bad as the Cavaliers may be, they won’t injure two young girls, and Prince Maurice, who is a gentleman, would be sure to treat us with courtesy,” observed Audrey. “You, Lancelot, and Dick might, in the meantime, during the night, row along the coast, and landing, obtain a horse, with which you can wait outside the Royalists’ camp, until Mr Harvey, being free, finds you and gallops off.”

“No, no, such a plan I can never agree to,” exclaimed Lancelot. “I would sooner trust you two girls in a den of lions than amongst those Malignants. We must devise some other plan; I am sure that our fathers would not consent. Mr Harvey was taken without arms, and nothing can be proved against him.”

This conversation took place on the 6th of May, 1644, and good reason I had for remembering the date. The weather had hitherto been fine, but soon after midday it began to blow hard from the southward, and the seas came rolling into our little harbour. Lancelot, who had gone away, returned in a hurry, accompanied by Dick, and asked him to assist in hauling up his boat, which ran a chance of being dashed to pieces, as Tom Noakes, who had charge of her, was likely to be engaged on the lines. We all three hurried down. When we got there, we found a number of men, who, as the enemy were quiet, had left their posts in order to secure their craft from the tempest. Evening was approaching, and as the gale was rapidly increasing there was no time to be lost. We found the boat tumbling and tossing about at her moorings, exposed to great risk of being run down by the smaller vessels which were standing in for shelter. To get on board was the difficulty, as no other boat was at hand, so Lancelot, pulling off his clothes, and swimming through the foaming sea, was soon on board.

“Stand by, to haul her up as she comes in,” he shouted out, as he cast off the moorings. Then springing aft, he seized an oar. It was well that he did so, for just then a vessel which had rounded the Cob came tearing up under her foresail, the man at the helm apparently not seeing the boat in the way.

Lancelot shouted lustily and plied his oar, the craft just scraping the stern of the boat as she luffed up to come to an anchor. We were on the east shore, the most exposed side of the harbour, it should be understood. Dick and I stood by to seize the boat as she struck the beach. Lancelot, leaping on shore, slipped into his shirt and hauled away likewise, but with our united strength we could scarcely have succeeded, had not Martin Shobbrok come to our aid. Fortunately there were some rollers near at hand, and by their means we at length got the boat hauled up out of harm’s way.

Never had I seen our harbour in a state of greater confusion. The smaller craft continued to stand in sometimes two or three together, many of them running foul of one another before they could bring up, and others being driven on shore.

The larger vessels outside were getting down fresh anchors, and several making sail were endeavouring to beat out of the bay, to obtain an offing where they could ride out the gale.

A large number of the townsmen were engaged in securing the vessels, when sounding high above the roar of the tempest a rapid fusillade was heard in the direction of the lines, while shot after shot from the enemy’s batteries came hurtling into the town.

“The soldiers would be at their suppers at this hour,” exclaimed Martin. “I fear me much that the place has been surprised, and if so, it will go hard with us. Hasten to your homes, young gentlemen, and await the issue; I must to my post.”

Martin, without waiting to see what we should do, taking his musket, which he had placed near the boat, hurried away, as did all the men engaged in securing the vessels. We followed, eager to know what was taking place. The sound of bursting hand-grenades, the reports of muskets and pistols, the shouts and shrieks which reached our ears, showed us that the fight was raging much nearer than usual.

“There’s no doubt about the enemy being in the town,” cried Lancelot. “We may as well die fighting as be killed like rats in a hole. Come on, lads!”

We dashed forward through the market square, in a street leading from which towards the lines we could see, by the bright and rapid flashes, that hot fighting was going on. A party from the harbour had come up just in time to stop the entrance into the square, and with loud shouts they pressed onwards, while from the windows of every house there burst forth bright flashes from arquebuse, musket, and pistol. To force our way in that direction was impossible, so, led by Lancelot, we made a wide circuit, until we reached the neighbourhood of the lines, where we found a furious fight was also raging.

We met on our way several wounded men supported by mourning parties of women, who had ventured up, even to the scene of the conflict, for the sake of succouring those who had been struck down. Still, the fight in the centre of the town continued, and at length we learned from one of the wounded men that a large body of Cavaliers had forced their way into the town, when Colonel Blake, closing in on their rear, had cut them off, but though Malignants as they were, like gallant men they were fighting desperately.

Meanwhile another party outside were endeavouring to drive back the garrison and rescue them. The darkness increased, the south wind bringing up a thick fog, which prevented our assailants from seeing their way. Often the hand-grenades they intended for us were thrown among their own companions, while our people plied them with every weapon which could be mustered. The bullets came pinging against the wall above where we were standing, but in our eagerness we boys heeded not the risk we were running.

“Let us fight too!” exclaimed Lancelot, and we made our way on to the trenches, where not only the soldiers, the volunteers, and the townsmen were fighting, but women, with muskets in their hands, were firing away, encouraging their companions with shouts and cheers. Lancelot had got hold of a musket belonging to one of the garrison who had fallen, and had taken his powder-horn and shot-belt. Dick and I, after hunting about, succeeded in finding a couple of horse-pistols, but scarcely had we fired them than the din in front of us ceased, though the report of firearms to the right and left of us still continued. We could hear the tramp of men and the cries and groans of the wounded in front, but the uproar towards the market-place was quelled. No shots were heard, no clashing of swords, no shouts and shrieks.

“The enemy have retreated! The Malignants are flying!” was the cry passed along the lines.

Still, we could scarcely believe it possible. But an hour had passed since the attack had commenced, and our little garrison had driven back once more the well-equipped troops of Prince Maurice.

The storm raged fiercely during the night, and many fearing that another attack might be made, the greater portion of the garrison remained under arms, ready for any emergency.

Not until morning was the full extent of the Cavaliers’ loss discovered. Within the lines well-nigh four hundred men lay stark and stiff where they had fallen, struck down by the fire from the houses and the fierce onslaught in front and rear, few prisoners having been taken.

Outside the trenches a hundred more strewed the ground, among them many officers of distinction, including Colonel Blewett, a gallant gentleman, greatly esteemed by Maurice. We knew this, because early in the morning the Prince sent a herald to request that he might be restored if a prisoner, or that his body might be given up if dead.

A prisoner he was not, for every officer who had come inside the lines had been slain. The Colonel answered that the body should be restored if found, provided our people were not injured while searching for it and burying the dead. Before long the body of the Cavalier was discovered where he had fallen, at the entrance of the town, leading on his men. It was placed with all decency in a coffin, and Colonel Blake sent word that it was ready to be delivered up, and that he hoped, in return, his friend Mr Harvey would be set at liberty.

The Prince, to the indignation of the garrison, replied that they might keep the body, and refused to give up Mr Harvey. The coffin was, notwithstanding, carried to the lines opposite Holme Bush, when a signal was made to the heralds to come for it. Colonel Blake stood by to receive them.

“Have you any orders to pay for the shroud and coffin?” he asked.

“We have received none,” was the answer.

“Take them, notwithstanding,” answered the Colonel, curling his whiskers, as was his wont when angered. “We are not so poor but that we can afford to give them to you.”

The body was taken up by the men sent to fetch it, and slowly they wended their way back to the camp. An officer approached while the flag of truce was flying. He was one with whom Colonel Blake was acquainted.

“Here, friend,” he said, “you see the weakness of our works. We trust not to them. Tell Prince Maurice that should he desire to come in, we will pull down a dozen yards, so that he may enter with ten men abreast, and we will give him battle.”

“Not so,” answered the Royalist, stung by the reproach to the military prowess of his party. “We will take our own time, but will come ere long.”

The Colonel replied by a scornful laugh.

All that day we enjoyed unusual quiet, for the Royalists had not the heart again to attack us, though we were well aware they would do so should occasion favour them.

Day after day and week after week went by, still our garrison held out. Our provisions were running short, as was our ammunition, and should that fail us—notwithstanding all the heroic efforts which had been made—we should be compelled to yield.

My friend Dick was still very anxious about his father.

“I have an idea!” exclaimed Lancelot. “You, Dick, are like your sister Mildred. Probably the Prince is not aware she is not in the town. What say you to dressing up in her clothes, and taking Ben with you? he can pretend to be your brother. He looks so young, no one would think of injuring him more than they would you, supposing you to be a girl. You can steal out at night; go boldly to the Prince, and say you wish to see your father. He will scarcely refuse you. You can then tell Mr Harvey your plan, and he is a man of wealth; the chances are he’ll find the means of bribing his guards. I meantime will sail along the shore, and landing, arrange as I proposed about a horse, which I will have ready at the foot of Charmouth Rise.”

We kept our plan secret. I had some doubt whether I was acting rightly, but I trusted that my father would not blame me. Audrey and Cicely were delighted, and soon rigged up Dick, so that the keenest eye would not have discovered that he was a boy.

That very night Lancelot, accompanied by Tom Noakes, who had charge of his boat, put out of the harbour, and favoured by a light breeze, stood along the shore. We slipped out and crept along past the sentries, making our way to the east of Colway Hill. Every moment we expected to be discovered, but a thick fog favoured our design, and we got away, creeping along hedges and under banks, until we were clear outside the enemy’s entrenchments as well as our own.

Proceeding northward, we reached a wide-spreading tree on the top of a high bank, where we sat down to rest and consult as to our future course. The moon rising and the fog blowing off, we saw spread out before us the white tents of the Cavalier army, covering a wide extent of ground. We agreed that it would be wise to wait until daylight, lest, approaching the camp, we might be shot by the sentries. Dick produced some food which he had brought in his pocket. We ate it with good appetites. We then stretched ourselves on the sward, not supposing that we should go to sleep, but in spite of our anxiety we dropped off. When we awoke it was broad daylight.

It was fortunate we were not discovered, for Dick’s dress looked so draggled and dirty that no one would have taken him for a young lady. I set to work to brush and clean him, and make him more presentable. We had resolved to walk boldly on unless challenged, until we could reach the Prince’s tent, when Dick would ask leave as if his request was sure to be granted to see his father as though on family matters. If refused, we would wait about the camp until we could find an opportunity of gaining our object. We came sooner than we expected on a sentry, who at once challenged us.

“You won’t stop us, my good man,” answered Dick, going up and slipping a silver crown into his hand. “We have come to see our father, and surely you would not interfere with two young children like us, who can do no harm to anyone.”

The man, a fresh recruit, who knew nothing about military discipline, having pocketed the coin, was easily persuaded to allow us to proceed. The next sentry Dick managed in the same way. We advanced, Dick holding my hand, until we were within the camp. Several persons spoke to us, but did not seem to think it necessary to interfere with our progress, and at length, by dint of inquiring the way we found ourselves standing before a large tent, occupied we were told, by Prince Maurice.

We were waiting for leave to enter, when the curtain was drawn aside, and a Cavalier in cuirass and plumed hat, a light moustache, his locks curling over his shoulders, came forth.

“Who are you, my pretty maiden?” he asked, looking at Dick.

“An’ it please you, sir, I’ve come to see my father, who, we have heard, is a prisoner in the camp, though why or wherefore he is detained we cannot tell, for no more peaceable gentleman is to be found in the south of England. We wish to deliver some messages to him, and learn how he fares. Have we your permission, for you are, I opine, the general of this army?”

The Prince, for that such he was we knew by the way the officers who stood round addressed him, smiled as he replied—

“Say, who is your father?”

“Master Harvey, your highness,” answered Dick.

“You have an arrant rebel for a father, then, I fear,” said the Prince.

“Please, your highness, I know nothing of politics; all I desire is to have a few words with my father, whom I am bound to honour, whether Royalist or Roundhead, and then to quit the camp and return home.”

The Prince, after exchanging a few words with one of the gentlemen standing by, handed a piece of paper, on which he had written a few lines, to Dick.

“Take this, maiden,” he said; “it will gain your object. But, understand, after you have seen your father, for your own sake, without loss of time, you must return home.”

Thankful that we had so easily accomplished the first part of our enterprise—accompanied by one of the officers, who undertook to show us the way—we set off for the cottage in which we were told Mr Harvey with other prisoners were confined.

Chapter Three.

In the Enemy’s Hands.

Mr Harvey looked so astonished when Dick and I were introduced, that he almost betrayed us. Quickly, however, recovering himself, he opened his arms and embraced us affectionately. The other prisoners, gentlemen well acquainted with him, seeing that he wished to be alone, retired to the farther end of the room, when Dick lost no time in whispering into his ear the plan we had arranged for his liberation.

He listened with a thoughtful brow, and Dick continued to press its adoption, but I much feared that he would not agree.

“I will try it,” he said at last; “but you, my children, must hasten from the camp; it is no place for young persons, and should I fail to escape, you will be made to suffer.”

Though Dick begged hard to remain, his father was firm, and told us to return by the way we had come, hoping that we might get free without further questions being asked us.

Having taken an affectionate farewell of Mr Harvey, we set out, Dick cleverly replying to all the questions put to us, and, with much less difficulty than we had expected, we gained the outskirts of the camp. Instead of returning to Lyme, we kept on towards Charmouth, to a spot where we had agreed to meet Lancelot. To our infinite satisfaction we found that he had obtained a horse and left if in Charmouth Wood as arranged, under charge of a lad who had been directed to stay there until Mr Harvey appeared, being supplied with food for himself and corn for the animal.

We would gladly have remained to see the success of our undertaking, but Lancelot was impatient to get back to relieve the anxiety which his father and mother would feel when his absence was discovered. We therefore set off to return to the shore, keeping a look-out to ascertain that we were not watched.

We had reached the top of the cliffs, and were about to descend, when we caught sight in the distance of a party of horse galloping towards us.

“They are out on a foraging expedition, probably,” observed Lancelot. “We must get away before they come here, or they will be apt to inquire our business.”

Whether we had been seen or not, it was impossible to say. We, however, made the best of our way down the cliff; on reaching the bottom we found Tom waiting for us, and forthwith set to work to launch the boat. We had scarcely got her into the water when some of the men we had before seen appeared at the top of the cliffs. They hailed us, and ordered us to come back.

“Very likely,” said Lancelot. “Shove away, Tom. Let them halloo as long as they like.”

We had got out the oars, and the boat was soon in deep water. Dick took the helm while the rest of us rowed, as there was not wind enough to fill the sail had we hoisted it.

A voice from the top of the cliff again ordered us to come back, and presently several shots pattered into the water close alongside.

“Cowards!” exclaimed Lancelot. “Even though they fancy they see a girl steering, they make no scruple of trying to hit us.” The shot only made us pull the harder. Presently we saw some of the men descending the cliff, and making towards a boat which lay hauled up on the beach at some distance.

“They suspect something, and intend to pursue us,” observed Lancelot. “Nevertheless, we have a good start of them, and when we get farther out, we shall feel the breeze and be able to make sail.”

“And maybe the other boat hasn’t any oars in her, and if so we can laugh at them,” said Tom.

Lancelot told Dick to steer right out to sea. “They won’t be inclined to follow us far away from the land,” he observed; “and if we make for Lyme, they will guess where we come from.”

We saw the men reach the boat, and presently they began to launch her. By this time we had got well beyond the range of their firearms.

“Hurrah!” cried Dick, who had been looking to the eastward. “I see a sail coming up from Portland. She’s more likely to be a friend than an enemy, and if we can get on board her we may defy our pursuers.”

This announcement encouraged us. We had need, however, to exert ourselves, for the soldiers had almost launched the boat, which showed us that they had found oars, or they would not have taken the trouble of putting her into the water. We could only just see what they were about, but we made out that four or five fellows had got into her.

Directly afterwards, her head being turned towards us, they gave way. Though the boat was heavy, four stout hands were more than a match for us, for though Tom pulled a strong oar, Lancelot and I were scarcely equal in strength to one man.

Dick kept looking eastward. Again he cried out, “There’s another sail, and another; a whole fleet of them!”

“If they are Parliament ships, they’ll soon make the fellows in the boat astern put about,” exclaimed Tom; but we were pulling too hard to turn our heads even for a moment. Our pursuers still kept on, but they were not near enough to allow them to fire with any chance of hitting us.

They had undoubtedly seen the ships, and thought we were going out to carry them information. This probably made them more anxious to catch us. At length the breeze, as we expected it would, freshened.

“I’ll step the mast; you, Master Lancelot, go to the helm. Stand by to hoist the sail, Master Ben,” cried Tom; and in half a minute we had the mast stepped, the sail hoisted, and the sheet hauled aft, when, again getting out the oars, we glided rapidly through the water. We saw that our pursuers had no sail, or they would have hoisted it. This was satisfactory, though they were pulling harder than ever.

Should the wind hold, we had good hope that they would soon be left behind, still it would be folly to relax our efforts.

“Hurrah! we are distancing them,” cried Tom.

As he spoke, our pursuers fired two shots at us, but the bullets fell into the water astern.

“Blaze away as fast as you like!” cried Lancelot; “every shot you fire will help us to get ahead of you.”

The men in the boat had to throw in their oars to fire, while they lost some time in reloading.

The ships were still a long way off, and it was very probable that, as evening came on, the wind would fail before we could reach them. There was, however, one frigate ahead, which, propelled by oars as well as sails, was making good way. We steered for her.

“All right, boys,” cried Tom; “I see the Parliamentary flag flying from her peak, and if those fellows come near us they’ll have to rue it.”

Notwithstanding, our pursuers, finding that they could not reach us with their muskets, again took to their oars and pulled away with might and main, trusting probably to the chances of the wind falling. Still, as we were already well ahead, we determined to maintain our advantage. The frigate meantime was coming on at good speed, carrying every stitch of canvas she could set. At length both we and the boat in chase were seen, but should the frigate fire at the latter, we might run a chance of being hit. We kept on therefore. As we got nearer, Tom stood up and waved as a signal that we wished to get on board.

On perceiving this, our pursuers knew that their game was up, and, to our regret, putting about, pulled away towards the shore as fast as they had come. The frigate, to allow us to get on board, now clewed up her sails and drew in her sweeps.

We were welcomed on board by her commander, who inquired where we had come from and what we had been about. We frankly told him, when, to our joy, he informed us that the fleet was that of the Earl of Warwick, sent by the Parliament to the relief of Lyme.

“You have come opportunely, sir,” said Lancelot, “for we lack both ammunition, food, and clothing, and had you not arrived, we might in a short time have been compelled to yield to the foe.”

The Mermaid, the frigate we had so fortunately reached, again making sail, continued her course towards Lyme. Darkness, however, quickly came on, but Tom piloted her up to a berth close in with the harbour, where none of the enemy’s shot could reach her. We then accompanied Captain Ray, her commander, on shore, to convey the joyful intelligence of the approach of the Earl of Warwick’s fleet.

The news spread through the town quickly, but Colonel Blake issued orders that no demonstration should be made. My father, when he had heard of our expedition, did not blame me for having taken part in it.

“Ben,” he said, “you should have trusted me; and, my boy, let me urge you never to undertake anything for which you cannot ask the blessing of your Father in heaven as well as your earthly parent. Now go to rest. Before to-morrow evening important events may have occurred.”

On rising the next morning, I saw a goodly array of ships at anchor before the town. Soon after I had left home I met my friend Lancelot, and we hurried down to have a look at them.

While standing on the quay, Colonel Blake with two other officers came down, about to embark to hold a consultation with the Earl.

“Would you like to accompany us and see the big ships?” he asked, looking kindly at Lancelot and me.

We doffed our hats, and answered that it was the very thing we wished.

“Come, then!” he said; and we followed him and his companions into the boat. We pulled away for the Vanguard, one of the largest ships, on the deck of which the Earl stood ready to receive Colonel Blake.

Briefly exchanging greetings, they went to work on business at once, while Lancelot and I were allowed to go round the ship to see the big guns, the huge lanterns, the stores of pikes, and the tops high up the lofty masts, each capable of holding a score of men.

“Have you a mind to sail with us, youngsters?” asked one of the officers. “You are likely boys, and will become prime seamen in time.”

I answered that it was the desire of my heart, but that I must be guided by my father’s wishes, for that he, being himself a master mariner, well knew the nature of the calling. The officer laughed at my reply, and I was about to ask him why he laughed, when Lancelot and I were summoned to return with Colonel Blake to the shore.

From the conversation I overheard I found that the Earl had brought, by order of Parliament, some provisions and military stores, of which we stood greatly in need. Indeed, by this time we wanted nearly everything. One third of our men had no shoes or stockings, and large numbers were but scantily clothed, while famine had made the faces of the stoutest look pale and thin.

So shocked were the brave seamen with the appearance of the garrison, that they made collections of food and clothing on board their ships, while they gave a fourth of their daily allowance of bread for a month to supply our wants. Colonel Blake had also arranged with the Earl a plan by which it was hoped the Prince would be more signally defeated than before, should he again attack the town.

Scarcely, however, had we landed, and before the plan could be carried out, than the Cavaliers in great force once more approached our lines to attempt taking the town by assault; but Colonel Blake, hurrying to the front, placed himself at the head of a chosen band, and sallying forth drove them back. The battle lasted little more than an hour, and during that time Colonel Weir was killed, as were many other officers, and Colonel Blake himself was wounded badly in the foot, while many Cavaliers, several of them of note, lost their lives.

The next day, while the funeral of Colonel Weir was taking place, another equally sanguinary attack was made with the same result.

That night, according to a plan before arranged, three hundred seamen came on shore, and were concealed in the houses. In the morning the fleet was seen under weigh, standing towards Charmouth, now approaching the shore as if about to land some men, now firing at the Cavaliers who appeared on the cliffs.

This made the Prince fancy that part of the garrison had gone away in order to land and attack him in the rear, and that the town was even less prepared for resistance than before.

It was still early in the evening when we saw the Cavaliers in three solid columns approaching, and at the same time the big guns opened fire upon us with redoubled fury. Instead of being diminished, our little garrison had been increased by the seamen landed from the ships, so that we now mustered twelve hundred men.

As the enemy approached, the whole of our force springing into view, opened so withering a fire, that the front ranks of the foe fell into confusion. The next column coming on was treated in the same manner as the first. The big guns meanwhile battered at our earthworks, knocking down walls, and sent their shot through the roofs of the houses, many of which being set on fire were blazing up brightly.

The second column driven back as the first had been, the last advanced shouting fiercely, hoping to retrieve the day, but our brave commander was prepared for them. While he pressed them in front, his best officers appeared on their flanks, and the seamen rushing forward leaped on them furiously with their hangers.

In vain the gentlemen Cavaliers urged on their men. Beaten back at every point, the soldiers took to flight, and at length, when that summer’s day closed, five hundred Cavalier corpses strewed the ground in front of the lines.

In wanton rage at his defeat, Prince Maurice fired red-hot balls and bars of twisted lead into the town; but no farther attempt was made to capture it, and the following day his army was in full retreat, he having heard that the Earl of Essex with a large force was marching to the westward. Altogether upwards of two thousand Cavaliers lost their lives in front of our earthworks.

To us that last day was the saddest of all. By our father’s desire, Audrey and Margaret had taken up their abode in the house of Mr Kerridge, as our own was greatly exposed. Lancelot and I had been endeavouring to ascertain what was taking place, when he saw bright flames ascending from the direction of my father’s house.

We hastened toward it. Our worst fears were realised. Already every part was burning, while red-hot shot and cannon balls kept ever and anon plunging into the midst of it, preventing the possibility of extinguishing the flames. So dangerous was the position, that Lancelot dragged me away, and accompanied me in search of my father, to whom I wished to give the intelligence.

As the firing in front had ceased, we went on, hoping every now and then to meet him. It was by this time getting so dusk that we could hardly distinguish one person from another. As we approached the part of the lines where my father was generally posted, we met a person hurrying towards us. He was Martin Shobbrok.

“Alack, alack! young gentlemen, I have bad news to give you,” he said. “I am hastening for a stretcher on which to carry the captain home, though I fear much it will be but his lifeless body.”

