Table of Contents

"Mark Seaworth"

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.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Thirty One.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Chapter Thirty Three.

"Marmaduke Merry"

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.

"Mary Liddiard"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

"Michael Penguyne"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

"Mountain Moggy"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

"The Mate of the Lily"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

"The Mines and its Wonders"

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

"The Missing Ship"

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.

William H.G. Kingston

"Mark Seaworth"

Chapter One.

Mark Seaworth.

Picture a wide expanse of ocean, smooth as a polished mirror, and shining like molten silver; a sky of intense blue, without a cloud or speck, forming a vast arch resting on the water; no land or rock in sight; the boundless sea on every side; the sun travelling slowly and majestically along the arch, and casting his burning rays upon the glittering plain below.

Let us pause and contemplate that scene. What grandeur and sublimity there is in it! What a magnificent edifice does it seem! When compared with it, how utterly insignificant and contemptible do all the works of man’s hands appear! Then watch the sun sink with rays of glory in the west; the bright rich tinge glowing for a time, and gradually fading away before the obscurity of night; the stars coming forth and shining with a splendour unknown in northern climes; and then the moon, a mass of liquid flame, rising out of the dark sea, and casting across it a broad path of the silvery light. Watch the tranquil luminary glide also through her destined course, till once more the sun rushes upward from his ocean-bed in a sheet of fire, and claims supremacy over the world. This is one of the many grand and wonderful objects beheld by those who sail across the ocean, and amply does it repay for a long voyage those who have taste to appreciate its beauties.

Now let us return to the scene as I first described it, and, by looking closer into the picture, we shall observe a boat floating in its very centre. There are no masts or sails, nor are there any oars moving. The boat lies motionless like a log on the water. She is a large boat, a ship’s launch; her gunwale seems battered in as if she had undergone some hard usage. Above it nothing is seen moving; and, at the first glance, it would seem that there are no human beings on board. On looking down into the boat, however, we discover several persons, but whether dead or alive it is difficult to say, they are so quiet and so silent. Towards the bow are the forms of two men. They are on their backs—one is at the bottom of the boat, the other stretched along the thwarts, in uneasy postures. Their eyes are open and glaring unmoved at the bright sun; their lips are parted, black, and dry; the hand of death has, alas! at all events, fallen on them; nothing living could present such an aspect. By their dress and their complexion they seem to be British seamen. There is a small breaker or keg in the boat, but the hung is out—it is empty. There is also a bag, containing some hard ship-biscuit; it is still half full, but there is no other provision.

In the after part of the boat there is a sort of awning, formed of a shawl stretched across the gunwale, with a mat on the top of it, so as to form a thick shade. Near it, with her back leaning against the side of the boat, sits a dark-skinned woman. She has a turban on her head, and massive gold ear-rings in her ears, and bracelets round her arms, and anklets of gold round her legs, and her loose dress is of gay-coloured striped cotton of delicate texture. She is alive, but faint and weak; and, by her dim eye and short-coming breath, death seems to be approaching with stealthy strides to claim her as his own. Still, the soul is struggling to triumph over the weakness of the flesh. With an anxious gaze she looks beneath the awning, for there is something there which claims her constant solicitude. She turns her gaze towards the forms of the two seamen—she does not seem to know that they are dead. A faint cry comes from under the awning. Again she looks towards the bow of the boat; she sees that her companions in misery are not watching her. She now stealthily draws from beneath the folds of her dress, where she has carefully concealed it, a bottle of water. Did she, then, while the seamen slept, steal the water from the cask to preserve the existence of those committed to her fostering charge, and far more precious to her, in her sight, than her own life? There can be no doubt she did so. She discovers that she is not observed. There is a small tin pannikin near her, and several pieces of biscuit. She crumbles the biscuit, as well as she can with her weak fingers, into the pannikin, and then pours upon them a few drops of the precious fluid. She looks at the water with longing eyes, but will not expend even one drop to cool her parched lips. She mixes the biscuit till it is completely softened, and then casting another furtive glance towards the bow, unconscious that the dead only are there, she carefully lifts up the awning. A low weak voice utters the word “Aya;” it is that of a child, some three or four years old perhaps; at the same time there is a plaintive cry from a younger infant. A smile irradiates the countenance of the Indian woman, for she knows that her charges are still alive. She leans forward, though her strength is barely sufficient to enable her to move, and puts the food into the mouths of the two children. The eldest, a boy, swallows it eagerly; for though somewhat pale, his strength seems but little impaired. The infant is a girl: she takes the mixture, so little suited to her tender years, but without appetite; and it would appear that in a very short time her career, just begun on earth, will be brought to a speedy close.

When the food is consumed, the nurse sinks back to her former position. She tries to swallow a piece of the biscuit, but her parched lips and throat refuse to receive the dry morsel, and the water she will not touch. Again the children cry for food, and once more she goes through the operation of preparing it for them as before; but her movements are slower, and she now has scarcely strength to carry the food to the mouths of the little ones.

The day passes away, the night goes by, the morning comes, and still the calm continues. The children awake and cry out for food. The nurse turns her languid eyes towards them, but her strength has almost gone; she even forgets for an instant the meaning of that cry. There is a struggle going on within her. At last her loving, faithful, and enduring spirit overcomes for a time the weakness of her body; she prepares the mess, and feeds the children. She gazes sorrowfully at the bottle—the last drop of water is consumed. She leans back, her bosom heaves faintly; the effort has been more than her failing strength would bear. She turns her eyes towards them; they are the last objects of any earthly thing she is destined to behold. A dimness comes stealing over them. Her thoughts are no longer under control, her arms fall by her side, her head droops on her chest, she has no strength to raise it. In a few hours more the faithful nurse will have ceased to breathe, and those young children will be left alone with the dead on the wild waste of waters.

But, reader, do not for one moment suppose that therefore they are doomed to perish. There is One above, the eternal, all-powerful God of goodness and love, who is watching over those helpless infants. His arm can stretch to the uttermost parts of the earth, and over the great waters: even now it is put forth to shield them, though we see it not. Even without a human hand to administer their food, in that open boat on the wide sea, over which a storm might presently rage, while billows may rise, threatening to overwhelm them, far away from land or living beings but themselves, those children are as secure, if so God wills it, as those who are sleeping on beds of down within palace walls; because, remember, reader, that He is all-powerful, and He is everywhere. Trust in Him; never despond; pray to Him for help at all times—in times of peace and prosperity, in times of danger and difficulty; and oh! believe that most assuredly He will help and protect you in the way He knows is best for your eternal happiness.

This is the lesson I would teach; for this is the lesson I have learned by means of all the difficulties and dangers I have undergone during the scenes of wild and extraordinary adventure which I have encountered in my course through life. Often and often, had I not been convinced of this great truth, I should have yielded to despair; and the longer I have lived, and the more dangers I have passed through, the more firmly convinced have I become of it. Often have I felt my own utter helplessness—the impossibility that the strength of man could avail me—when standing, it seemed, on the very brink of destruction; and in a way beyond all calculation, I have found myself rescued and placed in safety. It was for this reason that I have drawn the picture which I have exhibited to you. Ungrateful indeed should I be, and negligent of my bounden duty, did I not do my utmost to teach the lesson I have learned from the merciful protection so often afforded me; for know that I was one of those helpless infants! and the picture before us shows the first scene in my life of which I have any record; and this is the moral I would inculcate—“That God is everywhere.”