“Where is he?” I asked, in an agony of sorrow. “Take me to him.”

“I remained with him where he fell till a surgeon camp to bind up his wounds, but from what he said I fear the worst,” answered Martin.

Hurrying on, I soon reached the spot where my dear father lay, as Martin had told us, attended by a surgeon.

He knew my voice, but his eyes were already growing dim. Pressing my hand, he whispered—

“Ben, I am about to be taken from you, but I have fallen in a righteous cause; may you never fight for another. And remember, my boy, do your duty in the sight of God, and never fear what your fellow man may say or do to you.”

“I will, father,” I answered, bursting into tears. “Is there no hope?” I asked, finding that my father did not again speak. The surgeon shook his head. Ere many minutes had passed, my kind, brave father breathed his last. “Poor dear Audrey will break her heart,” I cried, while Lancelot raised me from the ground.

We followed the litter on which some men, who had been sent to collect the dead, had placed my father’s body. He received a soldier’s funeral, with several other brave men who had fallen on that day, so glorious to the national cause.

We were orphans, but not friendless, for Mr Kerridge invited Audrey and me, with Margaret, to take up our abode at his house until arrangements were made for our future disposal. Dick had all this time received no new of his father, and he, as were all who valued Mr Harvey, was in great anxiety as to his fate. Had he been unable to make his escape, Prince Maurice would not have scrupled to hang him, as he had other Roundheads who had fallen into his power, when he found himself defeated.

Dick, Lancelot, and I were going along the lines picking up bullets and searching for arms and any valuables which might have been left by the Cavaliers, when we saw a horseman spurring at full speed towards the town. Dick gazed eagerly at him.

“That’s my father!” he exclaimed. “I know his way of riding. Heaven be praised!”

Dick was right. In a short time Mr Harvey, having thrown himself from his horse, was embracing his son. Owing to the arrangements we had made, he had effected his escape, though he had nearly been caught afterwards by Prince Maurice’s troops as they advanced eastward. He came to inform Colonel Blake of the road they were taking, and of their probable plans for the future. He brought also news of the near approach of the Parliamentary army under the Earl of Essex and of the recapture of Weymouth.

The result of this information was that Colonel Blake marched out of Lyme with his now veteran troops, and, joined by other Roundhead forces, captured Taunton without a blow. His heroic defence of that town, when it was soon afterwards surrounded by the Cavaliers, I cannot describe. For a year the brave garrison held out against all the assaults of some of the bravest of the Cavalier leaders, including Lord Goring and his ruffian crew.

Although their clothes were reduced to rags, their ammunition had run short, and they were almost starved, they maintained it until relieved by General Fairfax.

In the meantime Lyme was unmolested, and Audrey and I continued to reside with our kind friend Mr Kerridge and his family. A young minister undertook to superintend our studies, but all my leisure time was spent with Lancelot and Dick, as had been our wont before the siege, on the water.

Sometimes we extended our excursions westward as far as the Teign, and even to Dartmouth, at other times along the coast to the west of Portland Bill, but as there were no safe harbours to run to, we seldom ventured in that direction.

Colonel Blake, we heard, remained Governor of Taunton, and I much feared that I should never see him more, as he was not likely again to come to Lyme.

The battle of Naseby had been fought, and the Parliament had gained the upper hand through the length and breadth of England and Scotland, though the Royalists still held Jersey and Guernsey and Scilly, and the greater part of Ireland.

News now reached us but rarely; indeed, our little town, which had lately been so famous, seemed almost forgotten. Audrey and I, having recovered from the grief caused by the loss of our father, were very happy in our new home.

Mr Kerridge and Mr Harvey had arranged our affairs, so that we were not dependent upon others. At the same time it was necessary that I should have a profession. My inclinations prompted me to follow that of my father, but my friends found it difficult to settle with whom I should be sent to sea. Both Lancelot and Dick declared that they would go with me, though their fathers were not very willing that they should engage in so dangerous a calling. One day, the weather being fine, Lancelot proposed that we should make a trip to Dartmouth, taking Martin Shobbrok, now our constant companion, with us. Storing our boat with provisions for the voyage, we made sail.

We had a fine run to that beautiful little harbour, and having gone on shore, we spent more time than we had intended in purchasing various articles which were not to be procured at Lyme.

It was somewhat late in the evening when we stood out again, but as there was a moon we expected no difficulty in finding our way back; scarcely, however, had we got well out of the harbour than the wind shifted to the eastward, but as the tide was in our favour we agreed that by making a long leg to the southward we should fetch Lyme on the next tack.

To our disappointment, just as we were going about, the wind veered three points to the northward, and we found it blowing directly in our teeth. Unwilling to be defeated, we continued standing out to sea, expecting that when we went about we should be almost abreast of Lyme. In a short time, however, the sky became covered with thick clouds, the wind came in fitful gusts, and the hitherto calm ocean was broken into foam-covered waves.

We reduced our sail as much as possible, and Martin, as the most experienced, took the helm. The night became darker and darker. We had no compass, and no land could be seen. Still, supposing that the wind was now remaining steady, we stood on, our stout boat riding buoyantly over the increasing seas. Martin at length expressed his fear that the wind had gone back to its old quarter, and judging by the heavy foam-crested seas which came rolling on, that we were no longer under shelter of the land.

We kept up our spirits, though I guessed by the tone of Martin’s voice that he was far from happy at our position. The tide, too, we knew by this time must have turned, and we should be unable to fetch Lyme.

We might, we agreed, run back to Dartmouth, but the attempt to find the entrance of the harbour in the darkness of the night would be difficult, if not dangerous.

Though Martin steered as well as the best of seamen, the rising seas came washing over our bows, and we all had to turn to and bale out the boat. This prevented us from thinking of the danger we were in.

At length, not without risk, putting an oar out, we got the boat round, and stood, as we supposed, towards the shore. By this time we were wet through to the skin, and in spite of our exertions our teeth were chattering with cold.

“I hope Mistress Margaret will have some bowls of hot porridge ready for us when we get in,” said Lancelot.

“Oh, don’t talk of that,” observed Dick. “Let us get in first. Shall we ever reach the shore, Martin, do you think?”

“That’s as God wills, Master Dick,” answered Martin. “It’s our business to do our best.”

Just then a sudden blast almost laid the boat over. Martin saved her by luffing-up. Scarcely had he done so than we saw a dark object away on the starboard hand.

“That’s a ship; she’s standing directly down upon us,” cried Martin. “Shout, lads, shout at the tops of your voices.”

We all shrieked out, joining Martin’s deep bass, which rose above the howling of the storm. The next instant there came a crash, our boat had been run down, but before she sank, having been happily struck by the bow, and not by the stern of the ship, we found ourselves alongside, when Martin, seizing me by the arm and catching hold of the fore-chains, hauled me up as the boat disappeared beneath our feet. We hung there for a few seconds before we were discovered, though I caught sight of several figures leaning over the side. I uttered a cry of sorrow as I thought that my two friends were lost. In vain I looked down for them. The next instant several willing hands assisted Martin and me on board.

“Oh, save Dick and Lancelot,” I cried out. “Lower a boat; pick them up; don’t let them perish.”

My heart bounded with joy when I heard Lancelot’s voice.

“Here I am, safe and sound,” he cried out, running forward and shaking me by the hand, “thanks to our friends here, who hove me a rope just as I was sinking.”

“And Dick, where is Dick?” I said.

“The youngster is on board, but he got a knock on the head. He’s coming round though,” said a voice from the afterpart of the ship.

Martin, Lancelot, and I hurried aft, where we found Dick lying on the deck, supported by a seaman, who seemed as wet as he was. We were told that the gallant fellow had fastened a rope round his waist, plunged overboard and picked up Dick just as he was being washed by astern. Dick quickly came to.

“Where is the boat!” he asked, lifting up his head.

“She’s gone to the bottom,” answered Lancelot.

“Where are we?”

“On board a ship.”

“What ship, what ship?” asked Dick, still confused.

“That’s more than I can say,” answered Lancelot, “We shall soon know, however.”

Chapter Four.

On Board His Majesty’s Frigate.

Scarcely were we on board the ship than the gale came down with greater fury than before, so that the seamen being required to hand the sails left us to ourselves. Two or three persons, however, gathered round us, one of whom—the surgeon, I concluded—advised that we should be taken below, and stripped of our wet clothes, for our teeth were chattering with the cold.

Very thankful to be so treated, we had no time to ask questions before we found ourselves in the officers’ cabin; Dick and I being placed in one bed, and Lancelot in another, while Martin was allowed to go forward among the men, to obtain such assistance from them as they were inclined to give.

After a short time some food and a cup of warm tea were brought us, having partaken of which, thanks to its genial warmth, we soon fell asleep.

Once I awoke when the rolling and pitching, the battering of the sea against the sides, and the noises overhead, told me that the gale was still blowing. I was soon asleep again, and when I opened my eyes it was broad daylight. No one was in the cabin. I roused my companions. Our clothes had been brought back tolerably well dried, so we dressed, intending to go on deck and learn what ship we were on board of, and where we were bound.

The pistols, hangers, and other weapons hanging up against the bulkhead showed us she was a ship of war, and Lancelot discovered several prints ornamenting his cabin, which made us suspect that she did not belong to the Puritans.

“If they inquire who we are, as they are sure to do, what shall we say about ourselves?” asked Dick.

“Tell the truth and shame the devil! Whoever they are, we should be grateful to them for having saved our lives, and maybe, if we speak them fair, they’ll set us on shore at the first port they touch at,” answered Lancelot.

“If they’re Cavaliers, there’s no port they can put into on the south coast without the certainty of being fired at,” I observed, “though perhaps they may be induced to set us ashore in one of their boats, and we can find our way back over land. I much wish to relieve the anxiety that Audrey and Cicely and your father must be feeling about us, for they will—should we not return—give us up for lost.”

“We shan’t grow wiser by staying here,” said Lancelot, as he led the way on deck.

“Halloa, young masters. Who are you?” exclaimed a gentleman in plumed hat, scarlet doublet, and sword hanging by a rich scarf at his side.

An officer approached and spoke to the gentleman, whom we guessed must be the captain.

I had time to look around; the sea had somewhat gone down, but it was still blowing fresh. Over the starboard quarter I observed a long point, which I at first thought was the Start, but afterwards learned was the Lizard. The frigate, for such I saw was the vessel we were on board of, was heeling over to the breeze, and the Union Jack waving from her peak showed me that she belonged to the Royalist party; indeed, when I remarked the varied costumes of the officers, the careless manners of the crew, and heard their strange oaths, I had no doubt about the matter.

Seeing that we were expected to reply to the question put to us, Lancelot advanced and informed the captain that we were young gentlemen belonging to Lyme, and were taking a pleasure trip when caught by the gale.

“Young Roundheads, I wot,” answered the captain, with an oath. “You might have been left to drown with small loss to honest men. However, as you are now on board the frigate, you may remain, and we will see to what use we can put you. You have a companion, I understand. Is he a sailor?”

“Yes!” I answered, somewhat incautiously. “He spent his early life at sea, and visited many strange parts with my late father, Captain Bracewell.”

“So much the better for him. He shall serve on board, and I will order his name to be entered on the books.”

From the way we were first received, we fancied that we should have been treated like young gentlemen, but on his ordering us with an oath to go forward and do what we were told, such we found was not the captain’s intention. We obeyed, for we had no choice. On our way we encountered a big fellow with a knotted rope in his hand, who, from the chain with a whistle hanging to it round his neck, we knew was the boatswain.

“Come along, my young masters. I’ll soon find tasks for you. You!” he exclaimed, seizing Dick, “go and help the cook in the galley, you two will pick oakum,” he added, turning to Lancelot and me; “and when the hands are sent aloft to reef sails, as you seem active fellows, you’ll go to the foretop-gallant yard.”

“But I have never been aloft,” said Lancelot, “and shan’t know what to do when I get there.”

“Then the sooner you go the faster you’ll learn, or you’ll have a taste of my persuader,” and he flourished the knotted rope. “Up, both of you, and let me see how you can lay out on the yard.”

As we hesitated, flourishing the rope, he laid it across our shoulders, at which the men standing by laughed and jeered at us. To remonstrate was useless, so to avoid a repetition of the unpleasant infliction, we sprang into the rigging and began to mount, taking care to hold tight as we went up until we got into the top, where we both stood looking down, not liking to go higher.

“Aloft with you, aloft, or I’ll send a couple of hands to start you,” shouted the boatswain from the deck.

We looked up at the tall mast swaying to and fro, and I fully expected, should I make the attempt, to fall down on deck, or to be plunged into the sea, for which I had no wish; but looking down for a moment, and seeing two men about to come up the rigging, I told Lancelot that I would run the chance.

“It is the only thing we can do,” he answered.

Catching hold of the topmast shrouds, we began to mount. We got up at length, and crawled out on the yard, holding on tightly by the ropes which seemed most secure. Finding that it was not so terrible as I had supposed, I crawled out to the very end of the yard, where I clung on, in spite of the fearful way in which it moved about.

Thankful I was, however, to hear the boatswain shout, “You may come down now, lads;” and I made my way into the top.

Lancelot had gone out at the other end of the yard, and when we met on deck he could not help shaking hands, as if we had arrived successfully from some desperate enterprise. The seamen laughed as they saw us, and even the boatswain’s grim features wrinkled into a smile.

“You’ll do, lads,” he said. “You’ll make prime topmen in a few weeks, and thank me for having taught you.”

Such was the commencement of our sea life. Things, we agreed, might have been worse, though we got many a kick and rope’s ending, not only from the boatswain, but from others among the more brutal of the crew.

Martin, when on deck, always came to our rescue, but old as he was, he was but ill able to contend with so many opposed to him.

“Better grin and bear it, Master Ben,” he said; “they’ll soon give up ill-treating you if you take it with good temper, and I should do more harm than good if I was to shove in my oar except at a favourable time; but I shall be on the watch, never fear, and I’ll take care matters don’t grow too bad.”

We followed Martin’s advice, and found it answer. The seamen of the frigate were a lawless and disorderly set, every sentence they uttered being accompanied by strange oaths, while below, when not asleep, they spent their time in dicing and gaming.

We found, I should have said, that we were on board the Charles frigate, Captain Blackleach, carrying one hundred and fifty men and thirty-two guns, one of Prince Rupert’s squadron, from which she had been separated while in chase of a trader the captain had hoped to capture, but which had escaped.

A bright look-out was now kept for the squadron, and for traders of all nations.

Our cruising ground was the mouth of the English Channel, where we lay in wait to pounce down upon any unwary vessel coming up with a rich cargo.

We were all three below, poor Dick by this time looking as black as a negro; he had unfortunately let it be known whose son he was, and consequently, I believe, got a double allowance of ill-treatment.

“All hands make sail!” was shouted, and we with the rest sprang on deck.

“Aloft, you youngsters!” cried the boatswain, looking at Lancelot and me.

We ran up the rigging to the fore-topgallant-yard, and with the aid of two other men let fall the sail which had been furled.

On looking ahead, we saw a large ship in the distance, for which the frigate was steering. The stranger held on her course, not apparently fearing us, though we had the Union Jack flying at the peak, while that of Holland fluttered at hers.

On getting within range of our guns, we opened fire from a dozen pieces or more, but without doing her much damage. Again we fired, sending our shot crashing on board her, when the guns being run in and reloaded, we stood on, receiving her broadside, the shots going through our sails and cutting some of our running rigging, then luffing-up across her bows, we raked her fore and aft, and went about, showing that we intended to give her the other broadside. Not relishing this, she hauled down her colours and triced up her sails.

A well-armed boat’s crew was sent on board to take possession, when her ship’s company were speedily removed, and those of her people who remained in her were ordered to steer her to Kinsale harbour, a short distance to the southward of Cork, in Ireland.

The next vessel we chased proved to be English, and as she was bound for the Thames, she was captured and sent away like the first, with part of the Dutch crew, who, being promised good pay, had no objection to navigate her.

A third vessel was seen the next day, carrying the flag of France. Chase was given to her also, and the Charles coming alongside, she struck without firing a shot. She was also sent away, under command of one of the officers, for the same harbour as the former prize.

“Why, these fellows are pirates,” observed Lancelot to me, though he took care to speak in a low voice, so that only Martin and I who was standing near could hear him.

“Little doubt about that,” answered Martin; “all’s fish that comes to their net! I wish that we were well free of them, but how to get away is the difficulty. I suspect that if a Parliamentary ship was to catch the frigate, they’d hang us all up at the yard-arms.”

“Heaven forbid!” said Lancelot.

A few days after this, the look-out from the mast-head shouted—

“Five sail to the eastward!”

Presently afterwards three more were seen standing down channel, under all the canvas they could carry.

“What if they should prove to be Parliamentary ships,” I said to Lancelot.

“We must try and explain who we are, and how we came on board,” he answered.

“But what if they won’t believe us?” I asked. “We may be strung up before they find out the truth.”

“That would be a hard case, but I do not see how we are to escape, unless we jump overboard when the fight begins, and try to swim to one of them.”

Instead of running away, as we expected, the Charles stood boldly towards the approaching squadron. At length from the peak of the leading ship we saw the Union Jack flying.

“That must be Prince Rupert’s squadron after all,” said Lancelot.

That this was the case was soon evident, for the frigate, ranging up alongside the big ship, exchanged friendly salutes.

An officer in handsome costume, with a gold chain round his neck, was seen standing on the after-castle. When Captain Blackleach raised his beaver, the officer took off his in return, and inquired how many prizes he had made.

“Three since we parted with your highness,” was the answer, “and they are by this time safe in Kinsale harbour.”

“You have used diligence; you shall have a bigger ship before long,” said the officer in the handsome dress.

“Who is he?” I asked one of the men standing by.

“What! have you never seen Prince Rupert, the bravest commander in the king’s armies, and now his best admiral? Wherever he leads, rich prizes are sure to be found.”

Such we discovered was a fact, for that very day the squadron captured well-nigh a dozen merchantmen homeward bound, which mistook it for the Earl of Warwick’s fleet, and fell without firing a shot into its voracious jaws.

In high glee the Prince with his prizes stood for Kinsale harbour, where we found a dozen other goodly ships, which had been captured by his cruisers, including the three taken by the Charles. While we lay here, Lancelot and I, when no one was by, often talked over various schemes for escaping, but we had to ask ourselves the question, where should we go? The whole southern part of Ireland was in favour of the King, as the Prince of Wales was now called, his father having been put to death in London. Thus, even should we reach the shore, we should run a great risk of being knocked on the head when attempting to travel through the country, for rumours had reached us of the fearful way in which the Romanists had treated the Protestants residing among them.

Martin to whom we confided our wishes, was as eager as we were to escape, being anxious, as he said, to get away from the swearing, drinking, gambling crew. “I won’t say there’s not a godly man among them, because there are two or three who have been pressed into the service, and are ready to get away if they can, but the rest, the Lord deliver us from them,” he said, while we were standing on the forecastle one evening, out of hearing of the rest of the ship’s company.

Lancelot, who was full of devices, proposed that we should take a boat and pull away out to sea, hoping that we might get across to the Welsh coast and be picked up by a Parliamentary cruiser, some of which were said to be in the Irish Channel.

This plan seemed most feasible, though in reality full of danger. It would be no easy matter, in the first place, to get hold of a boat, and to obtain provisions and water. It would be still more difficult to slip away out of the harbour unperceived; and then, after all, we might be picked up by one of Prince Rupert’s squadron and treated as deserters.

“Nothing risk, nothing have!” said Martin. “I would chance it for myself, but I do not like the thought of hazarding your young lives. Howsumdever, I’ll speak to the men I think will join us, and hear what they say.”

The Charles was one of the outer line of frigates placed at the entrance of the harbour to give due notice of the approach of an enemy, so that we should have a better opportunity of getting off than would have been the case had we been higher up the harbour; but then the difficulty of obtaining a boat was greater.

Many of the crew were allowed to go on shore, but we had hitherto always been refused. Lancelot suggested that if we could by some means get on shore, we might obtain a boat, and late in the evening pretend to be returning in her to the ship, instead of which we might pass her and get out to sea.

“I fear that the guard ships keep too sharp a look-out to allow us to do that,” observed Martin; “still, I see no better way of making our escape.”

“We must wait for our opportunity; it will come, maybe, when we least expect it,” said Lancelot.

Buoyed up with this hope, when our watch was over, we turned into our hammocks.

Next morning a frigate came in, towing a boat. She passed close to us. On her deck stood ten men heavily ironed, their features, which we could clearly see, showing that they felt themselves to be in a dangerous predicament. The frigate sailed on, and brought up in the centre of the squadron.

Soon afterwards a signal from the flag-ship was seen flying, ordering two boats from each vessel to come alongside. Ours were in the water, when the captain ordered Martin and three other men, together with Lancelot, Dick, and me, to go in one of them.

“It may teach you a lesson, lads, which for your own sakes I advise you not to forget,” he said with a significant look.

“I am afraid the captain has an inkling of our plans,” whispered Lancelot to me as we went down the side.

We took our seats in our respective boats, which pulled away up the harbour. We found numerous other boats, the men resting on their oars round the flag-ship. Presently a gun was fired from her, and up went ten human beings dangling by their necks to the yard-arms. Some struggled in a way it was fearful to look at. They were the men we had seen on the deck of the frigate, and who had, we heard, attempted to make their escape in a boat, just as we proposed doing. Such would have been our fate had we carried out our intention and been captured.

We returned on board very low-spirited.

“We must be careful what we are about,” said Lancelot to me; “I have no fancy to share the lot of those unhappy fellows.”

“What’s to be done?” I asked.

“Grin and bear it, as Martin would say,” he answered.

Although we were not allowed to go on shore, we saw what was taking place up the harbour. Boats were constantly going backwards and forwards, carrying the cargoes of the captured vessels to the town, where the goods were disposed of to eager traders, who came in from all parts to purchase them—often for less than half their value; but still, from the number of vessels taken, they must have realised a large profit to the Prince, seeing that he had paid nothing for them.

The cargoes being discharged, the stouter ships were fitted out with guns, there being found no lack of men ready to serve under so successful a corsair, for such the Prince had become.

The fleet being ready, we once more sailed in quest of fresh prizes. I did not note the number taken, but I often grieved to see the despair of the poor ship-masters and owners when they found themselves robbed of their hard-earned gains. No flag protected them—Dutchmen, Spaniards, Portuguese, Englishmen, all were treated alike. Some fought pretty hard, especially the English, but the frigates hung about them, preventing their escape, until the big ships came down and they were compelled to strike their flags.

We were cruising about the mouth of the Channel, and, favoured by fine weather, had taken many prizes, when a south-westerly wind sprang up, and soon increased to a heavy gale, harder than any we had yet encountered.

The dark leaden seas came rolling up from the Atlantic, crested with foam, which flew in masses across our decks. The sky, covered with black clouds, sent forth vivid flashes of lightning, whilst peals of rattling thunder vied with the loud howling of the blast through the rigging, the creaking of blocks and bulkheads, and the dashing of the waves against the bows and sides. Now the wind blew from one quarter, now from another, and prevented our running for Kinsale, the only harbour in which we could have found a secure refuge.

We could see the rest of the fleet tumbling and tossing about under close-reefed canvas, scattered far and wide, some in one direction, some in another. Thus the night closed down upon us. We had to keep a watchful eye on every side, for should we run foul of another ship under such circumstances, the destruction of both would be inevitable.

The next day and the greater part of the following night the storm raged with as much fury as ever. Fearful of being driven on the Scilly Isles, or the southern coast of England, our captain endeavoured to keep a good offing, though we thereby lost sight of the rest of the fleet. About the middle of the next night the storm began to abate, and when morning came we found ourselves enveloped in a thick fog, while the ocean, though still heaving in slow undulations, gradually assumed a glass-like surface of leaden hue.

We, having borne up, stood to the northward in search of the squadron. The captain ordered a bright look-out to be kept.

“Marry! a bright look-out. We must have eyes of a different nature to most men to pierce through this dense mist,” quoth Martin, laughing.

Still, such a look-out as was possible was kept, the captain hoping ere long to see one of the Prince’s vessels, and to learn from her where the rest were to be found. At length, about noon, the sun made an effort to burst through the thick veil which shrouded us. Soon afterwards the mist lifted for an instant ahead, and during that instant I saw what appeared to me the hull of a ship, the canvas just rising above it; but it was only a glimpse, and it needed a sharp pair of eyes to discern any object a few fathoms off. I pointed her out to Lancelot, but he was doubtful whether I had actually seen a vessel, and no one else appeared to have observed her. The frigate therefore stood on, and unless the stranger which I supposed I had seen was sailing at equal speed, we must have passed her to leeward. Presently the wind blowing stronger, the fog once more lifted, and the sun bursting through, it fell on the white canvas of a tall ship close aboard us to windward.

Putting up her helm, she came nearer, when the captain hailed through his trumpet, supposing her to be one of Prince Rupert’s squadron. The answer was not heard, but the question, “What ship is that?” came down clearly to us.

“The Charles,” answered the captain, again putting the same question.

Scarcely had he spoken than we heard the words, “Strike to the Parliament ship, Constant Warwick!” and, the mist clearing still more, we saw flying from her peak a white flag with a red-cross.

“We are caught in a trap, and must fight to get out of it,” exclaimed the captain, ordering the drums to beat to quarters.

The men rushed to the guns, which they were well accustomed to handle; but before they could cast off the lashings and run them out, a broadside from the Constant Warwick came crashing into us, several of the crew being struck to the deck to rise no more. With scant ceremony their shipmates hove the bodies overboard, while the gunners, running out their pieces, returned with interest the fire of the other frigate.

I prayed that neither my friends nor I might be killed or wounded, though we ran as great a risk as the rest. I felt thankful when we were all three ordered down to the magazine to bring up powder, for below the risk of being hit was less, though neither of us felt any cowardly fears.

Having brought up the powder, we were ordered to sit on the tubs until it was wanted. We could thus see what was going forward, though we would far rather, I must confess, have been below. Captain Blackleach, a brave fellow, to give him his due, seemed in no way inclined to strike while he had a chance of getting off. The Constant Warwick’s fore-yard was soon shot away, and her main topmast shortly afterwards fell, on which our corsair crew cheered lustily, and with redoubled vigour plied their guns. I looked round to see how it was faring with my friends, Dick and Lancelot. They were seated on their tubs, Dick making himself as small as possible, so as to have less chance of being hit. A short way off stood Martin Shobbrok among the sail trimmers. Just then two of the gunners fell, their heads shot off, and their brains scattered over the deck. The captain, seeing what had occurred, shouted to Martin and another man to take their places. Martin stood with his arms folded, as if he did not hear the order. The captain again shouted to him.

“I’ll do a seaman’s duty, but will not fight against those who have justice and right on their side,” answered Martin.

“Mutiny! mutiny!” shouted the captain. “Suffer the fate of a mutineer!” and, drawing a pistol from his belt he fired.

I expected to see my old friend fall, but the bullet merely grazed one of his grey whiskers; and, fixing his eye on the captain, he answered—

“The Lord forgive thee, and be thankful thou hast not murdered an old man who is acting as his conscience bids him.”

The captain, unmoved by this rebuke, was about to draw another pistol.

“I must save Martin, even at the hazard of my own life,” I exclaimed, and was about to spring aft to strike up the pistol when the cry arose—

“Another enemy close aboard us!”

Looking round, I saw, looming large through the fog, the wide-spread canvas of a tall ship coming up on our quarter.

Chapter Five.

The Engagement.

The fate of honest Martin hung in the balance; should I fail to strike up the captain’s arm, his death would be certain. Whether or no my action had been observed I could not tell, for the appearance of the stranger drew the captain’s attention off from his victim, and in a moment he seemed to have forgotten all about Martin.

The approaching ship fired a broadside which raked us fore and aft, sending many of the roystering crew to their dread account. Still undaunted, the captain ordered the starboard broadside to be fired in return, and the Constant Warwick, in consequence of the loss of her headsail, being unable to keep her position, we drew ahead of her; but our fresh antagonist, with her yards and rigging uninjured, quickly came up, and her guns, aimed at our masts, ere long brought down the fore and main-yards; but the flag still flew out at the peak of the corsair, and her guns on either side continued to belch forth their deadly missiles.

Though round shot and bullets from her antagonists came crashing on board the ship, tearing up the decks, piercing the sides, carrying away lanterns, boats, and spars, wounding her masts and plunging through her bulwarks, the scuppers running with blood, her gallant captain, standing still unharmed amid the dead and dying, refused to yield.

Malignant though he was, I could not help admiring his courage, regretting that he was not fighting in a better cause. I heartily wished that he would give in before more damage was done.

He seemed, however, in no way inclined to strike while there was a chance of escaping.

I feared, indeed, that after all he would get off, but the two Parliament ships plied him hard. Their commanders were as brave as he was, and had no intention of letting him escape.

Of this the corsair’s crew were at length convinced, and some, unwilling to encounter certain destruction, cried out to strike the flag.

“Who dares to say that?” shouted Captain Blackleach. Then he cried out to the boatswain, “Reeve a dozen ropes, and we’ll show our enemies how we treat traitors to our cause.”

The boatswain, seizing one of the men who desired to strike, was actually about to put the order into execution when Martin rushed to the poor fellow’s rescue.

“Avast, master boatswain!” he exclaimed, cutting the rope; “are you not afraid of committing murder, when, at any moment, you may be sent to stand before the Judge of all men?”

The boatswain, with an oath, again seized the man, and, aided by his mates, was forming a noose at the end of a rope, when a shot striking him on the breast sent his mangled body through a wide gap in the bulwarks into the blood-stained ocean. Most of the superior officers had by this time been killed or wounded, the latter being in the hands of the surgeon below.

“What’s to be done?” said Dick, as we were together making our way to the magazine, being ordered down to fetch up more powder. “Surely the captain won’t hold out longer! If I didn’t feel that it was cowardly, I should like to stow myself away below till all is over.”

“To go down with the ship and be drowned,” I observed.

“No, no; let us remain on deck while we can, and take our chance,” said Lancelot. “If the captain fights on until the ship sinks, we may get hold of a plank or spar. The Roundhead seamen will not let us drown, even though they think we are Malignants.”

“Stay for me!” said Dick, as he saw us lifting up our tubs to go on deck again. To say the truth, I suspected that he had been in no hurry to fill his.

Just as we were going up the ladder two thundering broadsides sounded in our ears, and several shot, crashing through the stout planks and scattering splinters in every direction, passed close to our heads, but happily none of us were hit. They were followed by the groans and shrieks of the wounded as they lay struggling on the deck in their agony. Then there came what truly seemed an awful silence. We had naturally stopped midway on the ladder for unwilling slaves as we were, we lacked a motive to expedite our movements.

As we at length gained the upper deck a sound of cheering struck on our ears, but it came from the other ships. I looked up at the peak. The flag was no longer there. On the after-castle lay the captain; he had fallen desperately wounded. Two officers alone remained on their feet, while fore and aft a sickening sight met our view. The ship was a perfect shambles; the dead and dying lay everywhere, the countenances of many distorted with agony; the decks slippery with blood, and covered with blocks, ropes, torn canvas, and shattered spars, while several guns had been dismounted, and every boat knocked to pieces. The master of the mariners, one of the surviving officers, was shouting to the crew to shorten sail.

Throwing our tubs of powder on deck, we gladly ran to obey the order, joined by Martin Shobbrok, who, amid the bloody strife, had escaped unscathed.

Meantime the two victorious frigates had hove to and were lowering their boats, ready to send on board and take possession of their prize.

“What shall we do now?” asked Dick, as the boats were coming alongside. “Our friends will look upon us as deserters, and perhaps string us up at the yard-arm.”

“Not much fear of that,” said Lancelot. “We can tell who we are and how we came to be on board.”

“But will they believe us?” asked Dick. “The rest of the crew will prove that we have been helping the gunners to load their pieces by bringing powder from the magazine.”

“Just trust in God, young masters,” said Martin, who had overheard them.

We had not much time for talking before the crews of the three boats which had been sent sprang on board. The officer in command at once ordered the whole of the “rovers” to muster aft. Of well-nigh two hundred men who had commenced the action, one half were dead or wounded. The survivors stood with downcast looks, expecting no gentle treatment.

“You have taken up arms without lawful authority against the Parliament, and you must be prepared for the punishment due to you, unless the admiral thinks fit to remit it,” explained the officer, casting his eye over the men. “Have you anything to say for yourselves?”

There was no reply until Lancelot stepped aft, followed by Martin, Dick, and me.

“We were on board against our will, sir,” he said, “and acknowledge the Parliament as the supreme authority in the realm.” He then described how we had been rescued by the Charles when on our way from Dartmouth to Lyme.

“A likely story, young master,” said the officer; “but I will talk to you more anon. The rest of you tumble into the boats and go peaceably on board the ships to which they will convey you.”

Nearly half the men had already taken their seats in the three boats which had shoved off, when the cry arose, “The ship is sinking!”

The carpenter and his mates were among those who remained, and the officer ordering some of his own men to assist them in stopping the leaks, directed them to man the pumps. The rovers obeyed with alacrity, for they had no wish to drown.

We four assisted them, and as the pumps clanged loudly the water spread over the decks, partly cleansing them from their bloody stains.

It was an anxious time, for I feared that the ship would go down before the boats could return. We pumped, and pumped away with might and main, while the carpenters stopped the most dangerous shot holes between wind and water.

It was a great relief at length to see the boats come back. They brought more men, and among them some carpenters from the frigates to assist in repairing the damages. The remaining prisoners having laboured so well, had the choice given them of continuing on board, and they gladly accepted the offer, promising faithfully to serve the Parliament.

Evening was drawing on, and the two frigates lay still hove to close to the prize, when, looking to windward, I saw the upper sails of several ships, which I deemed to be of size, rising above the horizon. I pointed them out to Martin, and asked if he thought they were Prince Rupert’s squadron.

“No fear of that,” he answered; “they must have been seen some time ago from the frigate, and they show no intention of trying to escape.”

During this time everyone on board was working away with a will, for there was much to be done both below and aloft, while the wounded men had to be looked after.

The captain had been taken to his cabin, where the surgeon had dressed his wound. Dick, who had been ordered to watch him, came rushing out after some time, looking greatly terrified, and declared that the captain was raving and swearing that he would rise and blow up the ship rather than yield to the Roundheads.

Fortunately we found the surgeon, who sent two men to watch over him, and Dick was relieved from his trying duty. A boat now came alongside with orders to remove more of the prisoners, and among them Martin and my two friends and I were ordered to get into her. In a short time we were conveyed on board the Constant Warwick, and found ourselves standing on her deck together with the other prisoners.

“Now is our time,” I exclaimed to Lancelot. “Let us go boldly aft and tell the captain who we are, or we shall be sent below and placed in irons with the rest.”

Lancelot took my advice. We stepped aft, followed by Dick and Martin.

“What have you to say, lads?” asked the captain, looking greatly astonished at our audacity.

We gave him the same account of ourselves that we had to the officer who had come on board the Charles.

“You are ready enough now to declare yourselves Roundheads,” answered the captain, “but you were found on board an enemy’s ship, and must be treated like the rest.”

“They are brave little fighting-cocks, Cavaliers to the backbone,” shouted one of the men from the group of prisoners, not wishing that we should receive more favour than themselves.

I had observed a young officer standing close to the captain. I looked at his countenance, and the thought flashed across me that I had seen him before.

“Captain Stayner,” he said, “allow me to say that I believe the account these young gentlemen give of themselves. I was at Lyme with my uncle, the admiral;” then turning to us he inquired our names.

“I thought so,” he said, putting out his hand; “I remember them all well. One is the son of Mr Kerridge, the mayor, who fought so bravely for the good cause; the father of the other, who served under my grandfather, was killed during the siege; and this one,” he added, taking Dick by the hand, “is the son of Mr Harvey, who expended his means in aiding in the defence of Lyme.”

While the young officer was speaking, I recognised him as the nephew of Colonel Blake. “I truly rejoice to see you,” he continued, turning to us, “for, putting into Lyme some weeks ago, I found your relatives and friends in great sorrow at your supposed loss. We will take the earliest opportunity of sending them news of your safety.”

Thus were our anxieties brought to an end. Instead of being treated as prisoners, we were received as guests by the officers, who insisted on supplying us with clothes and other necessaries, of which we stood much in want. Great was our surprise to hear that the admiral of the ships in sight astern was no other than Colonel Blake, who had been placed in command of the fleets of England by the Parliament in conjunction with Colonels Deane and Popham.

Admiral Blake was now in chase of Prince Rupert’s squadron, which it was his intention, should he fail to overtake it at sea, to shut up in Kinsale harbour. This, to me especially, was satisfactory news, for I had not forgotten the remark made by Colonel Blake to my father, that he should like to have me with him, and I felt very sure that he was a man who would fulfil his intentions.

I mentioned this to Mr Robert Blake, who promised on the first opportunity to take me on board the flag-ship and introduce me to the admiral.

“Not that you will require an introduction,” he answered; “my uncle never forgets those he has once known, and, though grown, you are not altered much from the little fellow I remember at Lyme.”

I felt bound to put in a word for my two friends, as also for Martin, whose brave conduct on board the Charles I described, when he refused to fire at the Constant Warwick.

“It would not become me to make promises to you,” he replied, “but you may depend upon it that the admiral will not overlook such conduct, and as Shobbrok is an experienced seaman, he will gladly place him in some position of trust on board.”

The other frigate which had assisted in the capture of the Charles was, I should have said, the Seaford. The breeze freshening, we had no opportunity of going on board the Triumph, Admiral Blake’s flag-ship, as he was pressing on under all sail in chase of the corsairs. The frigates led the way, and the next morning, from the mast-head of the Constant Warwick, we caught sight of well-nigh a score of ships right ahead. That they were those of Prince Rupert we had no doubt; but they must have seen us coming, and having no stomach to engage in fight—for they knew by this time who commanded the English fleet—they pressed on before us.

We continued in chase under every stitch of canvas we could carry, hoping to come up with one or more of the rearmost ships and to bring them to action, so as to keep them employed till the rest of the fleet should arrive and compel them to strike. The breeze freshened, and the Constant Warwick, followed closely by two other frigates, tore through the water, as if eager to overtake her foes.

“Hold on, good sticks!” cried the captain, looking aloft. “Time enough to go overboard when we have grappled the enemy.”

The topgallant masts bent like willow wands, and I expected every moment to see them fall, but though the lofty sails tugged and tugged, yet they held fast, and we hoped that we should yet be in time to stop some of the corsairs before they could get into harbour. The Triumph was still far away astern, followed by the rest of the fleet, our captain doing his best to drive his ship through the water. The corsairs did not gain upon us, and we well knew that for a good hour or more we should have them to ourselves, should we overtake them. Captain Stayner walked the deck, now casting his eye ahead at the enemy, now aloft at the straining canvas, and now astern, to judge, by the way the sails of the Triumph were blowing out, how the wind was holding in that direction. Presently the lofty canvas was seen to hang down against the masts, then slowly to blow out again. In a short time our own royals and topgallant sails followed their bad example. The captain gave a stamp of impatience on the deck. The breeze was falling, even the topsails and courses no longer bellied out as before. Still, the frigates glided on, but the sluggish eddies astern showed how greatly their speed had decreased.

At length, on the larboard bow, the old head of Kinsale appeared in sight, with Prince Rupert’s ships passing round it. Still, they too might get becalmed and a change of wind enable us to approach them. Our hopes, however, were doomed to be disappointed. Though the wind was light, they moved as fast as we did, and the lighter vessels getting out their sweeps, they ere long disappeared, shrouded by the gloom of evening, and by the time we came off the mouth of the harbour not a sail was to be discerned.

“Though they have escaped us this time, we have shut the rats up in their hole, and they will find it a hard matter to get out again to seek for prey,” observed the captain.

“Can’t we go in and destroy them?” inquired Lancelot of Mr Blake.

“From the information we have received, we judge that it would be a hazardous undertaking,” he answered. “There are castles on either side of the harbour, and the corsairs have thrown up earthworks, armed with heavy guns, for the protection of their ships, so that they would blow us out of the water should we attempt to enter. We must content ourselves with blockading them.”

Such, I afterwards found, was the plan adopted. We stood on and off the land to watch the entrance. The next morning the whole fleet arrived, forming a line from the old head of Kinsale northward, which Prince Rupert, daring as he was, would not, it was believed, attempt to break through. It was somewhat trying work. Night and day a vigilant watch was kept, great care being required so that each ship should maintain her proper position, and that one should not run foul of the other.

According to his promise, Mr Blake took Lancelot, Dick, and me, with Martin Shobbrok, on board the Triumph. The admiral recognised me immediately, and remembered also what he had said to my father.

“Would you wish to remain with me?” he asked. “Should such be your desire, you shall become my cabin boy, and when you have gained a knowledge of navigation and seamanship, you shall, without delay, be made an officer.”

“Such I desire above all things,” I answered, “and I am deeply grateful for the offer.”

“And your friends here,” he continued, looking at Lancelot and Dick. “Were they with us at the siege of Lyme?”

“They were, sir, and we all three worked together to throw up the embankments,” I answered.

“Good! they appear likely lads, and I will watch over their interests, if the Lord spares my life.”

Lancelot and Dick made proper acknowledgment of the admiral’s intended kindness. I then bethought me that now was the time to speak a word for Martin, and told the admiral how he had behaved on board the Charles, being ready to lose his own life rather than fire at the Parliamentary ships.

“Brave fellow! I remember him when he served with your father and mine,” he observed. “He shall have a post on board such as his merit deserves. I will see to it.”

Several captains from other ships coming on board, we retired, following young Robert Blake, who took us into the gun room, where he introduced us to such of the officers of the ship as were below.

I had long been wishing to hear from Lieutenant Blake how his uncle had become an admiral, and I now took the opportunity of asking him.

“Simply because he is one of the most worthy men the Parliament could find,” he answered. “His great talents, his undaunted bravery, are well-known, and although he had not before been to sea, the Government felt sure that he would be able to fill the post, and seeing him as we do now at the head of naval affairs, no one would suppose that he was fifty years of age before he set his foot on the deck of a ship as commander, taking precedence of such men as Captains Penn, Jordan, Ascue, Stayner, and Lawson, while Admirals Deane and Popham, though of the same rank, yield to his judgment.”

For the benefit of those who may not be acquainted with the history of one of the most famous of England’s sea commanders, I may here note that Admiral Blake, eldest son of a highly-esteemed merchant, Humphrey Blake, trading with Spain and other foreign parts, was born at Bridgwater in the year of grace 1598, and that he had many brothers and sisters.

When a boy he studied navigation and the routine of sea duties from his father and some of his captains who had come to live on shore, but at that time his own taste made him wish to obtain a knowledge of literature, and at sixteen he entered as an undergraduate at Saint Alban’s Hall, Oxford, whence he removed to Wadham College. Here he remained several years, until his father being reduced in circumstances from the failure of many of his enterprises, he returned home to watch over the interests of his family. He had, I should have said, offered himself as a candidate for a scholarship then vacant at Merton, but Sir Henry Saville, the warden, who delighted in tall men, objecting to him on account of his height which fell below his standard of manly perfection, refused to admit him, and the admiral, after he had been summoned to the death-bed of his father, did not again return to Oxford.

For some years he remained at Bridgwater, chiefly occupied with the care of his mother and brothers and sisters. At the same time he was a keen observer of passing events. His indignation was aroused by the persecutions of Bishop Laud and his attempt to impose the Papal system on his country. When the King, after a lapse of many years, summoned a parliament, the admiral, then Mr Blake, went up as member for Bridgwater. Soon afterwards came the outbreak in Ireland, when forty thousand Protestants were murdered by the Papists, who asserted that the King sanctioned their bloody acts. Although this might not have been the case, the Parliament demanded that a fleet and army should be placed at their disposal to quell the rebels. Soon afterwards the King, leaving London, raised his standard at Northampton, and declared war against the Parliament and those who sided with it. Mr Blake was among the first gentlemen who took up arms in the south of England in defence of the people’s right, his first military achievement being the gallant defence of Prior’s Hill, Bristol. The rest of his career up to the time of which I am speaking I have already mentioned, and I may truly say that he had never been defeated. He had, for some time before I was received on board his flag-ship, been engaged in reforming the navy, into which numerous corruptions had crept. His great object was to see that the men were duly paid and well fed, that hospitals were provided for the wounded, and that stout seaworthy ships were alone employed. He perseveringly engaged even in the most minute details, to add to the comfort of his men, and already they had learned to trust and revere him. His fame had spread even among the Royalists, numbers of whom, escaping when opportunities occurred, eagerly came on board our ships to serve under his flag. That flag was now a red-cross on a white ground, and that banner was destined soon to claim the respect of England’s foes, wherever it was seen waving at the peak.

While we were watching Kinsale harbour to prevent the escape of Prince Rupert’s cruisers, General Cromwell, who had gone over to the north of Ireland with an army, was righting his way to the southward.

Blockading was no pleasant duty, for often heavy gales from the eastward compelled us to keep an offing from the shore, or when they blew from an opposite direction we had to beat backwards and forwards under close-reefed sails to maintain our position, and several times we had to run for Milford Haven, to escape the danger of shipwreck. We young seamen, however, thereby gained much practical experience in nautical affairs, as did undoubtedly our superiors, who had hitherto been more accustomed to the command of regiments of foot and horse than to the management of ships.

By the first bag of letters despatched after we got on board the Triumph, we wrote an account of our adventures to our friends at Lyme. In due course we received others in return, with expressions of thankfulness that we had escaped the perils to which we had been exposed.

Audrey and Cicely especially gave us an account of all that had occurred since we left home, praying that we might soon return.

October came, and with it a furious gale, which once more scattered the blockading squadron. In vain the Triumph endeavoured to maintain her station. Still she kept the sea in spite of the furious blasts which laid her over and threatened to carry away her masts and spars, and hurl her, a helpless wreck, on the rocky coast. A few other captains imitated the example of their dauntless commander, but it was impossible to remain in sight of Kinsale. At length, the weather moderating, we once more came off the old headland, and, by degrees the ships assembling, the frigates were sent in towards the harbour’s mouth to inspect the squadron of Prince Rupert. They returned with the intelligence that the corsair prince, with, several of his ships, had escaped, leaving behind, however, a considerable number, which fell into our hands.

Chapter Six.

Afloat in the Squadron.

I must pass over some months, during which the Triumph, having returned into port, we three friends paid a visit to Lyme, the admiral promising to send for us when he should next go to sea. We had not long to wait. It being reported that Prince Rupert and his brother had fled to the Tagus, Admiral Blake was appointed to the command of a small squadron, of which the Tiger was his flag-ship, with orders to pursue the pirates, and to seize, make prizes, fight with, and destroy all their ships he could overtake, while he was to protect all lawful traders in the exercise of their calling. The other ships were the John, Tenth, Whelp, Signet, and Constant Warwick, carrying altogether one hundred and fourteen guns.