Chapter Two.

A large ship was floating on the ocean. I use the term floating, for she could scarcely be said to be doing anything else, as she did not seem to be moving in the slightest degree through the water. Some straw and chips of wood, which had been thrown overboard, continued hour after hour alongside. She was, however, moving; but it was round and round, though very slowly indeed, as a glance at the compass would have shown. The sea was as smooth as glass, for there was not a breath of air to ruffle it; there was, in fact, a perfect calm.

The ship was a first-class Indiaman, on her outward voyage to the far-famed land of the East; and she belonged to that body of merchant princes, the East India Company. In appearance she was not altogether unlike a frigate with her long tier of guns, her lofty masts, her wide spread of canvas, and her numerous crew; but her decks were far more encumbered than those of a man-of-war, and her hold was full of rich merchandise, and the baggage of the numerous passengers who occupied her cabins. Her sails, for the present, however, were of no use; so, having nothing else to do, for the sole purpose, it would seem, of annoying the most sensitive portion of the human beings on board, they continued, with most persevering diligence, flapping against the masts, while the ship rolled lazily from side to side. The decks presented the appearance of a little world shut out from the rest of mankind; for all grades, and all professions and trades, were to be found on board. On the high poop deck, under an awning spread over it to shelter them from the burning rays of the sun, were collected the aristocratical portion of the community. There were there to be found ladies and gentlemen, the sedate matron, and the blooming girl just reaching womanhood, the young wife and the joyous child; there were lawyers and soldiers, sailors and merchants, clergymen and doctors, some of them holding high rank in their respective professions. The captain, of course, was king, and his mates were his ministers; but, like the rest, he was bound by laws which he dared not infringe, even had he desired to have done so.

On the deck below were seen craftsmen of all sorts, occupied in their respective callings. Carpenters hard at work with plane and saw; blacksmiths with bellows and anvil; tailors and cobblers, barbers and washerwomen, painters and armourers, rope-makers and butchers, and several others, besides the seamen engaged in the multifarious duties in which officers know well how to employ them. Among the crew were seen representatives of each quarter of the Old World. There were Malays and other Asiatics, and the dark-skinned sons of Africa, mingled among the hardy seamen of Britain, each speaking a different jargon, but all taught by strict discipline to act in unison.

Besides the human beings, there were cattle and sheep destined for the butcher’s knife—cows to afford milk to the lady passengers, the invalids, and the children—even horses were on board, valuable racers or chargers, belonging to some of the military officers; there were several head of sheep penned up in the long-boat; and there were pigsties full of grunting occupants, who seemed to be more happy and to have made themselves far more at home than any of their four-footed fellow-voyagers. Ranging at liberty were several dogs of high and low degree, from the colonel’s thorough-bred greyhound to the cook’s cur, a very turnspit in appearance; nor must I forget Quacko, the monkey, the merriest and most active of two-legged or four-legged beings on board. It might have puzzled many to determine to which he belonged, as he was seen dressed in a blue jacket and white trousers, sitting up on the break of the forecastle, his usual playground in fine weather, cracking nuts, or peeling an orange like a human being, while his tongue was chattering away, as if he had a vast amount of information to communicate.

Then there were poultry of every description: ducks and geese, and turkeys and cocks and hens, quacking, and cackling, and gobbling, and crowing in concert: indeed, to shut one’s eyes, it was difficult not to suppose that one was in a well-stocked farm-yard; but on opening them again, one found one’s self surrounded by objects of a very different character to what one would there have seen. Instead of the trees, there were the tall masts, the rigging, and sails above one’s head, the bulwarks instead of the walls of the barns, the black and white seamen with thick beards instead of the ploughmen and milk-maids, and the wide glittering ocean instead of the muddy horse-pond.

This was the scene on the upper deck: below, it was stranger still. There were two decks, one beneath the other, both with occupants; there were cooks at the galley fire, whose complexion no soot could make blacker, and servants in white dresses and embroidered shawls, running backwards and forwards with their masters’ tiffins, as luncheons are called in India.

There were numerous cabins, many occupied by persons whose sole employment was to kill time, forgetting how soon time would kill them in return, and they would have to sum up the account of how they had spent their days on earth.

In the lower deck there were soldiers with their wives and children, and seamen, some sleeping out their watch below, and others mending their clothes, while a few were reading—a very few, I fear, such books as were calculated to afford them much instruction. Below, again, in the dark recesses of the hold, there were seamen with lanterns getting up stores and provisions of various sorts. In one place were seen three men—it was the gunner and his two mates. They had carefully-closed lanterns and list shoes on their feet. They were visiting the magazine, to see that the powder was dry. They were from habit careful, but custom had made them thoughtless of danger; yet one spark from the lantern would in a moment have sent every one of the many hundred living beings on board that ship into eternity. The flannel bags containing the powder were removed to be carried up on deck to dry, the door was carefully closed and locked, and the gunner and his mates went about their other avocations.

From long habit, people are apt to forget the dangers which surround them, though they are far greater than those in which the passengers of the good ship Governor Harcourt were placed at the moment the magazine was opened; and I am very certain that not one of them contemplated the possibility of being blown up, without an instant warning, into the air.

I have indulged in a somewhat long description of this little world in miniature, although I was not one of its inhabitants; but it was a scene not without interest, and I have had many opportunities of judging of the correctness of the picture which was given me by a friend then on board the Governor Harcourt. We will now return to the more refined groups sitting and lying about listlessly on the poop deck.

As among the party were several people who exercised a considerable influence over my career, a description of them is necessary. The person of most consideration, on account of his wealth and position, as well as his high character, was a gentleman verging upon sixty years of age. In stature and figure he was not what would be called dignified; but there was that in the expression of his countenance which made persons of discernment who studied his features feel inclined to love and respect him. The broad forehead, the full mild eye, and the well-set mouth, told of intellect, kindness, and firmness.

The careless and indifferent might have called him the stout old gentleman with yellow cheeks. I mean people—and there are many such in the world—who are unable to perceive the noble and good qualities in a man, and only look at his outward form and figure. If they hear a person called a great man, like Lord Nelson or the Duke of Wellington, they call him great also; but many would not be able to point out the real heroic qualities of these heroes. I cannot now stop to describe in what real heroic qualities consist, further than to assure my young friends that the great men I have instanced are not properly called heroes simply because they were commanders-in-chief when great battles have been gained. Napoleon gained many victories; but I cannot allow that he can justly be called a hero. My object is to show you the importance of not judging of people by their outward appearance; and also, when you hear men spoken of as great men, to ask you to consider well in what their greatness consists. But to return to my kind and generous benefactor,—for so he afterwards proved to me,—Sir Charles Plowden. In outward form to the common eye he was not a hero, but to those who knew him he was truly great, good, and noble. He was high in the civil service of the Honourable East India Company, all the best years of his life having been passed in the East.

A book was in his hand, at which his eye every now and then glanced; but he appeared to look at it rather for the sake of finding matter for thought, than for the object of getting rapidly through its contents.