We were glad to find that young Robert Blake was one of the lieutenants of the Tiger, and equally rejoiced were we to see Martin Shobbrok walking the deck with a chain and silver whistle round his neck doing duty as boatswain. Although it was midwinter, no time was lost, and with a fair breeze we stood down channel. The winds, and the necessity of chasing every suspicious sail, prevented us from reaching our destination—the month of the Tagus—until the approach of spring. To our infinite satisfaction, we found that the Prince’s squadron was at anchor in the river, and forthwith the admiral despatched his nephew, whom I had the honour of accompanying, with a message to King John of Portugal, requesting permission to attack the ships of Prince Rupert, belonging to the Commonwealth of England, and carried off by treachery. I had never before been in a king’s palace; I have not the power, however, to describe the finely dressed ladies and gentlemen we saw, or the forms and ceremonies we went through. The king, or rather one of his ministers—who spoke for him—declared that he could permit no such proceeding, that the princes were his guests, and that we must take our departure without injuring them.

“The king sends us back, as he thinks, with a flea in our ears, but it is a flea which will tickle his majesty before long,” observed Lieutenant Blake, who had something of his uncle’s humour.

We returned on board the Tiger, and reported the result of our mission, when the admiral immediately ordered a squadron of boats to enter the river. I went in one of them. As we approached a white stone castle shining brightly in the sun, near the mouth, a puff of smoke issued from one of the embrasures. Another and another followed, the shot splashing into the water close to us.

On this the commander of the expedition, according to the orders received, returned to the squadron.

The admiral, curling his whiskers, sent to the castle to inquire why his boats had been stopped. The officer replied that his orders were to prevent any foreign ships sailing up the river. The admiral on this despatched another embassy to King John, demanding the reason for his conduct, but received as unsatisfactory a reply as before. The Portuguese king was not aware with whom he had to deal, and fancied that Blake would sail away without taking further notice of the affair.

In spite of the threats of the governor of Belim Castle, the Tiger leading the way, the squadron sailed into the river, not a shot being fired at us, and we brought up in Viera Bay.

Here some weeks passed, the crews fuming at the delay, and hoping every day that we might be able to get at the corsairs and punish them as they deserved. Our men were frequently on shore, when they constantly met the sailors of the Prince’s squadron, on friendly terms.

Occasionally, however, there were quarrels, when our men jeered at the others, calling them pirates and robbers, and expressing a wonder that they should be willing to serve under such leaders as Rupert and his brother. Others of our people acted more wisely, and succeeded in inducing a considerable number of the Prince’s men to desert and come on board our ships. This greatly enraged the Prince, who strung up several poor fellows found making their way to us. Still, others came off, and one of them told us that the Swallow, a ship of thirty-six guns, had actually got under weigh and was on the point of escaping, when the intention of her officers and crew being discovered, she was brought back. Some time after this, three boats under command of Lieutenant Blake were sent on shore to fill our casks at the fountain where we usually obtained water; Lancelot and I accompanied him. As there was no fear of our men deserting, we allowed some of those not required for the work in hand to stroll a short distance inland, Lieutenant Blake going with them, while I remained to superintend the watering party.

I was thus engaged when I heard some shots fired, and saw Lancelot, who had gone a little way off, running towards me.

“What’s the matter?” I inquired.

“Our shipmates have been attacked by a party of Cavaliers and Portuguese hidalgoes, who have, I fear, got hold of Lieutenant Blake. If we bring up the men quickly, we may rescue him before he is carried off,” he answered.

Calling our people together, some of whom were rolling the casks down to the boats, Lancelot and I led them in the direction we had heard the shots. We had not gone far when we caught sight of our party warmly engaged with a number of persons in hunting dresses, some being English, others Portuguese, among whom we distinguished our lieutenant, held by two Portuguese, while others were pointing their swords at his breast. Almost before they discovered us, uttering a loud shout we were upon them. The lieutenant on seeing us, shaking off the grasp of the two men who held him, knocked up the blade of another, and seizing the sword of a fourth, sprang towards us. At that moment, however, a strong reinforcement arriving we had to retreat, with our faces to the foe. Several of our men fell dead, and others were wounded. An attack also was made on six of our people who had been separated from us, when, with the exception of one who cut his way out from among those surrounding the party, the rest were made prisoners. We showed so bold a front that, notwithstanding our heavy losses, the Cavaliers and their allies did not venture to follow us, though they fired a volley which killed one more of our men and wounded another. We at length reached the boats, and taking the casks on board, pulled away to communicate the circumstance to the admiral. Lieutenant Blake told him that he had recognised Prince Maurice as well as two or three of his officers, and that the other leaders of our assailants were Portuguese grandees.

The admiral was highly indignant, but how to punish our dastardly foes as they deserved was a difficult matter to determine. The King of Portugal would certainly refuse to deliver up the offenders, and we were not as yet in a position to compel him.

We had therefore to bide our time.

That evening, as I was walking the deck with Lancelot, we saw a small boat coming off from the shore. She had but one man in her. He hailed as he got alongside, and asked if he might be permitted to come on board, as he had a communication to make to the admiral.

Permission was at once given, and after remaining a short time in the cabin, the stranger took his departure, when the admiral came on deck and ordered the ports to be closed.

Soon after this another boat was seen coming off, containing a person dressed as a Portuguese tradesman, and rowed by two negroes. The boat also carried a large cask. After coming up under the stern, she pulled round on the starboard side. The seeming Portuguese then handed up a letter, which one of the officers took. It purported to come from a merchant on shore, stating that he had sent off a cask of oil for the use of the crew. The white man was still seated in the boat, when the boatswain and two other men came aft and informed the admiral that they were very sure he was no Portuguese, but one of the persons belonging to Prince Rupert’s ship whom they frequently met on shore.

“Let the cask remain in the boat, and order the man up the side,” said the admiral.

The Portuguese, on receiving the order, showed a great disinclination to obey, and said something to the negroes, who were getting out their oars to shove off when three of our men jumped into the boat, and having secured her, the white man and two blacks were brought on deck. The admiral now turning to the boatswain ordered him to reeve a rope to the yard-arm.

“So my friend,” he said, turning to the white prisoner, “you intended to blow up this ship and all on board. If that cask is full of oil my information is incorrect, but if not, be prepared for the consequences.”

On this the man fell on his knees, and pleading for mercy, offered to reveal the plot he had been engaged to carry out.

“You deserve death, but your life shall be spared if you speak the truth,” said the admiral.

The man then confessed that he had been employed by the Cavaliers to destroy the admiral and his flag-ship; that the cask was double-headed, and that the interior was filled with gunpowder and missiles of all sorts; that between the two heads there was a lock so contrived that on being opened it would fire a quick match and cause the whole to explode.

“As you understand its mechanism, you shall be employed in extracting its contents,” said the admiral.

The man on hearing this looked greatly disconcerted, but was forced to obey. The carpenter having provided him with tools, he descended into the boat, when she was towed some distance from the ship, where she was anchored, and the oars being removed, he was left to operate alone on the cask.

He was watched with great interest as he cut a hole through the bottom. This done, he took out the contents and hove them overboard, when he hailed to say that the cask was empty.

The admiral then ordered him and the two blacks to depart with a message for the Prince, informing him of the miscarriage of his enterprise.

The Prince afterwards, we heard, spread a report that he and his brother, while out hunting, had been attacked by a party of men from Admiral Blake’s fleet, and that he had in consequence allowed the attempt to be made to blow up the flag-ship. I should here say that on board the Prince’s fleet were many Republicans, who sent the admiral information of all his intentions. We now heard that, fearing lest the King of Portugal should no longer be willing to afford him protection, Prince Rupert proposed putting to sea, and seeking his fortune in another direction.

On this, a calm coming on, our ships were towed down to the mouth of the river, where we lay ready to intercept him, and so the Prince’s plan was defeated.

Some weeks went by, when Admiral Popham arrived with a strong reinforcement, and by one of the ships came letters to Lancelot and me, of which I will speak anon. The King of Portugal, just before this, throwing off all disguise, arrested several English merchants residing in Lisbon, and declared his intention of supporting the corsair princes.

No sooner was this news received on board our ships than the admiral sent word to the Portuguese government that he proposed to make reprisals. While the messenger was on the way, a number of ships were seen with all sails set coming out of the river. They proved to be richly-laden merchantmen bound for the Brazils. As they approached, our squadron got under weigh, and before the Brazilian ships had time to retreat we surrounded them and captured the whole. As they were well-armed, the officers and crews being removed, we sent all the men we could spare on board, and thus nine fine vessels were added to the strength of our fleet. Winter was approaching, and with it came heavy gales, greatly trying our ships. Information had been received that another richly-laden fleet from the Brazils was expected in the river. We accordingly, our ships having been carefully fitted to encounter the fiercest storms, got under weigh and stood out to sea in order to watch for it. We had not long to wait, when one of the look-out frigates brought intelligence which made us all on the alert.

The commander stated that he had counted no less than twenty-three sail approaching under all the canvas they could carry.

On they came. The admiral ordered the signal to be thrown out to prepare for action. The Portuguese fleet approached, supposing our ships to be those of their own nation; and as far as we could judge, were in no way ready for battle. They advanced in gallant array, their admiral leading, but as they drew nearer their suspicions must have been aroused. They were soon convinced that we had hostile intentions, when the Tiger, standing across the bows of the flag-ship, ordered her to strike and heave to. A shot which struck us was the answer, when tacking so as to bring our other broadside to bear, we commenced firing away as fast as our guns could be run in and loaded.

The other ships imitated our example, each engaging one, and some two or three of the enemy. Again our commander ordered the Portuguese admiral to strike, but he refused, notwithstanding the fearful punishment we were inflicting on him. Our shots, fired at short range, were going through and through the sides between wind and water. Presently one of the enemy’s ships astern of us was seen to be on fire. The flames spread rapidly, bursting out from her ports and climbing the tall masts. Another and another was speedily in the same predicament. The fate of these ships brought terror into the hearts of the enemy. Now the flag of a large ship attacked by the Resolution was hauled down. Now another struck, and quickly the antagonist of the Constant Warwick lowered her flag, allowing that gallant barque to pay her attentions to a second foe.

Cheer after cheer burst from the throats of our crew as they saw these rich prizes captured, while they redoubled the efforts they were making against the Portuguese flag-ship. Still the action continued raging in all directions over the blue ocean, canopied by a dark pall of smoke, which was increased each moment by the curling wreaths arising from the thundering guns. Every effort was now made by the Portuguese to escape, for their ships contained rich treasures which they were unwilling to lose, but their efforts were in vain. Like eager hounds heated by the chase, our ships, setting all sail, soon came up with the fugitives, whose masts and spars being knocked away, they hauled down their flag. Their admiral had been fighting long and bravely, when Martin Shobbrok, who was standing near me, exclaimed, pointing at her, “The Lord have mercy on their souls! Mark you not, Master Ben, how deep by the head is that stout Portugale ship? See, see! she is sinking lower and lower.” Still the guns from her upper deck continued to belch forth flames and smoke. It seemed as if her crew were not aware of the fate awaiting them. Before another minute had elapsed shrieks and cries arose. Men were seen rushing up from below, and clambering on the bulwarks. Others were engaged in lowering the boats and throwing overboard planks and hen-coops, and pieces of furniture, and whatever they could lay their hands on.

“Cease firing!” cried our admiral, and not another shot was discharged at our helpless foe. Lower and lower sank the stout ship, her stern lifted high out of the water, then downwards she glided, her canvas set, her flag still flying, her commander and his officers still standing on the lofty after-castle, until that too disappeared beneath the wild waves which dashed over them, and soon even the main truck vanished beneath the surface, leaving a few struggling forms and pieces of wreck, and articles thrown overboard, floating on the spot she had lately occupied.

Stern necessity compelled us to sail in chase of her flying consorts, one of which proved to be the ship of the vice-admiral, who, taught a lesson by the fate of his chief, as we approached lowered his flag.

Seven of the smaller vessels which had sought safety at the commencement of the engagement in flight, being already close in with the mouth of the river, escaped, but we captured eleven large ships, not counting the admiral’s which sank, and three others consumed by fire.

As soon as the prizes were secured, the boats were lowered to try and pick up any of the helpless people who alight have escaped from the ships destroyed; but few only were rescued, though I am well assured that, had the admiral acted according to the dictates of his heart, he would rather have allowed the vice-admiral to escape than have delayed the attempt to save the perishing seamen.

As we could not enter the river, and another gale might come on, we lost no time in repairing damages and refitting the prizes, so that they might undertake the voyage to England.

Admiral Blake was well aware that the Portuguese would endeavour to revenge themselves for the loss they had suffered, but still undaunted, he prepared to resist their squadron, united to that of the Prince, should they venture to attack us.

Day after day we sailed backwards and forwards off the mouth of the river, or when a tempest threatened, shortening sail, we beat out to sea to avoid shipwreck, again to return the instant the wind moderated. This sort of work greatly added to the experience my companion and I had gained on the coast of Ireland, so that we could boast of being efficient seamen.

“You’ll soon be made a lieutenant, Mr Ben, and ere long a captain; and, when you get command of a ship, I hope that you’ll apply to have me sent with you,” said Martin to me one day as we were walking the deck together. “Although she may be only half the size of the Tiger, I would rather be with you than even with our good admiral, much as I love him. He is the man to win all hearts, not only because he is the best commander we ever had, but because he attends to the wants and looks after the interests of the men below him.”

I promised Martin, if I lived to get the command of a ship, that I would obtain him as boatswain, should he not in the meantime be advanced to a higher grade such as his merits deserved.

“Martin Shobbrok is too old for a lieutenant, and besides, is no navigator, so that he would feel like a fish out of water,” he answered. “He has been boatswain for the best part of his life, and boatswain he is willing to remain, unless he is made chief gunner, and no great learning is required for that.”

Again we sighted the rock of Lisbon, when a thick mist came on, which shrouded it and the whole coast from sight. Notwithstanding the fog, a fresh breeze was blowing. We were steering on our usual course under easy sail, when, as I was on deck, with Martin pacing a short distance from me, he exclaimed—

“There’s a tall ship close to us,” and looking in the direction he pointed, I could dimly see through the fog a dark mass of canvas. The sound of the rattling and creaking of blocks, too, reached our ears.

“She’s an enemy; to your guns, lads!” he shouted. “Go and tell the captain, Master Ben.”

I ran aft to tell the commander, who, followed by the admiral, appeared on deck.

“Silence!” he cried; “go to your quarters without beat of drum.”

The guns were cast loose, and powder and shot brought from below, and our men stood ready for the next order. The phantom ship, for such she appeared, loomed larger and larger. The admiral divined her object—to run us on board.

“She’s either the Portugale flag-ship or maybe that of Prince Rupert’s himself,” whispered Martin to me.

One thing was certain, that she was not one of our squadron. Silently she glided up under our lee.

“Now give it her, my lads,” cried the admiral, and every gun from the starboard broadside was fired into the stranger.

Down came her fore-topmast by the run. Silence being no longer necessary, our crew gave a hearty cheer, hoping that we were about to tackle the stranger, but being under a press of sail, she shot past ahead, and so dense was the fog, that in a few seconds she had disappeared. We eagerly sought for her, but we searched in vain.

Next day, the fog having cleared away, the united fleets were discovered, but our admiral’s object was to avoid a regular engagement, as no good could thereby be attained, and he contented himself with cutting off first one and then another of the enemy’s ships.

“I know who tried to surprise us yesterday evening,” exclaimed Martin. “The tall ship with the Prince’s flag flying, and her fore-topmast gone, but she would have been surprised herself had she not slipped out of the way.”

At length the admiral gained information that another large Brazilian fleet was at sea, which, being of far more value than the empty hulls of the Prince’s squadron, we sailed in search of. After cruising about for several weeks, we heard that some of the Brazilian ships had taken refuge in Spanish ports, and that others were at the Azores. We accordingly sailed back to the Tagus. Scarcely had we arrived than a frigate with a flag of truce came to meet us, bringing intelligence that the corsair princes had left the river, and that the king of Portugal had sent an ambassador to England to sue for peace.

The admiral’s work in the Tagus being accomplished, we prepared for returning home. I mentioned that Lancelot and Dick had received letters from Lyme. Lancelot’s was from his father’s head factor, the other from Mr Harvey. They both gave us the same alarming intelligence which affected Lancelot as well as me. They told us that Mr Kerridge and his daughter, accompanied by Audrey and Mistress Margaret, her waiting-maid, had sailed in a hoy bound for Plymouth, at which place, to their dismay, they found she had not arrived. Some hours after leaving Lyme, a heavy gale had arisen, but it was calculated that the hoy might by that time have got into Plymouth, or run back for Lyme, or found shelter in some other harbour. Whether she had foundered, or run on the Eddystone or on some other rock, or had been captured by an enemy, no one could surmise, but that some sad disaster had happened to her there could be no doubt.

The news of course caused Lancelot and me great grief, in which our friend Dick heartily sympathised, as did Lieutenant Blake, who had when at Lyme been well acquainted with Mr Kerridge and Cicely and my sweet sister Audrey.

“Should the hoy have foundered, we must submit to God’s decrees; but should she, as is possible, have been captured, we will, as soon as we are at liberty, search the world over to discover the missing ones,” he said, as he wrung our hands, and told us how sincerely he entered into our feelings.

Chapter Seven.

Further Successes.

The hopes of those who expected to return home were destined to be disappointed. We were still at sea, keeping a look-out for the fleet of the royal corsairs, when a shout from the mast-head announced the approach of several ships from the northward, and as they got nearer the white flag with the red-cross flying from their peaks told us that they were friends.

The leading ship proved to be the Fairfax, of fifty-two guns and two hundred and fifty men, carrying the flag of Vice-Admiral Penn. Following her came the Centurion, Captain Lawson, the Adventure, Captain Ball, and two others commanded by Captains Howett and Jordan, with the Assurance, Captain Benjamin Blake, the younger brother of the admiral.

Directly afterwards Vice-Admiral Hall with another squadron of seven ships joined us. The admiral had now under him a fleet capable of coping with that of either France or Spain. His first object, however, was to capture the corsairs, who were committing much damage among the merchant vessels. It was still unknown in what direction they had gone, when, the day after Admiral Hall’s squadron had reached us, a vessel was seen coming from the south.

On approaching she hove to, and her master came on board the flag-ship. His vessel, he said, was the only one which had escaped from Malaga, on the coast of Andalusia, into which the corsairs had entered and burnt six of his consorts under the very guns of the Spanish batteries.

“We shall catch them at last!” exclaimed the admiral on receiving this information, a gleam of satisfaction lighting up his countenance.

Having taken some stores on board which had just arrived from England, we made sail for the Straits of Gibraltar, Admiral Penn with his squadron being left to watch outside the entrance to catch the corsairs, should they endeavour to escape from the Mediterranean. With a fair wind we stood in for the gut, the lofty rock, on which we could discern only a few ruins on our left, and the coast of Africa on our right.

For centuries no English admiral’s flag had been seen in the Mediterranean, our merchant vessels trading in those seas being thus exposed to the attacks of pirates without hope of redress. On coming off Malaga, we found to our disappointment that the princes had fled, in what direction no one would inform us. While we lay there, a furious gale threatened the destruction of our ships, but we rode it out in safety.

Just as we were sailing, information was brought that the pirates were in Cartagena. Pressing on all sail, we made for that port. As we came off it, our hearts beat high with satisfaction, for there lay the fleet for which we were in search.

The admiral, who was well acquainted with the dilatoriness of Spanish diplomacy, not waiting for leave, bearing down on the corsairs attacked the Roebuck, the largest of their ships, and quickly mastered her.

Another was set on fire, while the remainder, cutting their cables, ran on shore utterly disabled. Great, however, was our disappointment not to find either of the princes; and we learned from some of the prisoners that they had both been separated from the rest of the squadron during the gale, but what had become of them we were unable to ascertain.

In vain we sailed from port to port. At last we heard that they had taken shelter in the harbour of Toulon. On receiving this information we immediately steered for that port. On arriving we found that the corsairs had been honourably received by the French admiral, and that assistance had been given to them to dispose of their plunder.

On this Admiral Blake sent word that he considered the French had been guilty of a hostile act, and that unless the corsairs were driven from the harbour, and the plunder restored to its lawful owners, he should feel justified in making reprisals on the commerce of France.

No answer was given to this message, but after a short time it was discovered that the two princes had fled, though in what direction we were, as before, unable to ascertain.

Leaving Admiral Penn to search for them, we at length steered for England. Just as we were passing through the Straits, a large ship was seen which approached us without any apparent hesitation, showing French colours. Getting nearer, she hove to, while a boat being lowered her captain came on board. He was received with the usual courtesy by the admiral in his cabin.

The Frenchman being seated, the admiral informed him that he must consider himself a prisoner, and requested him to deliver up his sword.

“No, monsieur,” answered the Frenchman; “not while I have strength to use it,” and he placed his hand on the hilt.

“I confess, brave sir, that you have been unfairly beguiled on board, and that you were ignorant that I had thrown down the gauntlet to your admiral at Toulon. If you desire it, you may go on board your ship and try to escape if you have the power,” said the admiral.

“I accept your generous offer,” answered the Frenchman with a bow, and he made his way on deck. We attended him with due honour down the side, when he returned to his ship.

As soon as he had gone the drum beat to quarters, but we waited before firing, to allow him to prepare his own vessel for the encounter.

Due time having passed, we fired a shot across his bows, which he returned, aiming at the Tiger.

The fight now commenced in earnest. The Frenchmen fought bravely, endeavouring to knock away our spars so as to make their escape. But their gunnery was not equal to that of our men. So severely did we pound them, that after holding out two hours they hauled down their flag.

The boats were immediately sent to bring the prisoners on board, when the captain, making a low bow, bestowed an affectionate kiss on the hilt of his weapon, and handed it to the admiral, who replied—

“You are a brave man, and deserve to keep your sword: pray receive it and wear it for my sake,” and he handed the weapon back to his prisoner.

The prize was a valuable acquisition, being a fine frigate of forty guns. Four other large French vessels were taken on our way home, and at length we arrived safely at Plymouth. Lancelot, Dick, and I at once got leave to go to Lyme, being anxious to learn whether any tidings had been received of the lost ones.

Mr Harvey, who was there, received us very kindly. Every means had been taken for discovering them, but not even the slightest clue had been obtained, and he acknowledged that he had very slight hopes that we should ever again hear of them. The reality came with fearful force upon me when he said this, and it was with difficulty I could refrain from giving way to my passionate grief. Lancelot, feeling as I did there was nothing to keep us at home, returned to Plymouth, where Dick promised to follow.

On a bright day in the early part of spring, 1651, Lancelot and I went on board the Tiger, which had been hastily refitted for sea. Martin, who was on the look-out, welcomed us back.

“Just in time, gentlemen; there’s work cut out for us, and the admiral is to be on board this evening,” he said, as we shook hands. “We are to rout out that nest of hornets in Scilly, and I’ve a notion we shall make them disgorge the plunder they have been collecting for many years past.”

We were truly thankful for the promised excitement, for in the present state of our minds we could ill brook idleness. Besides the Tiger, a number of small frigates were collected, well calculated for the work to be undertaken. The admiral, accompanied by his nephew, came on board that evening, the former receiving Lancelot and me in his usual kind way, not forgetting to make inquiries whether our sisters and his friend Mr Kerridge had returned. “Don’t despair, notwithstanding, my young friends,” he said, when we told him nothing had been heard of them “By God’s providence they may still be found.”

Robert had now become, next to the captain, the principal officer on board, and though so young, he well fulfilled the duties of his post.

Lancelot had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant, but Dick and I were still in the admiral’s cabin. We were often employed in transcribing his letters and other similar duties, though at the same time we pursued our nautical studies. Despatches being received from London, we immediately sailed for our destination. Two days’ sail brought us in sight of the Scilly Islands, slumbering quietly on the surface of the bright blue ocean. They looked green and pleasant to the eye, with here and there a few rocky heights rising in their midst, but in most parts the land was not elevated many feet above the water. Above the other hills appeared the height on whose summit the Cavaliers had built a strong castle, which it was our object to capture. Coming off Saint Mary’s, the principal island, we hove to, and the admiral ordered a boat to be lowered, in which went Robert Blake, and I accompanied him, bearing a message summoning Sir John Grenville, the governor, to surrender. Having proceeded up the channel leading to the fort, we landed, bearing a white flag, and walked on until we reached the entrance. We were at once admitted, when we had an opportunity of taking a glance round the fortifications. The castle was filled with men, a large number being evidently, from their dress and appearance, officers. They were rollicking-looking gentlemen, and were laughing, and joking, and amusing themselves at our expense as we passed along.