At a little distance from him sat a lady, busily employed in working with her needle. She was young and if not decidedly pretty, very interesting in appearance. Though she was looking at her work, from the expression of her countenance it might be perceived that she was listening attentively to a gentleman seated by her side, who was reading to her in that clear low voice, with that perfect distinctness of enunciation, which is so pleasant to the ear. A stranger might have guessed, from the tone of tenderness, yet of perfect confidence, in which he occasionally spoke to her, and the glance of affection which she gave him in return, that they were husband and wife; nor would he have been mistaken.

They were Captain and Mrs Clayton, who were returning to India after their first visit to England since their marriage. His appearance and manners were very gentlemanly and pleasing, and he was a man much esteemed by a large circle of acquaintance. They had now been married about eight years, and had no children. Mrs Clayton had gone out to India at the age of seventeen with her father, a colonel in the army, and soon after her arrival she was won and wed by Captain Clayton, so that she was still a very young woman.

Sometimes, when she saw a happy mother nursing her child, she would secretly sigh that she was not so blessed; but, I am glad to say, she did not on that account indulge in the custom of bestowing any portion of her care and attention on puppy dogs and cats, as I have seen some ladies, both single and married, do in a most disagreeable manner. I, of course, desire to see people kind to dumb animals; but I do not like to see little beasts petted and kissed, and treated in every way like human beings, with far more care and attention bestowed on them than are given to thousands of the children in the back streets and alleys of our crowded towns. I trust that you, my young friends, will remember this when you have money or food to bestow; and, instead of throwing it away in purchasing or feeding useless pets, that you will give it to instruct, to clothe and feed those who are born into the world to know God, to perform their duty to Him, and to enjoy eternal life. Dreadful is it to contemplate that so many live and die without that knowledge, who might, had their fellow-men exerted themselves, have enjoyed all the blessings afforded by the gospel dispensation.

But I must go back to my history. Captain and Mrs Clayton were accompanied by a young lady, a distant relative, left without any other friends to protect and support her. She was a laughing, blue-eyed girl, and was now seated with several other young ladies of about the same age on a circle of cushions on the deck, shouts of merriment rising every now and then from the happy group. There were several other people who had been in India before—military and civil officers of the Company, merchants, lawyers, and clergymen; but I need not more particularly describe them.

Ellen Barrow, Mrs Clayton’s charge, was not only sweetly pretty, but good and amiable in every respect. I do not know that she had what is called a regular feature in her face; but her sunny smile, and an expression which gave sure indication of a good disposition, made those who saw her think her far more beautiful than many ladies whose countenances were in other respects faultless. I praise her from having known her well, and all the excellencies of her character, as they were in after-years more fully developed. At present her most intimate friends would probably have said little more about her than that she was a nice, pretty-looking, happy girl.

There was another person on board, of whom I must by no means omit to speak, and that is Captain Willis. He was a very gentlemanly man, both in appearance and manners, as indeed he was by birth; nor had the rough school in which he was educated left a trace behind.

He was the son of a merchant of excellent family connections and his mother was, I believe, a lady of rank. When he was about the age of fourteen, both his parents died, leaving him perfectly penniless, for his father had just before that event failed and lost all his property. He had had, fortunately, the opportunity of obtaining an excellent education, and he had profited by it and this gave him an independence of feeling—which he could not otherwise justly have enjoyed. He was also a lad of honest spirit; his relations had quarrelled with his parents, and treated them, he considered, unjustly; so that his heart rebelled at the idea of soliciting charity from them, and he at once resolved to fight his own way in the world.

He had always had a strong predilection for a sea life, and he was on the point of going into the Royal Navy when his father’s misfortunes commenced.

His thoughts consequently at once reverted to the sea; and the day after his father’s funeral, he set out with a sad heart, and yet with the buoyant hope of youth cheering him on in spite of his grief, to take counsel of an old friend, the master of a merchantman, who had been much indebted to his father.

Captain Styles was a rough-mannered but a good man, and a thoroughly practical sailor. He at once offered every aid in his power; but Edward Willis, thanking him, assured him that he only came for advice.

“Do you want to become a seaman in whom your owners and passengers will place perfect confidence, and who will be able, if man can do it, to navigate your ship through narrow channels and among shoals, and clear off a lee-shore if you are ever caught on one; or do you wish just to know how to navigate a ship from London to Calcutta and back, with the aid of a pilot when you get into shallow waters, and to look after the ladies in fine weather, and let your first officer take care of the ship in bad?”

“I wish to become a thorough seaman,” replied Edward Willis.

“Then, my lad, you must first go to the school where you will learn the trade,” said Captain Styles. “I have an old friend, the master of a Newcastle collier. He is an honest man, kind-hearted, and a first-rate seaman. In six months with him you will learn more than in six years in a big ship. If you were younger, it would be different; for it is rough work, mind you. He is always at sea, running up and down the coast: sometimes to the north, and at other times round the South Foreland, and right down channel. Indeed, to my mind there is not a finer school to make a man a seaman in a short time. It’s the royal road to a knowledge of the sea, though I grant it, as I said before, a very rough one.”

Willis replied that he was not afraid of hard work, and would follow his advice. Accordingly he went to sea in a collier for three years; then he shipped on board a vessel trading to the Baltic, and next made a voyage to Baffin’s Bay, in a whaler; after which he joined an Indiaman. Here, after what he had gone through, the work appeared comparatively easy. He now perfected himself in the higher branches of navigation, and from this time rose rapidly from junior mate to first officer, and finally, in a few years, to the command of a first-class Indiaman, where he was in a fair way of realising a handsome independence. Captain Willis’s ship was always a favourite; and as soon almost as she was announced to sail, her cabins were engaged. I should advise those who go to sea at the age Captain Willis did, to follow his example; though for a very young boy, the school, I grant, is somewhat too rough a one.

Chapter Three.

Captain Willis was walking the deck, with his spy-glass in his hand, while every now and then he stopped anxiously to scan the horizon in every direction, in the hopes of discerning the well-known signs of the long-wished-for breeze.

“Well, Captain Willis, when is the wind coming?” asked one of the young ladies of the merry group I have described, as he passed them in his walk. “We have agreed that you sailors are very idle people, not to make your ship move faster. You do it on purpose, we are sure, to enjoy our society.”

“The temptation would be great, ladies, I own,” said the captain, bowing. “But, I assure you, it depends as much upon yourselves as upon me and my officers; and, I think, if you were all to set to work and whistle with a right good-will, you might soon bring the wind down upon us.”

“Oh then we will all try,” exclaimed the merry girls in chorus. “We see you want to get rid of us as soon as you can.” Thereon they all began to try and whistle, and some succeeded very well, though the chorus was not very harmonious.

I suspect the worthy captain had long before perceived the undoubted signs of wind on the water, for there was a quizzical look in his eye as he spoke; and each turn he made he encouraged them to proceed, and to whistle louder and louder, assuring them it was certain to have a good effect.

Not many minutes had passed, during which the young ladies had tried to whistle till their mouths ached, when the voice of Captain Willis was heard ordering the crew to trim sails. With alacrity they flew to their posts at the joyful sound; and those who but a minute before were so silent and inert, were now all life and animation.

Still the ocean appeared as smooth and shining as before; but in the distance, away to the north-east, there was a line of dark-blue, which seemed to be gradually extending itself on either hand, and to be slowly advancing in the direction where the ship lay. The glassy surface of the water was every now and then slightly ruffled by gentle, scarcely perceptible breaths of wind, such as are called by seamen “cats’-paws,” from their having, I suppose, no more effect in disturbing the water than would the paw of a cat. They came and went continually. Some of the more lofty and lighter sails of the ship bulged out for an instant, and then again flapped against the masts, and all was calm as before.

“If you please, young ladies, I must trouble you to whistle a little longer,” said Captain Willis, with one of his most polite bows, and a merry smile lurking in his eye. “You see the good service you have already done; but the wind seems coy, and requires a longer wooing.”

They all laughed very much, and declared that they could not whistle any more; but still they all essayed again; and sweet Ellen Barrow screwed her pretty mouth up till her lips looked, indeed, like two ripe cherries; and Captain Willis aiding them with his clear whistle, the wind was not long in answering the summons. The spokes of the wheel were seen once more to revolve in the hands of the helmsman, the sails bulged out more regularly, and if they fell back, they quickly again filled till every one drew steadily, and the huge ship moved slowly through the ocean on her proper course. It was pleasant to the passengers to hear the rippling sound of the water against the sides of the ship, and to see it bubbling up so briskly under her bows; and still more pleasant was it to feel the fresh air fanning the cheeks, and to know that it was wafting them on to their yet far distant bourne. The fresh air had a reviving effect on every one, and many who had sat silent and melancholy began to move about, and to laugh and talk with the rest of their companions.

About an hour after the breeze had sprung up, the captain was observed to turn his glass several times to a point on the starboard bow. He then handed it to his first officer.

“What do you make out of that, Mr Naylor?” he asked.

The answer was not heard.

“So I think it is,” replied the captain. “Keep her two more points to the eastward of her course—steady so.”

Immediately the head of the ship was turned towards a little spot which appeared upon the water, a long way off. The report that there was something to be seen called every one to the side of the ship, and all eyes were fixed on that small speck on the waste of waters. There were many speculations as to what it was. Some said that it was a dead whale, others a smaller fish; a few insisted that it was the hull of a vessel, and there was one party of opinion that it was the top of a rock in the ocean, and were congratulating themselves that they had met with it in daylight and fine weather.

“But what do you think it is, Captain Willis?” asked Ellen Barrow.

“Why, young lady, I think it is a boat; but I am not surprised that so many people, not accustomed to look at objects on the water, where there is nothing to compare them with, should be mistaken. Those who fancy that it is a whale or the hull of a vessel think it is much farther off than it really is, while those who suppose it to be a small fish, believe it to be much nearer than it really is. It is only by comparing things together that we can estimate them properly.”

The breeze, although sufficient to fill the sails, was still very light, so that the ship moved but slowly through the water,—at the rate, perhaps, of a mile and a half or two miles in the hour, or, as sailors would say, two knots an hour. She was, therefore, a long time approaching the object. At last, Captain Willis, who had constantly kept his telescope turned towards it, pronounced it, without doubt, to be a boat.

“There appears to be no one in her, however,” he observed; “at least, I see no one’s head above the gunwale.”

“How strange that a boat should be out there all alone!” exclaimed Ellen Barrow.

“Oh no; she has got adrift from a vessel, or has been driven off from some coast or other,” answered Captain Willis.

“There looks to me, sir, as if there were some people in the boat, though they don’t appear to be moving,” sung out the third officer from aloft.

“Mr Simpson, man the starboard quarter-boat, and lower her as we come up with the boat. We must have her alongside, and overhaul her, at all events.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the mate; and soon afterwards the boat’s crew were seen coming aft to lower her into the water.

Numerous were the conjectures as to who could be in the boat, and where she could have come from; but of course no one could answer the question. The ship glided on slowly, for the wind was still very light. When she got a short distance only from the boat, the captain ordered the sails to be clewed up, and the gig to be lowered. Mr Simpson went away in her, and was soon alongside. He was seen to throw up his hands, as an expression of horror, as he looked into the boat. She was then made fast to the stern of the gig, and rapidly towed up to the ship.

“Be quick there on deck, and bring a chair,” he exclaimed. “Here’s a poor creature much in want of the doctor’s help, if she’s not gone too far for it already.”

The side of the ship on which the boat appeared was crowded with the passengers, eager to see what it contained. The sight which met their eyes was indeed a sad one. In the fore part were two men lying on their backs with their faces upwards, and, from their ghastly expression, it was seen that they were both dead. There was another person, a dark-skinned woman, who, it appeared, the mate considered still living. A chair was speedily slung, and the mate having secured her into it, she was hoisted on deck.

The doctor was in waiting, and having placed her on a mattress on deck, he knelt down at her side to discover if any spark of life yet remained in her emaciated frame. He felt her pulse, and then calling for a glass of wine and water, he moistened her lips, and poured a few drops down her throat. It had the effect of instantly reviving her; she opened her eyes, and uttering a few strange words, she attempted to rise as if to search for something she expected to find near. For an instant she looked wildly around; but the effort was more than nature could bear, and, with a deep sigh, she sank again and expired. While some of the passengers had been witnessing this melancholy scene, others were engaged in watching the proceedings of the mate. Directly he had placed the poor black woman in the chair, he turned to examine the after part of the boat, over which an awning was carefully spread. Lifting it up, he uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure. Carefully placed on a bed formed on the stern-sheets, were two children—a little boy, some three or four years old, or perhaps five, and an infant which could scarcely for as many months have seen the light. The little fellow had been fast asleep. The voice of the mate awoke him, and looking up and seeing strange faces surrounding him, he began to cry.

“That’s a good sign, at all events,” cried the mate. “The baby does not seem much the worse either; send down the chair again, and we’ll have them on deck in a trice.” The chair was lowered, and placing himself in it, with the two children in his arms, he was hoisted up on deck. Scarcely had he reached it, than all the ladies hurried forward to catch a glimpse of the children, many of them almost quarrelling who should take charge of them.

“Stay, ladies,” said Captain Willis, good-naturedly. “The children by right belong to me; and I must let the doctor see to them before anybody else begins nursing them.”

In the meantime, however, Mrs Clayton had taken the infant out of the mate’s arms, while the little boy was snatched away by Ellen Barrow and the rest of the young ladies, who kept fondling him among them, and showing that they would do their best to spoil him before the voyage was over.

Mr Hawkins, the surgeon, finding that his services were of no avail to the rest of those who had been in the boat, now appeared, and examined the baby as it lay in Mrs Clayton’s arms.

“It seems to have been wonderfully sustained,” he observed. “I can discover nothing the matter with it; and with some of the food our goat can supply, I have no doubt in a few days it will have perfectly recovered. Let me relieve you of the child, madam, and give it to one of the women-servants to nurse.”

But Mrs Clayton showed no inclination to give up her charge. There were feelings rising in her bosom whose exquisite delight a fond mother, as she presses her first-born to her breast, can well appreciate. The lady gave an imploring look at her husband, which he well understood.

“Do as you wish, dearest,” he whispered.

She returned him a glance full of grateful thanks.

“Captain Willis,” she said, in a voice agitated with the fear that her request might be denied, “I will, if you will allow me, take charge of the poor deserted one, till its proper guardians can be found; and I daresay we shall be able to learn from the little boy who they are.”

“To no one would I more gladly commit the infant than to you, madam,” returned the captain. “And pray, consider her your property till claimed by others with greater right to her.”