Sir John Grenville received us with due courtesy. On reading the summons he replied—

“I might rather demand that Admiral Blake should deliver up his fleet, but yet I am willing to enter into a treaty, although it should be known to you that I have a force with me not only sufficient to protect these islands, but to restore the exiled prince to the throne of his fathers.”

“The result will prove that, sir,” answered the young lieutenant. “Am I to inform the admiral that you refuse to deliver up the islands and their castles to the fleet of the Commonwealth?”

“Certainly such is my intention,” answered Sir John, and he bowed us out of the hall.

We returned unmolested to the boat, and pulled back for the ship. No sooner had we arrived than the admiral sent for Captain Morris, one of the most trusted of his commanders, and ordered him to take eight hundred of the best men from the different ships, and to land at the back of Tresco, which is next in size to Saint Mary’s, and lies close to it.

Lieutenant Blake and I, with a small body of seamen from our ship, accompanied the troops. We found a line of breastworks thrown up for the defence of the shore, and held by fully a thousand men. But our brave leader was not to be hindered in performing his duty by this show of resistance. The boats in line dashed on, and in spite of the round shot plunged in among us, and the bullets whistling about our ears, the moment the keels touched the beach we threw ourselves overboard, and, wading on shore, speedily formed. Then the order to advance was given, and pike in hand we rushed up the bank. The Cavaliers received us with a hot fire of musketry, but their artillery was silent, being unable to play on us without hitting them.

The contest was fierce but short. Nothing could withstand our onslaught. The Cavaliers gave way, and, escaping across the island, made for their boats, reaching which they crossed over to Saint Mary’s, leaving us in possession of their cannon, muskets, and pikes, and pistols, besides several prisoners.

A lodgment on the island being thus effected, we threw up trenches to prevent our position being retaken when night closed down upon us. We had to keep a strict watch, the men sleeping with their arms by their sides, for at any moment we might be attacked. When morning came, the admiral, with a reinforcement, landed, and immediately gave the word to advance. We passed over a high ridge which crossed the island, and descended on the other side, when a view broke on our sight which for picturesque beauty could scarcely be surpassed.

Before us rose Saint Mary’s Island, with its castle and ramparts; below, in the centre of the roadstead, lay the war ships of the Cavaliers, with the prizes they had captured, the blue expanse bordered by jutting points and fantastic rocks of various shapes, while the surrounding shores were covered with umbrageous trees, green fields, and rich orchards.

The admiral at once selected a point overlooking the harbour and roadstead, on which he forthwith ordered a battery to be erected.

No sooner were the works thrown up than we opened a hot fire on the castle and other fortifications, as well as on the vessels, which, cutting their cables, endeavoured to escape up various channels hitherto concealed from our sight.

The admiral, however, no sooner seeing that, at the distance we were from the castle, our shot could produce but little effect on it, returned on board, leaving Captain Morris to continue the siege, and ordering his nephew and me to follow.

We now found that he had devised a new plan of attack. Summoning all the lighter frigates, he placed on board a number of men, and supplied each also with several guns of larger calibre than they were wont to carry. Going himself on board one of them, the Fox, with Robert Blake, Lancelot and I, he led the way towards a narrow channel between the open sea and the roadstead, directly opposite Saint Mary’s.

Our progress was slow, but by dint of towing and warping we advanced unmolested, until we reached the harbour of Saint Mary’s.

The castle, as we were seen approaching, commenced thing, when dropping our anchors, with springs to our cables, we returned the salute with our broadsides.

In a few minutes the harbour, which had looked so bright and calm, was canopied by dense wreaths of smoke; the shot came crashing into the sides of the vessels, or splashing into the water, while our ears were deafened by the roar of the guns thundering from the castle and from our own and the corsairs’ fleets.

Though frequently struck, we received less damage than I had anticipated, while we soon perceived that the ill-constructed walls of the castle and fortifications were crumbling away from the effect of our shot.

Night coming on put an end to the attack, and we retired out of range of the enemy’s guns. But our admiral had no intention of desisting.

All night long we remained at our quarters, thinking it possible that the enemy might venture to board us in their boats during the darkness. More than once an alarm was raised and the men flew to their guns, but the night passed off tranquilly; the Cavaliers had no stomach for such an enterprise. Morning broke at last. The castle walls, wearing a battered appearance, rose above the calm water shining in the rays of the rising sun; the air was soft and balmy, a thin haze softening the more rugged features of nature.

Prayers being offered up, and breakfast over, we stood in to our former position to recommence our work of the previous day.

Forthwith the guns on both sides began blazing away. “Hurrah!” cried Lancelot, “we shall soon bring matters to a conclusion. Look there!” Turning my eyes in the direction he pointed, I saw that our fire concentrated on one side of the fortress was producing a considerable effect. Huge pieces of masonry, earth, and stones came toppling over and slipping into the ditch, and ere long we perceived that our shot had produced a practicable breach, through which our troops would quickly effect an entrance.

The admiral then ordered them to prepare for the assault, but as they were advancing, a flag of truce was thrown out from the walls, and a herald descending came off in a boat to the ship with a message from Sir John, requesting to hold a parley.

It was agreed to, when conditions were proposed. Six John offered, provided that the lives of the officers and men were spared, to surrender the islands with their garrisons, stores, arms, ammunition, standards, and all implements and materials of war; the soldiers and seamen being allowed to enter the nation’s service, while the gentlemen were to be sent to London, to await the decision of Parliament.

To these terms, which were considered very favourable to the Royalists, the admiral consented, and Sir John, with his corsair companions, were put on board Admiral Askew’s squadron to be carried to Plymouth.

We, in the meantime, were employed in collecting the various vessels which had been captured by the pirates and bringing them under our guns, lest some of the rovers might attempt to get off and pursue their old calling in other regions. Lancelot and I were employed in this service. We had boarded several when we caught sight over the land of the masts of another moving slowly through the water; we gave chase, and soon came up with her. The captain vowed that he had no intention of escaping, but appearances were against him. On getting back to the harbour, we sent him on board the flag-ship to answer for his conduct.

While we were on board we entered into conversation with an intelligent fellow, Ned Watkins by name, who acted as boatswain. He seemed to be fond of making use of his tongue. Lancelot, wishing to ascertain something about the corsair career of these ships, asked him if his vessel, the Speedwell, had been long at sea and what prizes she had taken.

“Never craft had worse luck,” he answered. “We had sailed from Jersey with the Hector, another ship of the same size as ours, carrying eighty men and twenty guns, bound out to Lisbon, or anywhere, as long as we could fall in with that royal rover, Prince Rupert, when, as we were coming down Channel, a strong gale blowing, we sighted a hoy, a tight little hooker, somewhere off the Start. We both made chase, for a small fish is better than no fish at all, and soon came up with her, though she tried her best to escape. The Hector, which boarded her, took out her people and several passengers, for so I judged them to be, as they wore petticoats, and all her cargo, and then a crew being put on board the prize we made sail for Scilly, where we had been ordered to call on our way southward. A strong north-westerly gale, however, which caught us just as we neared the islands, drove us out to sea, and when it moderated and we were about to beat back, seven large ships hove in sight, which, as they approached, we saw carried the Parliamentary flag. As we had no wish to fall into their hands, we made sail to escape, and succeeded in keeping ahead of them, but during the night we lost sight of the Hector. In what direction she was steering we could not make out. When morning dawned, however, we caught a glimpse of the enemy’s squadron, and from the way they were steering, we had little doubt that they were in pursuit of her. By furling all sail we escaped observation, and three days afterwards managed to get back with the sloop to Scilly.”

“What became of the Hector?” I inquired eagerly, at once feeling certain that the vessel she had captured was the hoy in which Mr Kerridge and his party were proceeding to Plymouth.

“From that day to this I have heard nothing of her,” answered the boatswain. “My idea is, if she escaped from the Roundhead squadron, and not managing to get into the Tagus, that she ran up the Straits to do some privateering on her own account. Her commander, Captain Kerby, was not a man to let a chance escape him, and he had been in charge of a trader to all parts of the Mediterranean.”

We questioned and cross-questioned Ned Watkins, but he could give us no further information. Lancelot and I talked the subject over.

“My father and our sisters were not drowned, then, as some suppose, and may still be alive, though held, I fear, in durance, or they would have found means of communicating with us,” he said. “That the Hector did not reach the Tagus we may be pretty certain, for if she had, my father would have contrived to send a message to the admiral. If Watkins is right in his conjectures, she must then have gone up the Straits, and she may or may not have afterwards joined the Prince’s squadron, though I am inclined to think she did not, or we should have heard of her from the prizes we took, and she was certainly not among the vessels we destroyed. It follows then that she met with some other fate.”

“Alack! and that may be a disastrous one,” I exclaimed. “Too probably we shall never again hear of the dear ones.”

“Not if we don’t search for them,” answered Lancelot, “but I have an idea. What do you say to obtaining leave from the admiral to fit out one of the vessels we have just taken, and to go and look for them? We may learn where the Hector has been, and by that means trace them. I cannot bring myself to believe that they are lost.”

I fully entered into Lancelot’s plan, which we speedily matured. He at once went to Robert Blake, who, approving of our proposal, undertook to speak to his uncle.

Before long the admiral sent for us. “I can ill spare any trustworthy officers, but your cause is a sacred one, and you shall have the best vessel you can find, with such men among the prisoners as will volunteer, and whom you deem fitted for the service. I will undertake to pay their wages and all other expenses, and you may gain such information of what is going on in the Mediterranean as may be of use to our country.”

We heartily thanked the admiral, and taking our leave, hastened to carry out our intentions.

We soon, with Lieutenant Blake’s assistance, fixed on a vessel, appropriately called the Good Hope. She was in seaworthy condition, with stores of all sorts on board, and carried twenty guns. Her complement of men we had no difficulty in obtaining, as the corsairs who had just been captured were glad to obtain good pay and to escape having to serve on board the Parliamentary ships.

Lancelot was appointed captain, I went as his first lieutenant, and Dick, who got leave from the admiral, as his second, while Martin Shobbrok went as gunner, and Ned Watkins volunteered to act as boatswain.

Getting such further stores, provisions, arms, and ammunition on board as we required for a long cruise, we bade our friends “Good-bye,” and making sail stood away from the Scilly Islands, which we soon ran out of sight.

Chapter Eight.

Close Quarters.

The Good Hope had got well to the southward. Hitherto things had gone on smoothly, though we found our crew less inclined to submit to discipline than we desired. Neither did Martin and Watkins pull very amicably together.

At first we thought that the old gunner was inclined to demand more respect from the boatswain than the latter was inclined to pay, but one night, while I was keeping watch on deck, Martin came up to me. He looked round to ascertain that no one was near, as if he had something of importance to communicate.

“Well, old friend, what has happened?” I asked.

“Nothing as yet, but something will happen, if we don’t look sharp,” he answered.

“I mistrust that fellow Watkins.”

“That’s just what I wanted to speak to you about. It would be better for the discipline of the ship if you could make friends with him. Unless the officers pull together, we cannot hope to keep a crew like ours in order.”

“It’s not my fault that we have disputes,” answered the old man; “he’s always trying to pick a quarrel with me and to bring me into disrepute with the crew. I have had my eye on him of late, and I have observed that he is constantly going among the men when below, talking to them in the most familiar way, endeavouring to make them think him a very fine fellow, to gain them over to some plan or other he has in his head.”

I questioned Martin, thinking he must have been deceived, but he was positive that he had not.

“I will tell the captain what you say, and I’ll take such precautions as are possible,” I replied. “In the meantime let me know what men are likely to hold staunch to us if your surmises should prove correct.”

“I think I can find a dozen God-fearing men, who were compelled against their will to serve with the Malignants. The rest are a drunken, rollicking, swearing lot, who would be ready to carry out any evil deed Watkins may propose.”

“With a dozen good men and ourselves, being prepared beforehand, we may be able to counteract any plan the boatswain has in view,” I observed. “Do you, Martin, secure those who you think you can trust, and I will consult with the captain as to the precautions which may be necessary. Go below, now, and take care no one discovers that we suspect Watkins.”

As soon as Dick came on deck, I told him what Martin had said, and he promised to be on the alert; then going below, I went into Lancelot’s cabin, and we held a consultation together on the subject. He at once arrived at the conclusion that Watkins had conceived the possibility of taking the ship from us, and, should he succeed, that he intended to join Prince Rupert, or make a piratical cruise on his own account.

He might hope, by hoisting the Prince’s flag, to be taken for one of his squadron, and be able to sell his prizes in a Spanish or French port, or if he could not, by running across to the West Indies to dispose of them there. As Martin did not lead us to suppose that Watkins’ plans were mature, we agreed that we might wait without apprehensions of mutiny for a day or two, or perhaps longer, until we ascertained who were the men we could trust.

Next morning a heavy gale sprang up, and the crew had plenty of work in shortening sail and attending to their other duties, so that they had little time for plotting, were they so inclined. The gale lasted three days, the sea running mountains high, and threatening to engulph the ship. During the time we marked the way the men performed their duties, and noted such as appeared the best seamen, believing that those generally would prove the most trustworthy. When the storm was over the ship was put on her proper course and all sail made, for we were eager to get through the Straits to prosecute the object of our voyage.

We were now about the latitude of Cadiz. Dick Harvey was on deck, I was seated in the cabin with Lancelot, when Martin came in under pretence that he had been sent for to receive orders.

“I was not mistaken in my suspicions, Captain Kerridge,” he said. “Watkins has won over well-nigh two-thirds of the crew, and their intention is as soon as they get inside the Straits to seize the ship and join Prince Rupert, if he is still up the Mediterranean, and if not, to follow him wherever he has gone, making prizes of all the craft they can fall in with, to supply themselves with provisions and stores. They have learned a pretty lesson from their Cavalier leaders, and it is natural that they should desire to follow it.”

“But have you found any men on whom you can rely?” asked Lancelot.

“That’s just what I was going to tell you I have done,” answered the old gunner. “There are twelve I have spoken to who have promised to fight to the last, rather than let their shipmates follow such desperate courses, and there are six others who are not likely to join the mutineers when they find there is a party to oppose them. It has been so ordered by Providence that I have discovered a young nephew of mine, who, having been seemingly won over by Watkins, is in all his secrets. When he found out who I was, he told me everything, believing that to do so was for the good of us all. I advised him not to let it be known that he had changed sides. He is a sharp lad, and though he has been in bad company, he has not forgotten the lessons his mother taught him, and wishes to do what is right. Thus I am kept informed of all the purposes of the mutineers, who are not likely to take us by surprise, as they have not yet secured any of the arms.”

We settled, to prevent them from doing so, to lock up all the small arms and ammunition in one of the after cabins, without allowing the crew to know what we had done. Lancelot then directed Martin to go forward, as he wished not to excite suspicion by keeping him in the cabin longer than was necessary. We at once armed ourselves, and either Martin, Lancelot, Dick, or I kept watch on deck, while we took care always to have two trustworthy men at the helm.

Martin assured us that the mutineers had no suspicion that their designs were known. The weather had again become fine, and we ran through the Straits of Gibraltar. The moment the mutineers proposed to execute their plan was approaching. Martin brought us word that they intended to seize the ship at midnight, putting in irons all who refused to join them, and to kill us should any resistance be offered.

As soon as it was dark, we ran two of the guns called “murtherers” through the ports of the after-castle opening on the main deck, which should an enemy when boarding gain a footing there, are intended to rake it.

We also loaded and placed in readiness arms for about a score of men, who we hoped would side with us, while we also barricaded all the doors which led to the after part of the ship.

When all was ready, Martin, going below, told the men he could trust to muster aft.

One by one they crept up, so as not to attract the attention of the rest. As they came up we put arms into their hands, and stationed them under the after-castle. To our satisfaction we found that we had as many as we had expected, who all swore to protect us with their lives from the mutineers.

Before the expected moment all our arrangements had been made. The sea was calm, a gentle breeze filled the sails, and the ship glided on, leaving a long trail of bright light astern.

Midnight came, when the captain’s voice was heard, summoning all hands on deck to shorten sail. The crew, supposing that the ship was about to be struck by one of those white squalls which sometimes come on with fearful suddenness in the Mediterranean and lay over many a stout ship, hurried up from below, and instinctively sprang aloft. The boatswain having remained on deck, Dick and I, with two men we called to our aid, rushed forward, and seizing him dragged him aft.

This being done, the captain shouted—

“The squall will not strike us, lads; let fall the canvas and haul aft the sheets.”

The crew, ignorant of what had occurred, obeyed, and were then ordered on deck. There they stood waiting for the signal the boatswain was to give them to set on us. There were three other ringleaders. The captain called two of them aft by name to take the helm. They came without hesitation, supposing that it would afford them a better opportunity for carrying out their plan. Instantly they were seized and placed in irons, the darkness greatly favouring our proceedings, as the rest of the crew could not see what was taking place. The third man, fortunately for us, coming aft was recognised by Martin, who, seizing him, we had him in limbo before he could be rescued.

The crew not finding the signal they expected given, crowded together, calling to their ringleaders and to each other.

Some among them now suspecting what had occurred, cried out that they were betrayed, and summoning the rest to the rescue, they advanced towards the place where their companions were confined.

On they came, armed with handspikes, belaying pins, boat stretchers, knives and axes, the only weapons they could procure, with threatening gestures, well able, it seemed, to overwhelm us.

“Stay where you are,” shouted Lancelot; “the guns are loaded. If you advance a step further we fire. You know the consequences.”

The mutineers, well aware that the guns would sweep the decks and hurl them in a moment into eternity, stopped short. Not one of them ventured to utter a word.

“My lads,” continued their young captain, “you have been deceived by artful men, who would have led you to your destruction. I have no desire to injure one of you, and will overlook your conduct if you return to your duty. You engaged with me and my friends for a worthy cause, to search for some helpless ladies and an old man who are perchance held in bondage by the enemies of our country. We trusted to you as honest Englishmen to fulfil your engagements. Let it not be said that you turned renegades to a noble cause. Some of you have sisters and parents for whom you would be ready to fight. Are you then acting like brave men by turning against your officers? I will not believe that you are so base and worthless. Now, lads, let me see who will stand by us. Those who would keep to their pledges come over to starboard, while the rest stand on the larboard side.”

For a short time the men hesitated, then first one, then another, and finally the whole body came over to the starboard side.

“I thought it would be so!” exclaimed the captain. “Thank you, lads. I intend to trust you; and if we meet an enemy, I am sure you will prove that you are true British seamen.”

The crew gave a hearty cheer in reply, and that cheer must have proved to the leaders of the mutiny that their influence over the men was lost.

To prevent them committing further mischief, we kept them in irons, intending to deliver them over to the first English ship of war we should meet.

Next morning, from the way the men behaved, and the quietness which prevailed, no one would have supposed that a fearful conflict had been imminent the previous night. They, indeed, went about their regular duties with more than usual alacrity. We let them see, however, that we were prepared, should they be inclined for mischief.

Our intention was to visit Sardinia, Majorca, Minorca, and other islands in that direction, then to run down the coast of Italy and Sicily, and afterwards steer for the Levant, making inquiries at all places and of all the vessels we met for the missing Hector. We were many weeks thus employed, often being delayed by calms and kept long in port while prosecuting our inquiries.

When off Elba we sighted several ships showing English colours. We ran down to them, and found that they formed part of a squadron under Commodore Bodley. Heaving to, we lowered a boat, and I took Master Watkins with the three other prisoners on board the commodore’s ship, telling him of the trick they wished to play us.

“They’ll not attempt a like one again,” answered the commodore. “We shall probably engage with the enemy before long, and they will then have an opportunity of retrieving their characters.”

As the calm came on, I was able to visit each ship and make inquiries for the Hector; but no tidings could I gain of her.

It would occupy too much space were I to describe the places we visited, and all the adventures we met with.

We lay for several days in the beautiful Bay of Naples to refit, and then stood across for Sicily, where we saw Mount Etna casting up fire and smoke, and afterwards coming off the island of Stromboli, we were well-nigh overwhelmed by the showers of ashes which fell on our deck, making the men believe that we were about to be overwhelmed, or that the day of judgment had come. Fellows who had never before prayed, fell down on their knees and cried for mercy.

A breeze springing up, we got once more under the blue sky, and they quickly forgot their fears. Hitherto we had been sadly disappointed. Had the Hector touched at any of the ports we had visited she would have been remembered, as she was, as Watkins had described her, a stout ship of peculiar build. We should have regretted losing him, as he might have been able to identify her, had not two of the men who remained served on board her, and they declared that should they set eyes on the old Hector they should know her among a hundred such craft. We resolved, at all events, to continue our search as long as we had the means of procuring provisions and stores. We had no small difficulty, however, in keeping our unruly crew in order; accustomed as most of them had been to the corsair life, they longed for the excitement of the battle and chase, and murmured at the peaceable work in which we were engaged. We promised them, therefore, that they should have fighting enough should we fall in with an enemy to our country, and of such England had many by this time, Dutch, French and Spaniards, though the Italian princes and Portuguese wisely wished to keep on friendly terms.

We had got some distance to the eastward of Malta, when a calm came on, and we lay with our canvas flapping against the masts, the sea shining like glass, and not a cloud overhead to dim the blue heavens or to shield our heads from the rays of the burning sun. The crew lay about the decks overcome by the heat, and grumbling at the idle life to which they were doomed. The red sun went down, and the pale moon rose, casting a silvery light over the slumbering ocean. Not a ripple broke the mirror-like surface of the deep.

“We must give these fellows something to do, or they’ll be brewing mischief,” observed Lancelot, as we listened to the growling tones which came from forward.

“Unless we turn corsairs, or fall in with a Hollander or a Don, I do not see what we can give them to do,” answered Dick.

“The chances are we shall not have long to wait, or we may encounter a storm. That will give them some occupation, especially if it carries away some of our spars,” I observed, laughing.

We were in truth put to our wits’ end to keep our men in good temper. Again the sun rose, and from the appearance of the sky there appeared every probability that the calm would continue. We immediately set the men to work with paint brushes and tar brushes, made them scrub the decks, and black down the rigging. We then exercised them at the guns. They were thus employed when, looking to the southward, I caught sight of a white sail rising above the horizon.

“She can’t move without wind, and if so, she’ll be bringing up a breeze,” observed Dick. “We shall soon be throwing the spray over our bows as we make way again through the water.”

Still the ship lay as immovable as before, her masts and spars, her black rigging, her white sails and shining hull reflected on the glass-like surface; at the same time the stranger got closer and closer, and now her topsails appeared, next her courses.

“She’s a big craft, that; twice the size of the Good Hope, I opine,” observed Martin. “If she’s a friend, she may bring us news, but if she’s an enemy we shall have to up stick and run for it.”

“Not until we see how many teeth she carries,” said the captain, who overheard the remark. “Big as she is, the Good Hope may be able to tackle her.”

While we were speaking, our loftier canvas began to swell and flutter, then the topsails and courses napped against the masts, and cat’s-paws ran playfully over the water. Presently ripples were seen on all sides, and every sail swelled out. The ship gathered way, but instead of keeping before the wind, the captain ordered the maintopsail to be backed, and we lay to waiting for the stranger, while our white flag with a red-cross was run up to the peak. Hardly had it blown out than the approaching ship showed her colours, and the design of a crescent moon proved that she was Turkish, or belonged to Tunis, Tripoli, or some other of the Barbary States.