So it was settled; and Mrs Clayton did indeed prove an affectionate mother to the little foundling. Captain Willis, however, was much disappointed in not being able to obtain the information he expected from the elder child. The little fellow could speak very rapidly, but it was in a language neither he nor any of the young ladies could understand, though he seemed to comprehend what was said to him in English. They tried him with a variety of names to endeavour to discover the one belonging to him; but to none of them did he pay any attention.

On a sudden he began to cry to go to his Aya; but as he was kept out of sight of the dead body, and petted by the young ladies, who tried every means to please him, he was soon again pacified. He was then taken into the cabin, where two or three of the married ladies, who had children of their own, set to work to wash him and dress him in clean clothes. He kicked about in the tub of water, and seemed highly delighted, as if it was a luxury to which he was accustomed, while he also appeared fully to appreciate the advantage of clean clothes. He was rather thin, as if he had lived for a length of time on a short allowance of food; but when some broth, which had been got ready for him, was placed before him, he did not eat ravenously as if he had been long without food altogether. Indeed, I may as well here remark, that the mate had discovered a small piece of biscuit, softened by water, by his side when he took the children out of the boat, proving that the faithful nurse had given him the last morsel of food in her possession rather than eat it herself, in the hope of preserving his life. When he had swallowed the broth, he fell fast asleep in the arms of the lady who was holding him. The little fellow’s perfect confidence in those surrounding him, while it won their hearts, showed that he had always been accustomed to kind treatment.

Mrs Clayton had also brought her little charge below, and was nursing it with the most tender care. It seemed, indeed, but a fragile little blossom; and it appeared surprising that it should thus have escaped from the hardships to which it had been exposed.

Meanwhile, on deck, Captain Willis and his officers, and some of the gentlemen passengers, were making every possible examination of the boat and the dead bodies, to endeavour to discover some clue by which they might be able to trace to what ship they had belonged, or whence they had come. There was, unfortunately, little on their bodies to identify them. One of the men had fastened round his neck by a lanyard a knife, on the handle of which was roughly carved the initials J.S., and on his arm was discovered, marked by gunpowder, among a variety of other figures, the name of James Smith,—one, however, borne by so many people, that it could scarcely be said to serve as a distinguishing appellation. Sir Charles Plowden, notwithstanding, who was taking a great interest in and superintending the investigation, made a note of it in his pocket-book, and took charge of the knife.

There was no name on the boat, nor were there any oars in her, which have generally the name of the ship marked on them. The boat was pronounced not to be of English build; and the carpenter, after a long examination, declared it to be his opinion, that it might possibly be built by some Englishman, in a foreign place, and with foreign assistants, and with more than one sort of wood, with which he was not well acquainted. The canvas, which had served as the awning over the children, was certainly English, and the seams at the joins were exactly similar to the work of an English sail-maker. The nails used in the boat were English; but then, as the carpenter observed, English nails were sent into all parts of the world.

The complexion of the other seaman was very dark; a crucifix was found round his neck, and he had on a light-blue jacket, and his other garments were not of English make, so that there could be no doubt that he was a foreigner. In his pocket was a purse, containing several gold doubloons and other coins, showing how utterly valueless on some occasions is the money for which men risk so much. How gladly would the poor wretch have given the whole of it for a crust of bread and a drop of water! There was also a little silver box in his pocket, containing the relic of a saint, equally inefficacious to preserve him, although an inscription on a piece of paper in it stated, that it would preserve the fortunate possessor from all dangers, either by sea or land.

In the Englishman’s pocket there was an empty tobacco-box; but there was no paper or writing of any sort, to assist in identifying them.

The clothes of the nurse were not marked, nor was there found about her anything to aid the investigation; but on those of the children were found, nearly washed out, however, letters which were evidently the initials of their names. On those of the little boy were M.S., and on those of the baby E.S., which, with the strong resemblance in features, left little doubt that they were brother and sister.

Sir Charles, with an exactness which should be imitated under similar circumstances, noted down every particular—the appearance of the dead bodies, their height and size. He directed, also, that the clothes should be washed and carefully kept. The measurement of the boat was also made, and parts of her plankings and all the things she contained were taken out of her. She was herself too large to hoist in on deck.

The only thing remarkable about the children was, that round the neck of each was a gold chain and a locket containing light auburn hair; but there was no other inscription than the initials E.S.

Sir Charles desired that he might also take charge of these memorials. “If the children continue to wear them, they may be lost,” he observed. “They may be valuable, as aiding to discover their friends, and should be carefully preserved.” Indeed he neglected no means by which the important object could be obtained, of discovering, at a future period, the family of the little foundlings.

While these matters were being arranged, the wind had dropped again completely, and the sky had assumed a dull leaden hue, and a thick haze to the eastward rose up and looked like a line of high land. The boat was meantime left hanging astern, while the gig was again hoisted up on the quarter.

Sailors have a strong aversion to having dead bodies on board; and as there was no object to be attained by keeping those of the unfortunate persons who had been discovered in the boat, preparations were made to bury them that evening in the deep ocean. I will not now stop to describe the ceremony. They were sewn up in a clean canvas, with a shot fastened in at the feet, and a clergyman who was among the passengers, performed the funeral service. They were then launched overboard, and sunk for ever from the sight of men.

Scarcely had they reached the water than a low moaning sound was heard in the rigging, and the sails flapped heavily against the mast. Captain Willis cast a hurried glance to windward.

“Clew up—haul up—let fly everything—away aloft there—furl topgallant sails, close reef the topsails—be smart, my lads,” he exclaimed in those sharp tones which showed that there was no time for delay. The attentive men flew to their proper posts—some to the tacks and sheets, the bunt-lines and clew-lines, others swarmed aloft like bees on the yards, and with vigorous arms hauled out the earings and secured the sails with the gaskets. They did their work manfully, for they well knew there was no time to lose.

Scarcely, indeed, was all along made snug, and they were coming down again, than the threatening blast struck the ship.

“Hold on for your lives, hold on!” exclaimed the captain. “Port the helm, port!”

Away she flew before the gale, upright and unharmed. In an instant, it seemed, the sea, before so calm and bright, became covered with a mass of foam, and then waves rose rapidly, one towering above the other, in quick succession. Two men were stationed at the helm, to keep the ship before the wind, as she ran on under close-reefed fore-topsail.

So engaged had Captain Willis and his officers been in getting the ship into proper order to encounter the gale, that they entirely forgot the boat towing astern. Fortunately no sea had yet risen high enough to drive her against the ship, or serious damage might have been effected. At last Sir Charles observed her, and called the attention of the first officer to her. In an instant his knife was out, and without waiting to consult the captain, he was cutting away at the tow rope. He was not a moment too soon, for some heavy black seas were seen rolling up like mountains astern. The last strands of the rope parted with a sharp snap, the boat was seen to rise to the top of a wave, and the next rolled her over and over, and she disappeared beneath the waters.

“Alas!” exclaimed Sir Charles, “sad would have been the fate of the poor children, had we not providentially come up in time to save them.”

Reader, I was one of those poor children, thus providentially rescued from destruction; the other was my sister. Truly I have a right to say, God equally rules the calm or the tempest—equally in the one and the other does He watch over his creatures.

God is everywhere.