“My lads,” cried Lancelot, “we shall probably have to fight yonder ship if she proves what I suppose her to be. If we capture her we shall obtain a rich prize. If she takes us, we shall have our throats cut, or be carried into slavery.”

“We will fight her, and beat her,” cried the men, and they gave utterance to a loud cheer.

“Brace round the main-yard, then,” cried the captain, and the ship stood on close-hauled, ready to tack, so that if possible we might gain the weather-gauge. The stranger seeing this altered her course, in order to prevent our doing what we proposed. At length, finding that we could not gain the advantage we wished, we ran under her lee, and Lancelot in a loud tone ordered her to strike to the Commonwealth of England.

As a haughty refusal was the answer, we opened fire, hoping to knock away a mast or some of her spars, and thus be able to gain the position we desired; but the corsair, for such the stranger undoubtedly was, replied with a broadside of upwards of twenty guns, the shot from which passing between our masts, did no further damage than cutting away some of our running rigging.

We now stood on yard-arm to yard-arm, firing our guns as rapidly as they could be run in and loaded. Our enemies meantime were not idle, and their shot came crashing pretty thickly on board. Two of our men were killed and others wounded. But we judged that we were committing more damage than we received. Many of our shots went through and through the corsair’s sides, others swept her decks and killed several of her crew. Still, from her superior size and greater number of guns, it was probable before we could take her that she might so seriously damage our little frigate that we might be prevented from prosecuting our object.

Notwithstanding this, Lancelot had no idea of retreating from the fight, and it only made him more anxious to gain a speedy victory. It was soon seen that the corsair was suffering the most in her hull, though her masts and spars had hitherto escaped. On the other hand, we had lost our fore-topmast, and shortly afterwards our fore-yard came down by the run on deck, killing two of our men. Still these disasters did not induce us to relax our efforts.

Our crew, now that they were put on their mettle, showed that they were sturdy Englishmen, and as our shot went crashing through the side of our big opponent they cheered again and again, believing that she would soon be compelled to strike.

Lancelot stood on the after-castle, watching every movement of the enemy. At last his voice shouted, “Boarders! be prepared to repel boarders!” and as he spoke the big ship was seen bearing down, evidently intending to run alongside. Our men had hangers and pistols in their belts. Those not required to work the guns seized the boarding pikes and stood ready to spring to that part of the ship’s side where the enemy might board us.

The corsair glided up, and her bow striking ours, she hooked on to our fore-chains. The next instant a countless number of swarthy figures with turbaned heads, bright scymitars flashing in their hands, swarmed in the rigging of the corsair and came leaping down on our deck. Led by Lancelot, Dick and I fighting by his side, we met them with hanger, pike, and pistol, driving them back over the bulwarks, or cleaving them from head to chine as they got within reach of our swords.

Those who were about to follow, seeing the rate of the first, held back, and the next moment the ships separated. Ere they did so their sides were brought close to each other, and I saw a man make a tremendous spring from that of the enemy and grip hold of our bulwarks, to which he clung desperately, crying out—

“I am an Englishman; save me, save me!” Several shots were fired at him by the corsairs; but he escaped, and some of our men rushing to his rescue hauled him on board.

“To the guns, to the guns!” shouted Lancelot, and we again began to work our artillery with the same rapidity as before.

Chapter Nine.

The Corsair beaten off.

After the failure of her attempt to board us, the corsair hauled aft her sheets and shot ahead of the Good Hope. We believing that she intended to rake us, quickly got headsail on the ship, and by squaring away the afteryards, and brailing up the mizen, put her before the wind, all the time blazing away as fast as we could with our guns. Instead, however, of passing either astern or ahead of us, which having all her canvas set, she might easily have done, the corsair kept on a wind, and presently, when beyond the range of our guns, going about she stood away to the south-west. We had beaten off our big assailant, and we might possibly in a longer contest have compelled her to strike or sent her to the bottom, but we were in no condition to follow her. All hands being required to repair damages, some time passed before we could question the stranger who had taken refuge on board us. As he looked sick and careworn, Lancelot had directed that he should be conducted to the cabin, where, the ship having at length been put somewhat to rights, I was able to join him. Finding that having been properly looked after and supplied with food he had much recovered, I inquired who he was and from whence he came.

“My name is Joseph Aylett; I am an Englishman and a sea officer,” he answered. “I was captured many a long month ago, on board a vessel by a ship from Tunis, not far from where we now are. The night was dark, the sea smooth, a light breeze only filling our sails. Not a thought of danger entered our heads. A bad look-out must have been kept, for, without warning, suddenly a large ship ran us alongside before we could fly to our arms or fire a gun, and a whole host of Moors came swarming down on our decks. Resistance was useless, though had we been prepared we might have fought the enemy as you did and beaten her off. We were prisoners to the corsairs, and doomed, as we supposed, to a life-long slavery. If the lot of us men was hard, that of our female passengers was harder still. We had two poor young ladies with a waiting woman and their father, who had been taken on board against their will and compelled to accompany us out to these distant seas. Every respect had been shown to them by the captain and officers, of whom I was one, and we had promised to send them home by the first ship we should fall in with returning to England.

“As no blood had been shed we were better treated by the Moors than we had expected, the passengers even were allowed to remain in their cabins without molestation, and I was thankful to find that the young ladies did not make their appearance. Still I trembled to think to what indignities they might be exposed when carried on shore, and perhaps separated from each other and their father. Most of our crew were quickly removed to the corsair, their places being supplied by the Moors, but I and a few others were left on board to assist in working the ship. A calm coming on prevented us from reaching Tunis for a couple of days. During the time, I turned in my mind the possibility of assisting the young ladies, and at length a plan occurred to me, by adopting which their position might be rendered less perilous than would otherwise be the case.

“We had had two young boys in the ship, son and nephew of the captain. The one had died from sickness, the other had fallen overboard and been drowned. Their clothes had been left in a chest, and when no one was looking, I possessed myself of the articles and carried them to their cabin. My object was quickly explained, and they at once expressed their willingness to follow my advice.

“Their father saw its wisdom, and leaving them to don the garments I had brought, I hastened away that I might not be perceived. Then telling the other officer left with me what I had done, we at once agreed as to the way we should behave to the seeming lads. We were, should we have an opportunity, to inform our captain, who was on board the corsair, of what we had done, and to treat them as if they were his son and nephew.”

The feelings with which I listened to the officer’s narrative can better be supposed than expressed. “Tell me, Mr Aylett, who were those young ladies of whom you speak?” I asked, in an agitated voice.

“Their father was, I understand, a Roundhead, Kerridge by name, but otherwise a well-disposed, amiable gentleman whom I was glad to serve.”

“Kerridge!” I exclaimed, not regarding his remark. “Tell me, sir, the name of the vessel on board which you were.”

“The Hector,” he replied.

All doubt vanished from my mind as to whom those unfortunate persons were.

“Go on, sir, I pray you,” I said. “Tell me what happened next.”

“The following morning, while we were some way off Tunis, the old gentleman accompanied by the two young ladies appeared on deck, but it would have required a keen eye to have discovered that they were not what they seemed. I forthwith went up to one of them and sang out, ‘Lay hold of this rope and do as I do; now haul away.’ The other joined us, and by the way the Moors looked at them, I felt satisfied that their disguise was not discovered.

“I then spoke to the old woman who attended on them, advising her to conceal their female attire.

“‘I have taken good care of that, sir,’ she answered. ‘I’ve thrown some through a port and packed the rest in my chest; it won’t be my fault if they are found out.’

“Our captors treated us with more civility than I had expected. I and the men left were doing our best to navigate the ship, and the Moors knew that we could not escape. No sooner, however, had we dropped anchor and furled sails in the harbour of Tunis, off the strong castle of Porto Ferino, than several boats came alongside, and we, as well as the poor passengers being mustered on deck, had our arms lashed behind us, by which treatment we knew that we were looked upon as slaves. We were then carried on shore to the slave market, where we found the rest of the crew of the Hector. I thought little of my own sufferings while reflecting on the sad fate to which Mr Kerridge and his young companions were doomed. In a short time purchasers appeared, and the sale of the captives commenced. From the prices offered it was evident that the common men were looked upon as of greater value than the officers, from its being supposed that they were capable of performing more work.

“Most of the men had been disposed of, when an old Moor in magnificent costume, and several attendants, entered the bazaar. The prices of the men who remained, consisting of the boatswain and his mate, the gunner and three of his crew, all standing six feet high, with broad shoulders, had been considerably raised, but no bidders were forthcoming.

“I thought that the Moorish chief would have bought them, but on hearing the price named he turned away and pointed to Mr Kerridge and the two boys. Satisfied with the sum asked, he at once paid it down, and they were transferred to the care of his black attendants. On seeing this the old woman rushed up to him, and by signs entreated that he would purchase her, amid much laughter, and finding that a very trifling amount was placed on her, he paid it over. I was thankful to find that the whole four were thus purchased by one master, and was wondering what would become of me, when the old Moor, looking into his purse, seemed to discover that he had sufficient for the purchase of another slave. After examining each of the officers, to my great satisfaction he fixed on me, for I had a fancy that he was likely to prove more kind-hearted than most of his countrymen, and that I might be of use to the young ladies and their father.

“Apparently well pleased with his purchases, the old Moor left the bazaar followed by his attendants, who led us along. Outside we found several camels, on which the whole party being mounted, we set off, following a road towards the interior. Although our chance of escape would be greatly lessened by being at a distance from the coast, I was thankful to get out of the town. At last we arrived at what looked like a large farm. It was the chief’s residence, a number of smaller buildings surrounding it, and at the back large gardens, shaded by fine trees, with ponds and fountains and flower beds. The whole was under the care of a big black fellow, to whose charge Mr Kerridge and I were committed. We found that it was intended we should labour in the garden, while the two seeming boys were destined to attend on the old chief, and Margaret on his wives and children. Our lot was thus happier than we could have expected, still there was the fear that the sex of the young ladies might be discovered, though, with Margaret’s help, we hoped that this might be avoided. Of course, from the first Mr Kerridge and I discussed the possibility of escaping, but, removed as we were from the coast, that we should succeed appeared almost impossible.

“I was one day labouring as usual, when the old chief came into the garden, accompanied by another person whom I recognised to be the captain of the ship which had captured us.

“He looked at me and inquired who I was. ‘He is the man who brought the prize into the harbour,’ he observed. ‘I am in want of some good seamen for my new ship, and I will buy him of you, so name your price.’

“I was in hopes that the old chief would refuse, for though I might possibly, by getting on board ship effect my escape, yet I was unwilling to leave Mr Kerridge and his daughters to their hard fate. I found, however, that the transfer had been made without the option of remaining being given me, so I was carried off by the captain, and in two days going on board the vessel he spoke of, I was ordered, under pain of having my brains blown out, to perform the duty of a lieutenant. As it would have been madness to resist, I tried to appear reconciled to my lot, though I resolved on the first opportunity to make my escape. It came sooner than I had expected.

“I confess when I sprang from the side of the corsair that I scarcely hoped to reach your deck alive.”

I need not say into what a state of agitation Mr Aylett’s account threw me. He repeated it again when Lancelot and Dick came below, and it was with difficulty that we could attend to the duties of the ship, thinking of the means to be taken for rescuing those for whom we had searched so long. Mr Aylett, however, gave us no hope of success. “It would be impossible even to communicate with them,” he observed; “the only chance would be to send a message to their owner, and to offer a large sum for their ransom.” How this message was to be sent was the question. Aylett pointed out that were he to go he should be immediately seized as a deserter and lose his life, while any other Englishman who might set foot in the country would be carried off to slavery.

Unfortunately, much time must elapse before even the best-formed plan could be put into execution, for so battered was our ship that it would be absolutely necessary to go into port and refit before we could venture on the coast.

It would be difficult to describe our feelings at the delay, yet our better judgment told us it must be endured. It was a satisfaction to know that Audrey and Cicely and Mr Kerridge and poor Margaret were alive, and from Aylett’s account not ill-treated; yet bondage in any form is hard to bear, and we could not tell what change for the worse in their circumstances might occur. Happily the weather remained calm, and enabled us to get up a fore-yard on which sail could be set, though we had no spar for a topmast. The men worked with a will, for they feared that the Barbary corsair might return, and they had no wish to become slaves, which would be our lot should she succeed in capturing us.

A moderate breeze springing up from the southward, we were able to steer a course for Cagliari in the island of Sardinia, one of the few friendly ports in the Mediterranean, where we could refit and obtain provisions. We reached it without encountering an enemy, and lost no time in commencing the necessary repairs. Still we were in as much doubt as at first as to what means we should take to rescue our friends.

One thing was certain, that force would not avail. Should we reach the coast, our little ship would be blown out of the water by the Tunisian corsairs; or, should our whole crew land, we should be out to pieces before we had advanced a mile into the country.

We talked of going on shore in disguise, but our ignorance of Arabic would betray us. Our only hope of success would be to negotiate, but the old Moor would probably demand a far higher ransom than we were able to pay, and very likely should we sail into the harbour, even with a flag of truce, the Moors would seize our vessel and help themselves to everything on board, while we should be carried off as slaves.

We had now been a long time without hearing from England, and were ignorant of the events taking place nearer home. Of one thing we felt certain, that Admiral Blake was not idle. If work was to be done, he was doing it.

The Good Hope was nearly ready for sea, but still our plan of proceeding was as unsettled as before, when a squadron of five ships with the flag of the Commonwealth flying was seen coming in from the southward. As soon as they had anchored, Lancelot and I went on board the flag-ship, to pay our respects to Commodore Bodley, the commander of the squadron, and to ask his advice and obtain his assistance in recovering our friends. We were invited into his cabin, where we found several officers collected. They were unanimous in the opinion that the attempt to rescue Mr Kerridge and his companions would be madness without a strong force at our backs, and urged us to abandon the idea of going alone. The commander declared that nothing would give him so much satisfaction as to accompany us with his squadron, but without the permission of Parliament he could not venture on the undertaking. Numerous and startling events had taken place since we sailed from Scilly. News of the latter had been brought by a large ship which had joined the squadron from England. Jersey, though gallantly defended by Sir George Carteret, had been captured by a fleet under Admiral Blake. Commodore Young had fallen in with the Dutch fleet, the admiral of which refusing to lower his flag, the commodore had attacked it, and after a sharp action had compelled the Dutchmen to strike.

“Those were brave deeds, but the fighting was mere child’s play compared to what took place afterwards,” exclaimed Captain Harman, commanding the Diamond, the frigate which had just come out from England. “It was thought after the lesson they had received that the Dutch would not again flaunt their flag in British waters, but before long the Dutch Admiral, Van Tromp, made his appearance in the Downs with a fleet of forty-two men-of-war and frigates. At the time Admiral Blake was cruising in the James off Eye, when the news reached him that Van Tromp was off Dover. He at once made sail. Upon reaching the Straits he saw the Dutch fleet standing out to sea. Suddenly, however, they tacked and stood towards him. He had but fifteen ships, but he had sent to Admiral Bourne to join him with a squadron of eight ships. They were, however, not yet in sight; still, our ships were larger, with more men than were on board the Dutch, so that the disproportion of strength was not so great as might appear. Tromp, who led the van in the Brederode, fired into the James, when Admiral Blake instantly ordered his gunners to return the salute. The fight then became general. The James bore the brunt of the action. Her masts were knocked away, her hull riddled, and many officers and men were killed.

“Young Robert Blake, who—Vice-Admiral Penn being absent—took command of the Triumph, greatly distinguished himself, succouring his uncle and contributing much to the success of the day.

“From four o’clock to nightfall the battle raged, when Admiral Bourne arriving with his squadron turned the scale, and the Dutchmen took to flight, leaving two ships in our hands, while the rest were more or less disabled, with two hundred and fifty prisoners and many more killed.

“Admiral Blake thus remained master of the narrow seas, and in less than a month had captured forty rich prizes from the Dutch, which he sent into the Thames. As the Government were well assured that the Dutch would try to revenge themselves, great preparations were made for renewing the contest, and in one month one hundred and five vessels carrying three thousand nine hundred and sixty-one guns were placed under Admiral Blake’s command.

“As sufficient seamen were not to be found, two regiments of foot were sent on board the fleet.

“The admiral then sailed north to capture a large fleet of Dutch herring busses, in order to obtain fish for his crews. No less than six hundred fell into his hands, but, unwilling to injure the families of the poor men depending upon them, he contented himself with taking only a small portion from each buss, and forbidding them again to fish in British waters. They were convoyed by twelve Dutch men-of-war, which he attacked, sinking three and capturing the other nine.

“A portion of the busses he pursued to the Danish coast. While still in those northern seas, several of his ships having been sent to the Orkneys to repair, he received news that Tromp was on his way to attack him, with a fleet greatly outnumbering his.

“The evening of the 5th of August was drawing on, when as the admiral was cruising near Fair Isle, about midway between the Orkneys and Shetlands, he caught sight of the Dutch Fleet. Instant preparations for battle were made, but before a gun was fired, the admiral observing that a heavy gale was coming on, threw out a signal to his ships to prepare for it.

“Down came the tempest with fearful force. The seamen instead of having to fight with mortal foes had now to contend with the raging tempest. The wind shifted to the north north-west, gaining every instant additional force. The sea ran mountains high, filling the air with sheets of foam, through which one ship could scarcely distinguish the other as they were tossed and tumbled by the raging waves. The coming darkness increased the horrors of the scene. Admiral Blake collecting his ships in time, steered for the southward of Shetland, under the shelter of which he remained secure during the height of the tempest. No sooner had it abated than he pursued the sorely battered Dutchmen, capturing many before they escaped into port. The Dutch, after this, knowing that Admiral Blake was waiting for them, did not for some time put again to sea. While he was cruising in the Channel, expecting their appearance, news was brought him that the Spaniards were besieging Dunkirk, but that the French king had sent a fleet for its relief. Believing it was to the interests of England that it should fall, lest the Dutch admiral should make it the basis of operations against the towns on the opposite coast of England, he resolved to go and attack the French fleet.

“The admiral led the way in the Resolution, followed by the Sovereign, the largest of our ships, carrying eleven hundred men and eighty-eight guns. He first attacked the Donadieu, commanded by a Knight of Malta, and boarding her, pike in hand, took her in a few minutes, while the Sovereign with her terrible broadside sank one of the royal frigates and dismantled five others.

“So desperate was the onslaught, that in a few hours every French ship had been sunk or captured, the prizes being carried into the Downs. Scarcely was this victory gained when the Dutch fleet, under Admirals De Witt and De Ruiter, were sighted off the North Foreland. Admiral Blake, without waiting for the rest of his fleet, which were astern, immediately ordered each ship to engage as she came up, and leading the way attacked De Witt’s line. Tremendous were the broadsides exchanged. As night came on the Dutch retreated, having suffered severely, the masts of many of the ships being shot away and vast numbers of men being slain. The next morning the Dutch seemed disposed to renew the bloody work of the previous day, but their courage failed as the English admiral bore down, and putting up their helms, they ran for their native coast, followed by Blake until the shallowness of the water compelled him to desist from pursuit. The Dutch, though thus signally defeated, would, it was thought, again attempt to regain their lost power on the return of spring, and information was received that their most celebrated admiral, Van Tromp, would take command of their fleet. It was not supposed, however, that it would be ready until the spring.

“No sooner had our ships been dispersed to their winter stations, than Tromp appeared with a fleet of more than a hundred sail off the Goodwin Sands.

“Admiral Blake, who was still on board the Triumph, on hearing of this, collected all the ships he could get, and stood out of Dover to attack the Dutch. For the whole of that winter’s day the two admirals watched each other, each endeavouring to obtain the weather-gauge.

“A dark and tempestuous night then coming on separated the fleets of both ships. The following day the weather moderated. Still for some hours the Triumph and Tromp’s flag-ship the Brederode kept manoeuvring, until late in the afternoon the Dutchman made a sudden attempt to take the English admiral at a disadvantage. Blake, however, by suddenly luffing-up crossed the bow of the Brederode, followed by the Garland, against which ship the Brederode ran with a tremendous crash, when both became hotly engaged. The Bonaventura, a trader of only thirty guns, gallantly came up to the rescue of the Garland. While thus fighting, Admiral Evertz attacked the latter ship, the whole four being alongside each other, when after a desperate struggle, more than half the crews of the two English ships being killed and wounded, they were boarded and carried by the Dutchmen. Meanwhile the Triumph, Vanguard, and Victory were fighting desperately with twenty of the enemy’s ships, frequently almost surrounded before many of the rest of the fleet had gone into action. The men stood bravely to their guns, although numbers were falling on their decks, and fought their way on, until the night coming down put an end to the battle.

“The following morning a thick fog prevented the enemy being seen, and with his shattered fleet Admiral Blake thought it wise to retire up the Thames to repair damages and collect his ships in readiness again to encounter the enemy. Such was the last action which was fought before we left England,” continued the officer; “but I am ashamed to say that Tromp was seen vauntingly sailing up and down the Channel with a broom at his mast-head, as if he had swept the English from the sea.”

Chapter Ten.

A Bitter Disappointment.

The news brought by the Diamond made the officers and crews of the squadron eager to return to England to avenge the insult put upon the English flag by Van Tromp. The crew of the Good Hope, Royalists as many of them had been, shared equally in the feeling. So would Lancelot and I, had we not had a more sacred duty to perform; but when we mentioned our plan to the commodore, he positively forbade our making the attempt.

“It would be the height of madness to venture in your small ship on the Barbary coast,” he repeated. “Before you could explain your object, she would be captured, and you and your crew would be carried into slavery.”

For a long time we entreated him in vain to allow us to prosecute our undertaking. At last he said—

“I will allow you to go, provided your people are ready to accompany you after you have clearly explained to them the dangers of the enterprise; but I again warn you of your certain fate. My advice is that you should return to England, make known the sad condition of your own friends, and numberless other Christian captives in Barbary, and I have little doubt that as soon as we have thrashed the Dutch, Admiral Blake will be sent out to compel the corsairs to give up their prisoners.”

The only course open to us was to follow the commodore’s advice. Bitter was our disappointment when our crew declined further to prosecute the undertaking.

In vain Martin and Dick urged them to fulfil their engagement, supported by Mr Aylett.

They were ready to fight with a prospect of success, but they had no desire to be made slaves, or to lose their lives in a hopeless cause, they answered.

I cannot describe our feelings; we did not possess even the means of communicating with the captives, and letting them know that we were making efforts for their liberation. At last the signal was made to weigh anchor, and the Good Hope, with several ships ordered home, set sail for England.

Having met a Dutch fleet which we beat off, though they left us sorely battered, and encountered a fearful storm which well-nigh sent the Good Hope to the bottom, we at length reached Plymouth in a sinking state. There the shipwrights pronounced the Good Hope unfit again to go to sea.

This was the climax of our disappointments, for we had not the means of obtaining another vessel.

“Cheer up, shipmates!” exclaimed Dick Harvey. “I’ll try and induce my father to help us. He will rejoice to see me back safe, and you too, for he has a sincere regard for you, and is grateful for the service you rendered him.”

Finding that Mr Harvey had gone to London, we repaired thither, taking Martin and Mr Aylett with us.

Mr Harvey was glad to see his son, and treated Lancelot and me with great kindness; his means, however, would not allow him, he said, to purchase a ship, but he advised us to repair to Queensborough, in the island of Sheppey, where Admiral Blake was busily employed in fitting out a fleet to attack the Dutch.

That we might not miss the opportunity of joining the fleet, we immediately went on board a hoy which was going down the river. We found the roads crowded with men-of-war, sixty sail at least, beside frigates, all busily engaged in taking stores, and powder and shot on board. The admiral’s flag was flying at the mast-head of the Triumph. As we reached her deck, we found him surrounded by officers, to whom he was issuing orders. It was some time before we could approach to pay our respects. He recognised us at once, and holding out his hand, shook ours warmly, listening with much interest to the account we gave him of our adventures.