Chapter Four.

The events I have described in the preceding chapters were afterwards told me by my friends, and I have faithfully given them in the words of the narrators. Of course the commencement of my narrative is somewhat conjectural; but there can be no doubt, from the circumstances I have mentioned, that the main features were perfectly true. The storm blew furiously all that night, and the ship ran on before it; but as day dawned its rage appeared expended, and by noon the waves subsided, and the wind gently as before filled the broad fields of canvas spread to receive it. I slept through it all, for the close air of the cabins, after having been exposed for so many days in the open boat, made me drowsy. I have a faint recollection of opening my eyes in the morning, and finding the sun shining in through the port, and the sweet face of Ellen Barrow hanging over me. When she saw me look up and smile, (for even then I thought such a face ought to be beloved, and must be kind and good, and I felt that I did love her), she covered me with kisses, and, forlorn little foundling though I was, I felt very happy. I have no distinct recollection of anything which happened in the boat; but I remember, as if it were yesterday, that lovely countenance, with the sun just tingeing her auburn locks as my waking eyes first fell on it; and though I do not suppose that I had ever heard of an angel, I had some indefinite sort of notion that she was one; at all events, that she was a being in whom I might place implicit confidence, and who would watch over me, and guard me from danger. I put out my little arms and threw them round her neck, and returned her kisses with right good-will.

Dear Mrs Clayton had faithfully fulfilled her promise of carefully nursing my little sister, by holding her half the night in her arms, during the raging of the storm, fearful that any harm should come to her new-found treasure; and it was only when the sea subsided, and the ship was more steady, that she would consent to place her in a little cot which had been slung by her side. In the afternoon all the passengers were again collected together on deck. We, of course, afforded the subject of general conversation and curiosity. Speculations of all sorts were offered as to who we could be—where we could have come from, and how it happened that we were in an open boat in the condition in which we were found. I was asked all sorts of questions; but to none of them could I return a satisfactory answer. I had some indistinct idea of having been on board another ship, and of there being a great disturbance, and of my crying very much through fear; and I suspect that I must have cried myself to sleep, and remained so when I was put into the boat. Ellen Barrow had taken me under her especial protection, though everybody, more or less, tried to pet me, and I was very happy. Scarcely four-and-twenty hours had passed, it must be remembered, since, without food or human aid, we floated on the open ocean, the dying and the dead our only companions; and now we were on board a well-found ship, and surrounded by kind friends, all vying with each other to do us service. Sir Charles every now and then, as I passed him, patted me on the head; and as I looked up I liked the expression of his countenance, so I stopped and smiled, and frequently ran back to him. In this manner we shortly became great friends.

“I wonder what their names can be!” exclaimed Mrs Clayton, as those most interested in us were still sitting together in earnest consultation. “The boy’s initials are M.S., and the little girl’s E.S., that is certain. If we cannot discover their real names, we must give them some ourselves.”

“Oh, let them be pretty ones, by all means!” cried Ellen Barrow. “I must not let my pet be called by an ugly name. Let me consider—it must not be romantic either, like invented names found in novels.”

“I should advise you to choose the surname first for both the children, and then settle the respective Christian names,” remarked the judge.

“Will you help us, Sir Charles?” asked Miss Barrow.

“No, my dear young lady—I propose that our committee abide by your choice, if I am allowed to have a word to say about the Christian name—so on your shoulders must rest the responsibility,” was Sir Charles’s answer.

“It must begin with S, that is certain,” said Ellen Barrow, speaking as she thought on. “Something to do with the sea: Seagrave—I don’t like that; Seaton—it might do. What do you think of Seaworth, Sir Charles? It is a pretty name and appropriate—Seaworth—I like Seaworth.”

“So do I; and I compliment you on the selection,” said the judge. “Let the surname of the children be Seaworth from henceforth, till the real name is discovered; and now for a Christian name for the boy. It must begin with M. I do not like long names, and I have a fancy for one in particular—I must beg that he be called Mark. I had a friend of that name, who died early. Do you object to it, Miss Ellen?”

“I had not thought of it, certainly,” said Ellen Barrow. “I was going to propose Marmaduke; but let me try how it sounds in combination with Seaworth—Mark Seaworth—Mark Seaworth. A very nice name; I like it, and I am sure I shall like it very much in a short time.” So, thanks to Sir Charles and Ellen Barrow, I was called Mark Seaworth.

Mrs Clayton now claimed the right of naming her little charge. It was a matter, however, of still longer consideration. Emily, and Eliza, and Elizabeth, and a number of others beginning with E were thought of, but none seemed to please.

“Give her the name of her mother, then,” said Sir Charles.

“How do you know it?” exclaimed several voices.

“The mother of us all,” replied the judge, smiling.

“Oh dear, yes! Let her be called Eva rather,” exclaimed Mrs Clayton, delighted. “It is a sweetly pretty name, and not often used.”

“I meant simply Eve; but Eva is an improvement on my idea,” said Sir Charles.

“Eva, Eva,” was pronounced in chorus by all the party; and by that name my little sister was afterwards christened. Thus this important matter was finally arranged.

Several days passed away without the occurrence of anything worthy of note, that I have heard of. My little sister slowly gained strength and health under the careful nursing of Mrs Clayton.

One fine day, sweet Ellen Barrow was, as usual, romping with me about the deck—now running after me—now catching hold of me to fondle me, and then letting me go for the sake of again chasing me; and though I struggled and screamed when she overtook me, I cannot say that I was either alarmed, or that I disliked the treatment I received. Sir Charles was calmly watching us all the time, with a smile on his countenance. At last the young lady, weary with her exertions, threw herself into a seat, while I came and nestled by her side. After looking at us for a few minutes he came nearer to her.

“My dear young lady,” he said, “will you answer me a question?”

“A hundred, Sir Charles,” she answered, “if you are kind enough to ask them; for I do not think you will prove a censorious father confessor.”

“Well, then, as you give me leave, I may venture to ask you more than one,” said Sir Charles. “In the first place, tell me what you propose doing with that little boy when you get ashore.”

“Doing with him, Sir Charles? Why, I daresay Captain and Mrs Clayton will assist me in taking charge of him,” replied Ellen Barrow, with a puzzled expression. “But I do not think, I own, that I had thought at all about the future.”

“I thought not, my dear Miss Barrow,” said Sir Charles, smiling. “The young seldom think of the future; but we old people are taught by many a severe lesson the importance of preparing for it. Now, as Captain and Mrs Clayton can scarcely wish to have the responsibility of taking charge of both your little pet and his sister, and as he has no claim on any here on board in particular, I have resolved to constitute myself his guardian till his natural protectors can be found. Captain Willis, who has a sort of legal right over him, consents to my wish; so I intend to take him with me when we land. Pray, therefore, make the most of him now you have him; but do not fix your heart on him entirely, for though I hope you may often see him, I cannot let you have him altogether.”

“What! Sir Charles, do you really intend to adopt the dear little fellow?” exclaimed Miss Barrow with animation. “He will, indeed, be fortunate; but I should be very, very sorry if I thought that I was not to see him again,” she added, while a tear stood in her bright eye, and, turning round she gave me a hug and a kiss, which I thought very good of her.