“You have come in the nick of time,” he said. “We sail to-morrow in search of the Dutch. You shall all serve on board. There’s work to be done, and I have not too many officers or men to do it. After we have thrashed the Dutch, I promise you, should my life be spared, to inflict due chastisement on the Barbary corsairs, and to endeavour to recover your friends.”

More than this we could not expect, and we at once zealously set about performing the duties assigned to us. Lancelot and Aylett were appointed to act as lieutenants, and the admiral directed Dick and me to remain by him ready to signal his orders to the rest of the fleet, to carry messages, or to perform any other duties he might require.

On inquiring for his nephew, young Robert Blake, we found that he had been appointed to command the Hampshire, a thirty-four gun ship; but as no boat could be spared, we were unable to pay him a visit.

Near us lay the Speaker, Vice-Admiral Penn, and the Fairfax, Rear-Admiral Lawson, while the other ships were commanded by the best captains in the navy.

At daybreak next morning we sailed. Soon after we got round the South Foreland, a fleet was descried from the mast-head of the Triumph, standing out from the land. The hearts of all on board beat high, for we believed that the enemy were in sight. But the strangers tacking soon showed English colours, and we found that it was the Plymouth squadron, which had been sent out to join us.

Thus, with eighty ships, we stood down Channel, with a north-westerly wind, until we had passed the Isle of Wight. When nearly up to the Bill of Portland, the Triumph leading, just as day broke the look-out aloft shouted—

“A fleet ahead, a fleet ahead! away to the south-west.”

There was no doubt now that the Dutch were in sight. The officer of the watch ordered me to call the admiral.

With a cheerful countenance he rose, and quickly dressing himself, came on deck, going to the fore-top, where I accompanied him, that he might take a perfect survey of the enemy with whom he was about to engage.

On one side of us was the Speaker, on the other the Fairfax, both within hail, and about a score of other ships forming our vanguard; but Admiral Monk, with the main body of the fleet, was still some four or five miles astern. Though we could see them, they were not visible to the Dutch admiral, Van Tromp, who, having under him many other celebrated captains, was known to command the Dutch fleet.

The sun, which was just rising above the horizon, clearing away the wintry mist, showed us the whole shining ocean covered with sails, a large proportion nearest to us being men-of-war, but fully three hundred others could be counted beyond them, which were supposed to be merchant vessels.

Undaunted by the overwhelming numbers opposed to him, without waiting for the rest of the fleet to come up, Admiral Blake pressed on with all sail to attack the enemy.

The leading ship of the Hollanders was recognised as the Brederode, carrying the flag of Van Tromp. Close astern of us came the Speaker and the Fairfax, the rest of the vanguard not being far behind.

“He hasn’t got the broom aloft,” whispered Dick to me, as he stood close to the admiral on the after-castle watching the enemy. “If he had we should soon knock it away.”

“We shall, I hope, before long knock away his masts,” I answered. “But see, he is getting closer; before another minute is over the fight will begin.”

We were now so steering, that we should speedily pass along the Dutch line, which only waited for the Triumph to get within range to open fire.

Presently a puff of smoke issued from the bows of the Brederode, and almost before the shot aimed at us could strike, the Triumph opened fire from the whole of her broadside. The Speaker and the Fairfax followed our example, as did the other ships, receiving in return the broadside of the entire Dutch fleet.

The Dutch admiral, with the wind free, shot by us, delivering his fire from one broadside, then tacking under our lee, discharged the other with tremendous effect, wounding our masts and spars, riddling our canvas and rigging, and strewing our decks with killed and wounded.

Other Dutch ships imitated the example of their admiral and steered down upon us, when we should have fared ill from odds so overwhelming, had not Admiral Penn, followed by two other vessels, come to the rescue and drawn off the attention of the enemy to themselves.

As we got out from the circle of fire we could better see what was going on, though all the time we were hotly engaged with one or more of the enemy.

Dick and I immediately reported every circumstance to the admiral. Now the Assistance was boarded by the Dutch. Now two ships ran alongside the Prosperous, and in spite of the valour of her crew, she was captured by the enemy. The Oak shared the same fate, though her people fought long and bravely.

On my reporting what I had seen to the admiral, “We must go to their help,” he exclaimed, and ordering the master to steer for them, we furiously attacked the ships to which they had struck.

We had, however, to contend with the rest of the Dutch fleet, and it appeared to be going hard with us. In spite, however, of almost overwhelming odds against us, we and the other ships of the vanguard fought on. Often I turned my eyes to the eastward, but could discover no signs of the advance of the fleet, the thick wreaths of smoke often preventing me from seeing to any distance. At length, however. I saw the rays of the sun falling on their white canvas, and ship after ship appeared. It was the white division, led by General Monk; as they arrived they gallantly opened their broadsides on the Dutchmen, increasing the fearful uproar. On every side the sea appeared covered with shattered spars and planks. Now a noble ship was wrapt in flames, now I caught sight of the tall masts of another sinking beneath the surface as she and her crew went down to the depths below.

The ship we had rescued was the Prosperous, of forty guns, commanded by Captain Baker; but he and many of his crew lay dead on the deck. Admiral De Ruiter, who had attacked her, was himself almost surrounded, and would have been captured had not several of the enemy under Admiral Evertz come to his rescue. The Speaker, not far off, was meantime fiercely assaulted, and reduced almost to a wreck. First her foremast fell, then her mizen-mast was shot away, and she would have been captured had not several ships been sent to her assistance.

A Dutch ship within sight, the Ostrich, commanded by Captain Krink, with her rigging cut to pieces and her sails in tatters, fought on until her masts were shot away by the board, when two of our ships ran alongside and carried her. It appearing impossible that she could swim, her captain with the survivors of his officers and crew were hastily dragged on board their captors, and the Ostrich was deserted.

On the other side of us another Dutch ship, commanded by Captain De Port, was attacked by two of ours, and from the way they handled their guns, in a short time it was very evident that they had reduced her to a sinking state.

Another brave Hollander, Captain Swers, seeing her condition, hastened to her relief; but he came too late, and our ship turning on him, ere long reduced him to the same condition as his countryman.

As I stood on our lofty after-castle I could look down on the fight, and saw the brave De Port, though lying on the deck desperately wounded, flourishing his hanger and shouting to his crew to resist. Before the English could get on board, down went his ship, carrying him and his men with her. Scarcely had she disappeared than Swers’ ship was seen to be sinking, but more fortunate than his brother captain, he and several of his officers were rescued by their victors.

In other directions we could see that several of the Dutch ships had struck their flags. Four of ours had been boarded by the enemy, but afterwards recaptured. Among them was the Sampson, commanded by Captain Bullon. So fearfully had she suffered, he and the greater portion of his crew having been slain, that the admiral ordered the remainder to be taken out, and allowed her to drift away.

We ourselves, having endured the brunt of the battle well-nigh from sunrise to sunset, had also suffered fearfully. I was standing near the admiral, when a shot struck down Mr Sparrow, his secretary, by his side, and our commander, Captain Ball, also fell shortly afterwards. As I looked along the decks I could see them covered with dead and wounded, there being scarcely men left sufficient to carry the latter below, the survivors having to work on at the guns.

Still the battle raged, and round shot continued tearing along our decks. One came whizzing close to me. Turning at the same moment, I saw that the admiral was struck. I sprang forward to save him ere he fell to the deck.

“It’s a mere flesh wound,” he replied to my inquiries. “Let not the men suppose that I am hurt,” and taking a handkerchief, he, with my assistance, bound it round the wound and resumed his upright position, cheering on the men as was his wont.

The same shot had torn away part of the buff coat of General Deane, who had remained on board to aid his old comrade in arms.

I often, as may be supposed, looked out to see how it was faring with my old friends. Though many were laid low by their sides, still they remained unhurt.

The evening of that short winter’s day was approaching, when our admiral, perceiving the shattered condition of a large number of the enemy’s ships, and that no less than eight had been sunk, blown up, or captured, directed the fastest frigates nearest to us to make all sail and cut off the fleet of traders, which had been hove to in the distance during the day.

This done he kept his eagle eye on Tromp, who shortly afterwards was seen to throw out signals to steer to the south-east, followed by a considerable portion of his fleet, evidently with the intention of protecting the traders.

Seeing their admiral apparently retreating, the rest of the fleet took to hasty flight, on which from every English ship arose a loud shout of triumph, the crews for the moment forgetting the heavy price at which the day’s victory had been gained.

As we passed in view of the captured ships, the scene which their decks presented was sufficient to sicken our hearts. None of the brave Dutchmen had yielded until the last hope was gone. Fore and aft lay the mangled corpses of the slain, while the shattered bulwarks and even the stumps of the masts were bespattered with blood and gore.

Though a battle was no new event to me, I turned away appalled and sickened at the sight. Not only were our crews exhausted, but few of our ships were in a condition to pursue the enemy, and great was our fear that they would escape during the night; but as the sun disappeared beneath the western horizon the wind dropped, and both squadrons lay becalmed on the smooth ocean. All the boats which could float were immediately lowered, and the wounded being placed in them, they were rowed to shore, where hospitals had been prepared for their reception. General Deane and others entreated the admiral to land and obtain that attention to his wound which he was so anxious to afford to others.

“No, no, my friends,” he answered, pointing to the lights from the Dutch ships, which streamed across the wintry sea. “With the enemy out there, it is no time for me to seek for rest,” and before retiring to his cabin he issued orders that every effort should be made to prepare the fleet for another battle on the morrow.

Not a man or boy able to work turned in that night, for all were employed in stopping shot holes, knotting and splicing rigging, bending new sails, and repairing the tackles of the guns.

The survivors of the crew of the Sampson came on board the Triumph to assist, but even the united crews scarcely made up the ship’s complement.

As daylight broke, a light breeze enabled us to make sail, and followed by the whole fleet, the Triumph stood for the enemy, who were steering under all sail to the eastward. Soon afterwards we saw ahead a ship floating which we made out to be Dutch, and as we came up to her, we perceived that she was the Ostrich, the ship of the brave Krink, and terrible was the spectacle she exhibited. The masts, shot away by the board, hung trailing over the side, not a human being stood alive on her blood-stained decks, which were covered with corpses, lying were they had fallen when she had been abandoned on the previous day.

There was no time to take her in tow, and we left her afloat on the ocean, the coffin of her hapless crew; then onward we pressed under every sail we could carry. It was not until noon that we were near enough to open fire, and it was two o’clock, Dungeness being in sight, before the whole fleet got into action.

To give an account of the battle would be to describe the scenes of the previous day. The gallant De Ruiter was well-nigh captured, and would have been so had not another brave Dutch captain come to his rescue.

Well and courageously did our captains do their duty, imitating the example of the admiral, and carrying their ships as best they could alongside the Hollanders. Five or six of their men-of-war were that evening taken, besides which many others were fearfully mauled.

Another night came down upon the world of waters, bitterly cold, yet calm and clear, enabling us to distinguish the lights of the Dutch ships, now retreating towards Boulogne.

The second night was spent like the first, and a third day found us still in sight of our unconquered foe. The wind had shifted to the southward, preventing their escape, and our frigates being again despatched with all canvas set, bore down on the richly-laden merchantmen, while we once more assailed the men-of-war.

In vain Van Tromp fought with courage and desperation, endeavouring while retreating to protect the merchantmen. Already in the distance we could see the frigates playing havoc among the traders, which were thrown into the wildest confusion, numbers running against each other, some hauling down their flags, others contriving to escape.

As we pressed on, we could see the other English war ships at length got among them, and several ran up to us with the intention, it was seen, of yielding, and thereby delaying us in our pursuit of Van Tromp.

“We are not to be delayed by such a device,” exclaimed the admiral. “Make the signal, Bracewell, to all the ships of war to press on regardless of the traders. The frigates will look after them; they can with ease be picked up when we have finally defeated Van Tromp and his captains.”

Thus we continued the pursuit until again night was approaching, when Van Tromp with the remnant of his fleet was seen to run in under the French coast, where he dropped anchor and furled his sails. Before we could reach him night came down upon us.

It was a night very different to the last. The wind was blowing strong from the southward, threatening every instant to increase into a hard gale. Clouds obscured the sky, and darkness and mist shrouded the enemy from view.

Our fleet dropped anchor to the southward of Cape Grisnez, when every man who could keep his eyes open was employed in repairing damages.

The pilots asserted that with the wind as it was then blowing from the north-east, and with the tide as it would be running during the morning, the Dutch would find it impossible to weather Cape Blanchnez, and we looked forward eagerly to the next day, in the anticipation of inflicting a final and crushing blow on our enemy.

Alas! and such is war, though I thought but little at the time of its sinfulness, its horrors, and the sufferings it entails, not only on the combatants but on those at home, their wives and families. That lesson I was to learn in subsequent years from the son of one of our admirals, who pointed out to me its iniquity, and how contrary it is to all the teaching of the Gospel. Even on lower principles I had already seen the folly of that war between two Protestant nations, who ought to have continued to advance each other’s commercial prosperity, and more than all, to resist the machinations of the sworn enemies of the faith.

Chapter Eleven.

Once more in the Mediterranean.

When morning broke, gloomy and tempestuous, and we stood out from under the lee of Cape Grisnez, so as to get a view of the coast, where we had seen the Dutch anchor, great was our disappointment on discovering that not a mast was visible. It was very evident that, favoured by darkness, they had slipped out with the last of the flood, and were by this time amid the sandbanks and shallows off the Flushing coast. The gale increasing, we now threw out the order for the fleet to bear away and steer for the Isle of Wight, under the shelter of which we at length brought up. On counting our prizes, we found that we had captured no less than nineteen men-of-war, and not under fifty merchantmen, which had been carried to different ports. Three Dutch captains had been taken prisoners and seven slain. Even though still suffering from his wound, the admiral went on shore, not to take a part in the rejoicings with which our victory was welcomed throughout the land, but to visit the hospitals and see that the wounded men were properly cared for. I accompanied him from ward to ward. He had a land word for every one, and many an eye was filled with tears as he thanked them for the noble way in which they had fought for their country, and the glorious victory they had won.

Refusing to go home, though he required rest more than any one, he continued to superintend the repairs of the fleet.

I cannot dwell on the events which followed. We again sailed in April with a hundred ships for the Texel, where we drove the Dutch fleet back into port, capturing fifty dogers. The admiral hearing that Van Tromp had gone northward, to convoy a fleet of merchantmen, we sailed in pursuit with part of the fleet, leaving Admiral Lawson in command of the larger portion. Missing the Dutch, we once again steered southward, when just as June had commenced, a fast frigate brought intelligence that Van Tromp had appeared in the Downs, and that another fierce battle was hourly expected between him and the English fleet under Admirals Penn and Lawson.

Setting all sail, we pressed on before a northerly breeze, when the sound of firing reached our ears.

Robert Blake in the Hampshire was ahead. How we envied him! At length, some way to the southward of Yarmouth, the two fleets of England and Holland appeared in sight, hotly engaged. With every stitch of canvas set below and aloft, he sailed on into action, firing his broadsides with terrific effect into the enemy’s ships.

We followed, eager to engage, as did the rest of the squadron, and were soon in the midst of it. Among the ships we perceived the James, Vice-Admiral Penn, alongside the well-known Brederode, with Van Tromp’s flag flying aloft. The Dutch had endeavoured to board the James, but were now being driven back, with fearful slaughter, and already scores of British seamen, slashing and cutting with their hangers, had gained her deck when a terrific explosion was heard. Up rose the deck of the Dutch ship, sending into the air the mangled forms of the boarders with the shivered fragments of planks.

The James cast off from her foe, it being believed that Van Tromp with his crew were about to founder, but the smoke clearing away, we saw them rushing up from below, with the admiral at their head. Before he could be captured, lowering a boat, he pulled away for a frigate which lay near, and was seen sailing through his fleet, assuring his followers of his wonderful escape.

But his efforts and those of his vice-admiral were in vain. Hard pressed by our ships, they ere long took to flight, and steered for Ostend, leaving eleven of their men-of-war in our hands, besides six sunk, two blown up, and one burnt, and nearly fourteen hundred prisoners, including a vice-admiral, two rear-admirals, and six captains.

The battle was won, but so shattered were our ships that, unable to pursue the enemy, we were compelled to put into harbour. Not until he saw his fleet at anchor would Admiral Blake allow himself to be carried on shore, when he invited me to accompany him to his country house of Knoll, near Bridgwater.

Dick, I should have said, had been summoned home by his father, but I bade farewell for a time to Lancelot, as also to old Martin, who, in spite of his years, preferred remaining on board to taking his ease on shore.

“Who knows but that the ship may be sent out to the Mediterranean, and if so, that I may have the chance of hearing of Mistress Audrey and Margaret, and Mr Kerridge and his daughter?” he said.

“For that reason I ought to remain,” I answered; “but the admiral has promised, should any ship sail for those parts, to let me go in her, and as he knows everything that takes place, I am not afraid of missing the chance.

“And very right, Master Ben, that you should take a holiday. You look as thin as a line, and I have been afraid that you’d wear yourself out before your time.”

So I set off with my noble patron. Great was the contrast which his life in that quiet abode presented to the uproar of battle and tempest, in which so many of his days had of late been passed. His board was frugal. His mornings were passed among his books or in writing letters, in which I assisted him; a long walk when his strength was sufficiently restored through the green fields and woods; his evenings in the society of a few chosen friends, when his conversation was chiefly on religious matters or on the affairs of state. To me the change was beneficial in the extreme. I felt refreshed in mind and body, still my thoughts were often far away with my sister and friends, captives still, as I believed, in Barbary.

The tranquil existence the admiral was enjoying was greatly disturbed by the news of another complete victory gained over the Dutch by Admirals Monk, Penn, and Lawson. The battle had lasted, like the former, for well-nigh three days. It was the last Van Tromp was destined to fight.

On the third day, while still leading on his fleet, a musket ball entered his heart, and his captain hearing of his death took to flight, pursued by the victors, who, it is sad to say, had received orders from Monk to give no quarter, but to destroy every ship and their hapless crews as they were overtaken. The captains and their crews, however, disregarding the sanguinary order, picked up several hundred Dutchmen from their sinking ships.

I was thankful to get a letter from Lancelot describing the fight, assuring me of his and Martin’s safety. Ere long we heard of the arrival of ambassadors from the States General, sueing for peace, when among other matters they agreed to lower their flag to that of England whenever it should be seen flying. I must pass over several months, when once more Admiral Blake went afloat in command of a fleet of twenty-four sail, and hoisted his flag on board the Saint George, a new ship of sixty guns and three hundred and fifty men. Lancelot and Martin had joined her, and Dick soon after came on board, having obtained leave from his father once more to go afloat. We three were thus again united. Great was our satisfaction to learn that the Mediterranean was the ultimate destination of the fleet, though its other objects, for political reasons, were not made known.

At the same time that we sailed, another still larger fleet went down Channel under command of Admiral Penn, having General Venables and a body of troops on board. Its destination was the West Indies, where it was to attack the colonies of Spain, while we were to capture and destroy her fleets on her coasts. This work, however, was not to commence for the present. We having reached the roadstead of Cadiz, found there a Dutch fleet. No sooner was the red-cross seen flying from our mastheads, than the Dutch admiral lowered his flag.

“The Hollanders have learned a lesson they are not in a hurry to forget,” observed the admiral, as he walked the deck, while we came to an anchor.

A French squadron paid our flag the same respect, while on shore the admiral was treated with every possible consideration by the Spanish authorities, as well as by the officials of all nations.

While here we received information that many more vessels had been captured by the Barbary States. The Pope and Grand Duke of Tuscany also had given offence to the Commonwealth, by allowing Prince Rupert to sell his prizes in their ports.

Those combative monks, the Knights of Malta, also sworn foes to those they chose to call heretics, had captured several English merchantmen, while the Duke of Guise was threatening Naples, which State, then in alliance with England, it was deemed important to protect.

We had work enough thus cut out for us, and as soon as provisions had been obtained we sailed, and passing through the Straits of Gibraltar without molestation, we directed our course for Naples.

We there found that the Duke of Guise had taken his departure, but in what direction we could not discover. We therefore steered northward along the coast of Italy until we came off Leghorn. Dropping anchor, the admiral sent an envoy to the Duke of Tuscany, demanding redress to the owners of such vessels as had been sold by the corsair princes.

The Duke hesitated, declaring that he must refer the matter to the Pope of Rome, at which the admiral, smiling scornfully, observed that “it was not the Pope’s business, and that he would presently have to look out for himself.”

We had just before received intelligence of the alarm our appearance had caused in Rome. Monks had been walking in procession, many persons had been burying their treasures, and the wealthy had fled from the city, believing that ere long it would be pillaged by the English.

The Grand Duke, not wishing to have Leghorn battered down, yielded to the demands of our admiral, who then despatched the envoy to the Pope. In vain that priestly potentate endeavoured to excuse himself, but his subjects had undoubtedly bought the illegal prizes, and at last, to avoid the threatened consequences of refusal, he sent the money demanded on board, twenty thousand pistoles, “which,” as the admiral observed, “was probably the first cash which had ever been transferred from the Papal coffers to the treasury of England.”

This was not the only satisfactory task performed by our admiral. He wrote to the Grand Duke, urging him in forcible terms to permit the English and other Protestants settled in his domains liberty to keep the Bible in their houses, and to follow their own form of worship, a privilege which had hitherto been denied them.

While we lay off Leghorn two Algerine cruisers came in with a flag of truce, bringing a number of English captives liberated by the Dey in order to appease the wrath of the English.

“It is well,” said our admiral, as he received the liberated persons; “but let the Dey understand while an Englishman remains in bonds I shall not be content.”

Lancelot and I eagerly questioned the freed captives, in the hopes of possibly gaining information about our friends; but they replied that the distance between the two States was so great that they were aware only of the fact that many English were held captive in Tunis. The admiral had from the first promised that he would pay that pirate city a visit, and use every means to discover and liberate our friends. We now hoped that he would without delay carry out his intention. But another disappointment occurred. Just as we were about to sail, the plague brought from the Levant broke out on board, and the admiral himself was stricken down by the fell disease. Others suffered, and for many weeks, until the admiral recovered, we were unable to sail.

Although with the cold of winter the disease disappeared, a storm kept us still longer at anchor; but at length the wind proving favourable we sailed for Tunis, and ere long came in sight of its two powerful castles of Goletta and Porto Ferino. Bringing up beyond reach of their guns, the admiral despatched a messenger to the Dey, demanding the release of all prisoners and the restoration of the numerous prizes lately captured, or their value if destroyed.

The Dey in return sent an envoy on board the Saint George, who, though he professed to wish for peace, declared that his master would not give up the prizes.

While negotiations were going on, we sailed close up to the castle of Porto Ferino, piloted by Lieutenant Aylett, that the admiral might obtain an idea of its strength. He then (the envoy being sent on shore) sailed away with the larger ships, leaving Captain Stayner with the smaller frigates to watch the entrance of the harbour.

Lancelot and I could not help expressing our disappointment to each other; we soon found, however, that the admiral had no intention of abandoning the undertaking, but that it was necessary to obtain provisions before we commenced operations, our stock having run short.

We now steered for Cagliari in Sardinia, where we lay while vessels were despatched in all directions to obtain bread, and the ships in harbour were being refitted. Our hearts beat high when once more the tall minarets and domes of the pirate city appeared in sight, for we made no doubt that the Dey would yield, and that we should ere long recover our friends. Again the admiral sent an officer on shore, repeating his former demands and requesting water for his ships.

The Dey insolently replied that “there stood his castles of Porto Ferino and Goletta, and until the English could carry them off in their ships, nothing should they have from him.”

“Let the Dey understand that such conduct shall not go unpunished,” answered the admiral to the barbarian envoy, his anger rising, and his usually calm eye flashing fire; “God has given water to all His creatures, and the sin which one commits who refuses it to another is great indeed.”

No sooner had the envoy taken his departure than, to the surprise of all, the admiral ordered the fleet to sail away from the harbour, not leaving a ship behind.

“Can the admiral really intend thus to allow the pirates to escape with impunity?” said Dick to Lancelot and me, as we watched the Moorish city recede from our eyes. “I much fear that your relatives will be left to languish in hopeless captivity.”

“Have you sailed so many years with our good commander, and yet can fancy such a thing?” exclaimed Martin, who overheard the remark. “Depend upon it, he has his reasons, and I shrewdly guess wishes to throw the pirates off their guard. Rest assured before long we shall get a nearer sight of Tunis than we have hitherto had.”

Notwithstanding what Martin said, we steered on until we once more entered the Bay of Cagliari. We had good reason, however, to believe that the admiral intended after all to attack Tunis. Orders were issued to all the ships to prepare for some severe work.

At length, after well-nigh a week had passed, we made the signal to weigh anchor, and the whole fleet before a light northerly breeze stood under full sail towards the Bay of Tunis.

Just as the evening of the 3rd of April, 1655, was approaching, we stood into the bay, where we brought up, the now well-known towers and minarets of Tunis in sight. The night which came on might be the last we knew for many a brave fellow. It was spent in preparation for the work we were destined to undertake the next day. Ere the sun rose a gun from the flag-ship was fired as a signal to the crews of the whole fleet to offer up prayer to Almighty God for protection and success in the struggle about to commence in our righteous cause.

It was a solemn time. Not a sound was heard except the yokes of the ministers until those of the congregations joined in prayer, or burst forth into a hymn of praise to the all-powerful One whose protection they sought. Then rising from our knees we weighed anchor, the sails were let fall, the guns run out, and, led by the Newcastle, which was quickly followed by other frigates, the big ships stood into the harbour. Of these the Saint Andrew was the first. Close astern came the Plymouth, and we in the Saint George followed in her wake, not casting anchor until we had got within musket shot of the batteries, nor was a shot fired until we had furled sails.

So astonished were the barbarians that their artillery remained mute. It was not for long; we setting the example, every ship opened with her broadside, to which the pirates speedily replied, their shot coming crashing on board through our bulwarks, or tearing their way between our masts and rigging. And now commenced the most tremendous din and uproar our ears had ever heard, the echoes of the guns reverberating among the crumbling walls and falling houses.

For two hours the battle raged, the sky obscured, and the castles and batteries almost concealed by the dense masses of smoke, on which a lurid glare was reflected by the flames belched forth from the guns. The smoke blown in the faces of the pirates tended to conceal the ships from their sight, and prevented them aiming their pieces with accuracy. Not for an instant did our fire slacken, until the guns in the batteries were dismounted or burst, or the gunners killed or driven from their post.

Within us, higher up the harbour, lay a squadron of nine stout ships. While the bombardment was taking place the admiral called Captain Stokes to his side.

“Now is the time to carry out your plan,” he said.

“You, Bracewell and Kerridge, may accompany Captain Stokes,” he added. Each ship had before received an order, at a certain time to send her long-boat with a picked crew, bringing torches, hand-grenades, and other combustibles.

They now arrived. We took our places in the long-boat of the Saint George, and Captain Stokes at once led the way towards the pirate squadron.

For some time we were concealed by the clouds of smoke from the sight of our enemies, and only such shot as passed over the ships came near us, but as we got farther up the harbour we were perceived and assailed by showers of bullets and round shot, fired at us from the corsairs. We pulled on, however, until we were alongside them. The torches were then lighted, and without a moment’s delay we began to heave them into the ports of the pirate vessels.

So unexpected was the proceeding, that every ship was set on fire fore and aft, before the crew on deck had perceived what had occurred, and in a few moments the flames were bursting through the hatchways and ports, and encircling the masts and spars. In vain the pirates made the most frantic efforts to extinguish the fire, wherever they were seen labouring with buckets, the broadsides of the frigates which came up to our assistance drove them away and compelled them to leap overboard. Now every one of the ships was burning furiously, the flames forming huge pyramids of fire.

Leaving them to their fate, which all the efforts of the pirates could not avert, protected by the frigates, we pulled back to the Saint George to report that the whole of the corsair squadron of nine large ships was utterly destroyed; and as we rowed away, first one and then two or three together blew up with a tremendous explosion, scattering their fragments far and wide, while their keels sank to the bottom of the harbour.

Chapter Twelve.

The Captives rescued—Blake’s Exploits and Death.

Lancelot and I had formed a plan with Lieutenant Aylett, by which we deemed that it would be possible, though no more than possible, to recover our two sisters, Mr Kerridge, and Margaret. We had asked permission of the admiral to undertake it. He pointed out the the dangers we must encounter.

“Far be it from me ever to refuse my sanction to so righteous an object,” he added; “such volunteers as you can obtain may go, and heaven prosper you.”

When our design was made known on board the Saint George and Hampshire we might have obtained the whole of the crews of both ships, as well, indeed, as those of the rest of the fleet. On consulting Captain Blake, however, he advised us to take only fifty men; thirty from the flag-ship and the Hampshire, and the remainder from among the others of the fleet. We calculated that the whole of the warlike part of the population of Tunis would have been summoned to the defence of the castles and batteries. It was our intention to land while the action continued about three miles from the city, at a spot with which Lieutenant Aylett was acquainted, and from thence he know the road to the residence of the old chief who held our friends captives. We might, he believed, reach the house and be back again to the boats before the Dey could gain intelligence of our expedition, and send any force of strength sufficient to oppose us. Dick, of course, was of the party, and old Martin was as eager as any of the younger men to go; but we tried to persuade him to remain on board, fearing that the fatigue of our march would be more than he could endure. He entreated so hard, however, to be allowed to take part in the recovery of Mistress Audrey that we gave way, and with hanger by his side, pistols in his belt, and a musket over his shoulder, he prepared for the expedition.

While the cannonade was still going forward, we put off in two boats, which kept on the larboard side of one of the frigates, despatched for the service, so that we were unseen from the town. As soon as we had got near the landing-place, the frigate tacked and hove to, while we, pulling rapidly in, leaped on shore, and the boats returned to the frigate, which sailed back as if to rejoin the fleet, but according to orders was ready again to put about to receive us, should our expedition prove successful, on our return.

Led by Lieutenant Aylett, we set out on our march at as fast a rate as our feet could move. Old Martin kept alongside me, showing the activity of many a younger man; fearing, however, that his strength would fail, I begged him to let me carry his musket.

“No, no, Mister Ben,” he answered; “I care not, if we get Mistress Audrey and Margaret back, whether I fall by the way. I have faced Death in too many shapes to fear him now.”

As to the character of the country through which we passed, I cannot describe it. I know that there were palm trees, and prickly pears, and other strange shrubs, and rocks covered with creepers, and here and there fields of corn and plantations of fruit trees. We saw but few people, and those women, children, or old men, who fled at our approach to hide themselves. Onwards we pushed, regardless of enemies who might be gathering behind—eager only to find the captives and to place them in our midst, when we were prepared to fight our way back against any odds which might oppose us.

My heart bounded as if it would choke me when, on gaining the top of a hill, Lieutenant Aylett exclaimed, pointing ahead—

“There’s old Mustapha’s house!” but the next instant a sickening feeling came over me, as I dreaded lest those we hoped to find might have been removed. Without halting for an instant, we rushed down the slope, and so divided our force that we might surround the building. Orders had been given that not a shot should be fired lest we should wound our friends. In silence we dashed on, until we were close to the gates, when Lieutenant Aylett cried out—

“Open, open; we come as friends.”

The bars were withdrawn, the gate swung back, when instead of a turbaned Moor, who should we see but old Margaret! She recognised us at once, as we grasped hands.

“Where are my father and sister?” exclaimed Lancelot.

“Where is my dear Audrey?” I cried.

Before she could reply there arose such a shrieking and shouting from the farther end of the hall that we could scarcely hear her speak.

“Mr Kerridge is there,” she at length said, pointing through an opening into the garden, “and the young ladies are with Mrs Mustapha and the other women who are making all that hubbub there.”

“Run, good Margaret, and tell them we are here,” I exclaimed, while Lancelot, like a dutiful son, rushed out into the garden in search of his father.

Scarcely had he gone than the door at the other end of the hall opened, and two young boys, as they seemed, sprang towards us, followed by Margaret. The next instant I had Audrey in my arms, and was holding the hand of Mistress Cicely. In spite of their disguise and sunburnt cheeks, I knew them directly, and in a few words explained how we had come to rescue them. They were less astonished than we expected, for the sound of firing had reached their ears, and they guessed that either the town or pirate ships had been attacked by a foreign squadron.

Margaret was eagerly talking to Martin, whose attention was more occupied by Audrey than by what she was saying. The moment his sense of propriety would allow, coming forward, he took her hand and poured out the feelings of his heart at having recovered her.

Before many minutes had passed, the clashing of swords and Lancelot’s voice shouting for assistance reached our ears. Dick, followed by several of the men, rushed in the direction he had taken, when they found him defending himself from the attack of a sturdy old Moor and three attendants, who, however, on seeing the British seamen approaching, took to flight. The sailors pursued, and coming up with the old Moor we were about to cut him down, when a man with a hoe in his hand sprang out from behind some bushes, exclaiming—

“Spare his life, friends; though he has kept me in slavery, and is somewhat a hard taskmaster, we should return good for evil.”

Then, turning to the old Moor, he made a sign to him that he should remain quiet while he eagerly questioned the seamen. Lancelot by this time had come up, and I saw him spring forward and embrace the stranger, who was, I had no doubt, his long-lost father, although so greatly changed that I had not recognised him.

Such he was, but as not a moment could be spared, after a few words had been exchanged, we were summoned by Lieutenant Aylett to commence our retreat. We did not stop to bid farewell to Mustapha and his family, but placing the two girls with Margaret in our midst, we recommenced our march.

Not a moment did we halt, for we had many miles to travel before we could reach the water, while at any instant we might be attacked by overwhelming numbers of enraged Moors.

My fear was that the rescued ones, unaccustomed to rapid walking, might sink from fatigue, but the joy of having recovered their liberty kept up their strength. The firing had ceased, but as we looked towards the city we could see a cloud of smoke still hanging over it. The last height we had to cross was gained. The sea lay before us, when one of the men on our left flank shouted out he saw a large body of Moors approaching. We all soon saw them, and it seemed doubtful whether we could reach the boats before they were upon us, but as we pushed on the frigate came in view, standing close in with the shore, towards which her guns were directed. The Moors were rushing on, and even at that distance we could hear their savage cries, when the frigate opened fire upon them, compelling them to beat a retreat, while we hastened down the hill and gained the boats which had just come in to receive us. The frigate was obliged to tack, but before the Moors could return we had pulled away beyond the range of their muskets. We were soon on board the frigate, when our arrival caused no small astonishment as well as delight, when it was discovered that we had rescued the captives, and still more so when it was known who they were.

The young ladies, although they had so long worn male attire, were far from feeling at ease on finding themselves among their countrymen, and they entreated to be led below, to avoid the gaze of the seamen.

We should, we feared, have great difficulty in procuring suitable costumes to enable them to appear with satisfaction in public.

“We must apply to the admiral to help us; he can do everything,” observed Lancelot. “So don’t trouble yourself about the matter, Cicely.”

As we stood towards the fleet we saw the line-of-battle ships getting up their anchors, and making sail away from the shore, from which not a gun was now fired. One of the boats conveyed our party to the Saint George, where the admiral received our friends with the greatest kindness, highly commending us for the way in which we had achieved our undertaking. We found that he intended to inflict no further chastisement on the Dey of Tunis, it being considered that the destruction of his fleet, the ruin of his forts, and the vast number of men who had been slain would induce him to refrain from interfering with English interests in future.

Running along the coast we visited Tripoli, the Dey of which State, taught a lesson by the punishment the ruler of Tunis had received, showed every desire to be on terms of friendship with us. The fleet then proceeded up the Adriatic to pay the Venetians a friendly visit.

Space does not permit me to describe that curious canal-intersected city, where the admiral was received with such honours as are accorded generally only to royal persons. Thanks to his generosity, Cicely and Audrey were here supplied with all the requisite articles of female dress, which were sent on board the day after our arrival, so that they were able to go on shore in their proper characters, and view the wonders of the city.

Leaving the Adriatic we again came off Tunis, when a white flag was seen flying from the castle of Porto Ferino. The Dey immediately acceded to all our demands, and signed a treaty affording advantageous terms to the English.

Thence we stood across to Malta, where the haughty Templars, having heard of the way in which our admiral had exacted reparation, not only from the Grand Duke, but from the Pope himself, at once succumbed and delivered up the ships and their cargoes of which they had despoiled the English merchants. This matter settled, we sailed across to Algiers, the pirate prince of which State immediately sent a present of cattle on board the fleet, and undertook to liberate all English captives in his country at a moderate ransom per head, they being, he observed, the property of private individuals who had purchased them from others, while he undertook never again to molest English traders. To these terms the admiral consented, and in a few days a whole fleet of boats came off, bringing numerous liberated slaves, a large portion of whom had endured the sorrows of captivity for many years, the amount agreed on being paid over to their late masters.

While we lay close in with the shore, we observed one morning a number of persons swimming off towards us. Just as they neared the sides of the ship, several boats, manned by turbaned Moors, were seen pulling away in chase of the fugitives, who now, shouting out in Dutch, entreated us to take them on board.

Our seamen, regardless of the savage war we had lately waged with the Hollanders, hurried to lower down ropes and to drag the swimmers on board. Scarcely were they all on deck than the Algerine boats came alongside, and the Moors demanded the fugitives, affirming that they were their own runaway slaves.

“What!” exclaimed Martin, “give up Christians who have once enjoyed the freedom of an English man-of-war, even though they may be enemies, to pirates and infidels. I don’t believe any honest man on board will stand by and see that done. Just bundle the rascally Turks out of the ship, and let them know that when once a man steps under our flag he is free.”

The Algerines, with looks of indignation, took their departure, but before long they returned with a message from the Dey, insisting on the terms of the new treaty, by which a certain ransom was to be paid for all liberated captives. On hearing this, Martin suggested that a subscription should be raised to pay the ransom of the Dutchmen. A boat being sent round from ship to ship, the necessary sum was soon collected, the admiral himself paying in proportion to his rank. While we lay off Algiers we heard of the fearful massacre of the Protestants of the Vaudois valley by the soldiers of the Duke of Savoy.

The admiral had received instructions from the Protector to threaten the southern coast of France and Piedmont, should the Duke refuse to make all the reparation in his power. The menace had its due effect, and the Duke gave a pledge not again to interfere with the Christian inhabitants of those lovely valleys. We sailed for the Straits of Gibraltar, calling on the way at Malaga to obtain water and fresh provisions. While a party of our seamen were on shore at that place, a procession carrying the Host, with banners and heathenish figures, passed through the streets, when they not only refused to bow, but mocked and jeered, at which the mob, urged on by a priest, savagely attacked them and drove them back to the boats.

On hearing this, the admiral sent a trumpeter on shore demanding, not that the mob should be punished, but that the priest who had set them on should be delivered up to him.

The governor replied that such a thing as giving up a Catholic priest to heretics had never been heard of, and that he had no power in the case.

On this the admiral replied, “If I fail to see that said priest on the deck of the Saint George, before the lapse of three hours, I will burn your city to the ground.”

Within the specified time the priest appeared, when the admiral, summoning witnesses from both sides, heard the case, and decided that the seamen were wrong in mocking, even at the superstitious observances of the natives, but that the priest was also wrong in taking the law into his own hands, instead of sending on board to complain, when the seamen would have been properly punished.

Satisfied that the priest had been placed at his mercy, the admiral, warning him for the future, sent him safely on shore.

On the fleet reaching Cadiz, the admiral finding that he was expected to remain on the coast of Spain to wait for the Silver fleet, offered Mr Kerridge and his party a passage home in the Constant Warwick, by which he was sending off despatches. He at the same time sent Lancelot and me.

“I intend to let you return with your friends, as you require rest after the hard work you have gone through,” he said in a kind tone. “You must also take charge of Martin Shobbrok, whose great age and failing strength unfits him for active service. Your names will remain on the books of the Saint George, and should any captures be made, you will obtain your due share of prize money.”

We were both well-nigh overpowered by the admiral’s kindness. Though I desired to remain with him, I felt unwilling to be again separated from Audrey as also from Cicely, as between us a warm attachment had sprung up, though I always before looked on her in the light of a sister.

“But you, sir,” I observed, “require rest more than any other person in the fleet.”

The admiral smiled faintly as he replied, “While I have life and my country requires my services. I must remain afloat.”

Of the homeward voyage I will not speak.

Once more the well-known Start appeared in sight, and the Constant Warwick steering for Lyme, we went on shore, thankful to heaven for our safe return to our native land.

Mr Kerridge forthwith set about placing his affairs, which had suffered from his long absence, in order, Lancelot and I assisting him.

Cicely promised to be mine when the war was over, as I acknowledged; should the admiral summon me, I could not refuse to go.

My sister Audrey had made the same promise to Lancelot; and the ladies could not help laughing and archly remarking to one another that “although they had so long worn a certain pair of garments—considered the exclusive property of men—they were never again likely to put them on.”

In the course of the summer Admiral Blake returned to England, but there was no repose for him. In spite of his illness, and the suffering he endured from his wound, he was occupied day after day in visiting the dockyards and arsenals, forwarding the building and repairing of ships, and other duties of his station.

The Commonwealth was at war with Spain. Portugal had not fulfilled the terms of her treaty, especially that clause which secured the English from the supervision of the diabolical Inquisition, and other nations were only waiting an opportunity to draw the sword against her.

Another fleet was consequently fitted out, and Admiral Blake, who had hoisted his flag on board the Naseby, sent the summons Lancelot and I had expected to join her.

The admiral looked pale and ill, yet his spirits were as high as ever, and as the fleet sailed down Channel, and the white cliffs of Old England faded from sight, we little thought that he, our beloved chief, had looked his last on the land he loved so dearly.

I can but give a brief account of the important services rendered during the long cruise we had now commenced.

Passing down the coast of Portugal, the admiral sent a frigate up the Tagus, demanding of the King of Portugal a complete fulfilment of the clauses of the late treaty. The effect of the message was satisfactory in the extreme. Every clause was agreed to, and among others the right of Englishmen to have Bibles and Protestant books in their houses, without thereby infringing the laws of the country.

Without stopping we pressed on to Cadiz, looking out for the Silver fleet, which had not arrived.

We here encountered a fearful storm, by which several of our ships were damaged and compelled to return home, but yet the Spaniards would not venture out of port to fight us; and the admiral, leaving Captain Stayner in the Speaker, and six other ships to watch in the bay, sailed for Malaga, on which town we inflicted condign punishment in consequence of the assistance the people had afforded to a Genoese and to a Sicilian galley which had taken part with the Spaniards against us.

On our return to Cadiz, we found to our infinite satisfaction that Captain Stayner’s squadron had fallen in with the first division of the Silver fleet, and had sunk or captured every galleon containing treasure of immense value.

In the hopes of encountering the second division, the admiral remained at sea the whole winter off Cadiz, notwithstanding the heavy gales we encountered. We were absent from our post a short time, during which we came off Algiers to settle a dispute with the Dey, who, not forgetting the punishment inflicted on Tunis, yielded to our demands without a shot.

On our return towards the Straits, we relieved Tangiers, then a Portuguese settlement, closely invested by the Moors, whom our guns drove away and dispersed. Returning to Cadiz we again endeavoured, but in vain, to draw out the Spanish fleet, and while we lay off and on the harbour, news came from undoubted sources that the second Silver fleet, hearing of the disaster to the first, was afraid of continuing the homeward voyage, and had put into Santa Cruz, a port of one of the Canary Islands.

Thither the admiral resolved to sail with his fleet, now numbering by arrivals from England about twenty-five large ships and frigates.

On the morning of the 19th of April, 1657, the frigate sent on ahead brought intelligence that the Silver fleet, together with several men-of-war and merchant vessels, were at anchor in the bay of Santa Cruz, guarded by castles and batteries of immense strength. Notwithstanding, the wind being favourable, the admiral resolved to attack at once, and the fleet under all sail stood in, Rear-admiral Stayner, with a portion, being directed to assail the galleons, while the admiral himself assaulted the batteries.

The Spaniards, their ships formed in a semicircle, believing that our defeat was certain, opened a tremendous fire, which every British ship returned with terrible effect to the enemy.

In a few minutes the action became general, equalling in fury any which we had ever fought. So well was our artillery plied, that many of the guns in the castles and batteries were ere long silenced, when, leaving a few frigates to keep them in play, the admiral sailed on to the assistance of the gallant Stayner, and now with our united guns we played havoc among the Spaniards. Ship after ship was set on fire, while two proud galleons had already sunk, and by two o’clock of that eventful day not a mast remained above water—the whole of the Silver fleet was destroyed.

No sooner was the work performed than the wind shifted to the south-west, enabling every one of our ships to sail out again, beyond range of the castle guns. Not one was missing, and we had only fifty men killed and a hundred and fifty wounded in this most gallant exploit.

Some of the most damaged ships were sent home, while we returned to the coast of Spain, where we found the Spaniards eager to make peace in order to avoid future disasters.

Thence we sailed for Salee, to compel the corsairs of that State to restore their Christian captives to freedom. At the appearance of our red-cross banner the Moorish chief sent an envoy on board, promising to comply with all the admiral’s demands. In one week every Christian captive in the country was on board our ships. Water and such provisions as we required had been received, and a treaty of peace had been signed, but, alas! we who were with him saw that the admiral’s days were numbered.

After looking into the Tagus, our canvas was spread for England. Onwards we pressed under all sail. Often during the voyage he expressed the hope that he might see again his native land. The Lizard was sighted. Soon Ram Head was rounded, and an officer from the deck came into the cabin to announce to us, who with sad hearts were standing round the death-bed of our beloved chief, that Plymouth itself was in sight.

Stretching out his arms, he sought to rise, but his strength had failed. His eyes gazed upwards, his lips murmured a prayer, and then, when, from the expression of his noble countenance, we saw that his spirit had fled, even the stoutest-hearted amongst us burst into tears, sobbing like little children. Deep, honest grief was marked on the faces of the vast crowds which had gathered on the shores to welcome the returning hero.

I need not speak of the magnificent funeral ordered by the Protector to lay at rest in Westminster Abbey the honoured remains of the greatest of England’s admirals.

Among the mourners stood a grey-haired veteran, leaning on a staff to support his tottering steps.

“Alack, alack! Master Ben, it is a sad day, and little did my eyes wish to see it,” murmured Martin. “I followed his father to the grave, but little did I expect to outlive his noble son. I knows, howsumdever, that it won’t be for long, and I am ready, when the Lord wills, to depart.”

Old Martin’s words were prophetic. He returned with Lancelot and I to Lyme, and in a few days the old sailor took to his bed, from which he never rose. We mourned for him sincerely, feeling that we had lost a true and faithful friend. But he was spared from witnessing the degradation of our country.

Three years passed. The great Protector himself was dead. His son had retired into private life, and Charles Stuart came back to gain eternal infamy by a thousand vile deeds, not the least among which was to order the body of the great admiral to be exhumed and to be cast into a hole dug near the back door of one of the prebendaries of the abbey.

After the death of my patron, I for a short time only went to sea. Dick, who had hitherto remained afloat, came back to be present when Lancelot and I married, and having himself taken a wife, he settled near us in the neighbourhood of Lyme. It was not from lack of my talking of them if our children were not well versed in the deeds of the great admiral which I have briefly narrated in the preceding pages.

The End.