“Till his rightful guardians are found, I propose to take entire charge of him,” said Sir Charles. “I will do my best to fulfil the important duty I have undertaken; it is not a light one, I own. It is not only to train up the boy to perform well his allotted task in this world, to fear God, to act honourably towards his neighbour, to overcome difficulties, and to secure a good place in the rank of fame and fortune among his fellow-men, but to prepare an immortal soul for eternity.”

Well, indeed, did that good man fulfil his self-imposed duty and utterly beyond all return are the benefits I received from him.

Alas! that so few who have the charge of youth should think of their deep responsibilities as he did. How many private tutors I have met with, who think they have done their duty when they have taught their pupils the sufficient knowledge of Latin and Greek, and mathematics to enable them to enter the universities, without a thought beyond—without pointing out to them, clearly and unmistakably, whatever may be their station in life, that they must have responsibilities, and that they should so act in everything they do here, that they may be ever prepared for entering the life which is to endure for ever! I know that, let the tutor be ever so anxious to perform his duty, let the pupil be ever so ready to listen, times will come when good intentions and precepts may be forgotten; but such failings off should not damp the energies of either, but with sorrow for their derelictions, and earnest prayer for strength from above, they should rise to new exertions, and each year will afford to the tutor greater encouragement, as he sees in the lives of his pupils the fruit of his instruction.

What I wish you to remember is this, that every one of you—the poorest and humblest as well as the richest—may do a great deal of good to your fellow-creatures, if you will but try to find out the way; and also that you cannot devote yourself to amusement, as so many do, without committing a very grave fault, by neglecting the duties of which I have spoken; while I am very certain that you would lose an unfailing source of happiness, for which no other gratification can afford any recompense.

I beg you to think very deeply of what I have said; and now I will go on with my narrative.

Sir Charles at once set to work with my education, and Ellen Barrow was, under his directions, my instructress. I do not remember that I was much troubled with the sight of books; but she drew a number of pictures of various objects, and made me repeat their names, and then she cut out the alphabet in cardboard, by which means I very soon knew my letters. If I was sick she never attempted to teach me, so that all the means offered me of gaining knowledge were pleasurable, and I thus took at once a strong liking to learning, which has never deserted me. Before the termination of the voyage. I could express myself in English, so as to be understood as well as are most children of my age; and as Sir Charles would not allow me to be taught nonsense, I put a right signification upon the words I used.

One morning, at daybreak, a cry was heard from the mast-head of “Land ahead!” and so true had been the observations of Captain Willis, that a few hours afterwards, with a fine breeze, we were entering Table Bay, at the Cape of Good Hope.

The Cape of Good Hope colony is, as most of my young readers are well aware, now an English settlement. It once belonged to the Dutch; but we took it from them during the last war, when they sided with the republican French. It is most celebrated for its sheep pastures; but it also produces wine, and corn, and oil, and affords ample room for the establishment of numbers of our countrymen, who cannot find employment at home. The climate is very healthy; but there are very strong winds, and sometimes droughts which destroy the labours of the husbandman.

However, people who settle there become much attached to the country; and those fond of chasing wild beasts may gratify their tastes to the full in the interior; but they must remember that they cannot, at the same time, attend properly to their farming operations, which must, of necessity, be carried on in more settled districts. It is on many accounts a very valuable colony to Great Britain, and, among others, because it is on the high road to her extensive possessions in Australasia and that in its harbours the numerous shipping which sail thither may find shelter in time of war, and at all times may replenish their water and provisions. It affords a home to thousands of our countrymen, and it supplies the raw material, wool, to our manufacturers; and its inhabitants, by using a large quantity of British manufactures, afford employment to thousands of persons at home, who would otherwise of necessity be idle. By my calculations, every three or four Englishmen who go to one of our southern colonies, and are prosperous, afford employment to one person of those remaining at home; and we thus see how immediately the mother country is benefited by an extensive colonisation. Those very emigrants, or those who have taken their places, had they remained, it must be borne in mind, might have been idle and paupers; while the money which is now circulating, usefully affording employment to others, would have been employed in supporting them in idleness. However, the subject is irrelevant to my history: I mention it because I want to draw the attention of my young friends to the value of our colonial possessions, that when they become men, they may do their utmost to increase the prosperity of the colonies, being assured that they cannot turn their attention to a more patriotic subject.

We remained several days in Table Bay; during which time most of the passengers lived on shore, and some even ventured a considerable way into the interior. Cape Town extends along the shores of the bay at the foot of the far-famed Table Mountain, towards which the ground gradually rises from the waters. The streets are straight, regularly constructed, and run at right angles to each other. They are lined with elm and oak trees, which in summer afford a grateful shade.

There is a clean nice look about the place, which reminds one of an English town. I visited it many years after the time of which I am now speaking, for which reason I am able to describe it. The squares are well laid out, and the public edifices are numerous and substantial. The private houses are built chiefly of red brick or stone, with a terrace before the door shaded by trees. Here not only the Dutch, but the English, as was once the custom in the old country in days long gone by, delight to sit and work in the shade, when the sun is hot, or in the evening to enjoy the fresh breeze from the open sea.

There are upwards of 25,000 inhabitants, half of whom are white, the majority being Dutch or of Dutch descent.

Cape Town is strongly fortified. The entrance to the bay is commanded by a battery called the Mouillé. There is a castle to the left of the town, and several other forts and batteries. The colony is divided into two provinces—the Western Province, of which Cape Town is the capital; and the Eastern Province, of which Graham’s Town is the capital. Each province is divided into districts, many of which retain the old Dutch names; indeed, nearly all the places in the long settled parts are called by the appellations given them by the early possessors of the colony.

There are no navigable rivers; and as the country is wild and mountainous, the means of communication are not easy. To the east, about five hundred miles from the frontier, is the new settlement of Natal, which, from its beautiful climate, and many excellent qualities, promises some day to become a very valuable possession.

Having got our stores on board, the Blue Peter was hoisted, our passengers again collected in their accustomed places, full of all the things they had seen and heard, and once more we were ploughing the ocean towards the mouth of the wealth-bearing Hoogly.

Chapter Five.

Our voyage was most propitious, and, without any event worthy of notice, we approached the mouth of the Hoogly, on the shore of which stands Calcutta, the magnificent city whither we were bound. While still some way off the land the pilot came on board to take charge of the ship; and now, from the heavy responsibility which had so long weighed on the shoulders of Captain Willis, he was in part relieved, as the pilot became answerable for the safety of the ship. While we slowly glide up the placid stream, one of the mouths of the far-famed Ganges, the sacred river of the Hindoos, I will give a short description of it.

The Ganges is 1,500 miles long, and as far as 500 miles from the sea the channel is thirty feet deep, when, during the dry season, the river is at its lowest, while so great even there is its width, that it appears like an inland sea. At 200 miles from the ocean the Ganges separates into two branches; the south-east retaining the name of the Ganges, and the west assuming the appellation of the Hoogly; the delta, or triangular space between the two, being called the Sunderbunds.

Among the eternal snows of the lofty mountains of the Himalaya, 20,000 feet above the level of the sea, in latitude 30 degrees north, is found the source of this superb stream. It is said to issue out of the precipitous side of a lofty mountain, from beneath an arch 300 feet high, composed of deep frozen layers of snow, surrounded by icicles of gigantic magnitude. Such was, the mighty stream on which the good ship the Governor Harcourt was now floating.

On its eastern bank stands Calcutta, the City of Palaces as it is often called. My earliest recollections were of the clusters of columns, the long colonnades, and lofty gateways of its magnificent mansions. The residences are, for the most part, either entirely detached from each other, or connected only by long ranges of terraces, surmounted, like the flat roofs of the houses, with balustrades. The greater number of the mansions have pillared verandahs, extending the whole way up, sometimes to the height of three stories, besides a large portico in front, the whole having a very picturesque appearance, especially when intermingled with forest trees and flowering shrubs. The houses are built of brick, covered with cement, which looks like stone and as even the more ordinary buildings are spread over a considerable extent of ground, they have a very imposing effect, unlike any inhabited by persons of the same rank in England. But close even to the palaces of the most wealthy are to be seen wretched mud huts; and rows of native hovels, constructed of mats, thatch, and bamboos, often rest against their outer walls, while there are avenues opening from the principal streets, intersected in all directions by native bazaars, filled with unsightly articles of every description.

Sir Charles Plowden lived in a very large house, and though his own habits were very simple, the custom of the country required him to have a large retinue of domestics. Thus I was brought up in almost barbaric splendour, with a number of persons whose only business was to attend upon my wishes. My kind guardian, whenever his public duties permitted, had me with him, and himself superintended my education, which prevented the ill effects of the indulgence I was allowed. A sitting-room in India is very unlike one in England. The sofas, chairs, and tables are placed at a foot distance from the wall, on account of the reptiles which would otherwise find their way on to them. All the walls are pierced with doors, through which are seen, like ghosts, the servants, clad in flowing white garments, gliding about with noiseless feet in all directions. None of the inferior domestics keep themselves, as in England, in the background—the water-carrier alone confines his perambulations to the back staircases; all the others, down to the scullions, make their appearance in the state apartments whenever they please; and in Bengal even the lower orders of palanquin-bearers, who wear but little clothing, will walk into a room without ceremony, and endeavour to make themselves useful by dusting the furniture, setting it in order; at the same time, any of the upper servants would deem it highly disrespectful to their masters to appear without their turbans, or their other usual clothing.

The punkah, a necessary appendage of every house, is worthy of description. It is formed of a wooden framework, a foot and a half or two feet broad, hung in the centre of the room, and extending nearly its whole length. This frame is covered with painted canvas or fluted silk, finished round the edges with gilt mouldings. It is suspended from the ceiling by ropes, covered with scarlet cloth, very tastefully disposed, and hangs within seven feet of the ground. A rope is fastened to the centre, and the whole apparatus waves to and fro, creating, if pulled vigorously, a strong current of air, and rendering the surrounding atmosphere endurable, when the heat would, without it, be very disagreeable.

Captain Clayton was stationed up the country, where Mrs Clayton took my little sister, and Ellen Barrow accompanied them. I was very sorry to part from all my kind friends, as well as my little sister, and often used to ask when they were coming back again. I missed my sweet playmate, Ellen Barrow, very much; for among all my obsequious attendants, no one could romp with me as she did, or amuse me half so much. I loved her dearly, and had I never again seen her, I think I should never have forgotten her countenance.

I must be very brief with this part of my history, as the adventures I afterwards met with will, I doubt not, prove more interesting to my readers.

I must, however, while I am talking of India, recommend my young friends to make themselves well acquainted with the geographical position of the most important places in it. I have often, since coming to England, been asked if I knew Mr So-and-so of India, as if India was a town or an English county. A glance at the map will show the immense extent of the British possessions in the East. They are divided into three Presidencies, or Sub-governments—those of Bengal, Madras and Bombay. Connected with these are a great number of subsidiary and protected states. Some of the nominal rulers of these are tributary to the Company, others receive stipends from them; while a great many have British residents or envoys stationed at their courts, who advise them how to govern, and many have, besides, British troops, to keep them in order and their enemies in awe.

The vast extent of country between the Ganges and the Indus, with the Himalaya mountains on the north, may be considered as almost entirely British; at all events, British troops are stationed in all directions, and British travellers may move north and south, and east and west, without let or hindrance. Thus it may be seen, that it is very possible for people to reside all their lives in India and not to meet; at the same time, as the British move about a great deal, especially the military, who, in time of war, are brought much in contact, they certainly meet oftener, and hear more of each other than would be expected.

I feel assured that the rule of the British has proved a blessing to the people of India. Had it not done so, we should not, I think, have been allowed to keep possession of the country. At the same time, we might have proved a far greater blessing than we have been; for had we set a better example in religion and morality, I cannot but suppose that the divine truths of Christianity would have made greater progress among the inhabitants than they have. Very many of my readers may have their future fortunes cast in that land of wonders, and let me entreat them to remember the immense responsibility which rests on their shoulders. According to the example they set, so may the benighted natives be brought to perceive the beauty and excellence of true religion, or they may remain in their present darkness. Let me ask you a question: Who will be answerable for the ignorance and crimes of the poor natives—they who have never had the light presented to them, or you who might, by your example and precept, have offered it to them and would not?

In saying this, I at the same time advise you to respect the prejudices and customs of the people. You can never win people over to the truth by insulting their superstition, however gross. I only urge you to be, in your own lives, a bright example.

I now return to my history.

Several years of the time of my childhood passed away very happily. Sir Charles was placed as ruler over a large Province in the interior, and he took me with him. His residence was situated on some lofty hills, which were cool even in hot weather, so that I grew up strong and healthy. Some British troops were sent to the same place, under the command of Captain, now Major Clayton, and thus I was once more united to my kind friends and young sister. Ellen Barrow was so no longer; she had become Mrs Northcote; but was the same kind, lively creature as when I first remembered her. Major and Mrs Clayton had no children of their own; and they therefore loved my little sister even as if she had been their infant.

I must not omit to mention an occurrence which happened about this time, and is well worthy of note. My friends were residing in a sort of fort, situated on the hills, with a high wall surrounding the habitable portion. In the hot weather the windows are left entirely open, or are simply closed with a sort of venetian blind. The crib in which my sister slept was placed in a large apartment outside Major and Mrs Clayton’s chamber, while beyond it were the sleeping-places of the nurses and other household domestics. It was used in the day-time as a sitting-room, and against the wall was a large and handsome mirror, and from the ceiling hung a lamp, which shed a soft and subdued light upon it. I am thus particular in describing the scene from the circumstances which follow. It was an hour or more past midnight, when Major Clayton was awakened, and from, to him, some unaccountable reason, he could not again compose himself to sleep. While he lay awake, he fancied that he heard a slight noise in the adjoining room, and throwing on his dressing-gown, he rose to discover what could have caused it. Think of his horror and amazement to see, in the centre of the apartment, as if about to spring on the cradle where the infant slept, a royal Bengal tiger of vast size! In a moment it might have seized the child, and before any human aid could have availed, it might have carried her away into the wild jungle. He stood almost paralysed, not knowing how to act. Had he moved to get his pistols from the next room, he might only have hastened the catastrophe he feared. He looked again; the fierce animal was lashing its tail and grinding its teeth with rage. Before its eyes, reflected in the mirror, was its own image, which it had beheld when just about to spring on its prey. It now stood, every moment its fury increasing, fancying that another of its species was there to contest the prize it had come to bear away. The major watched it with breathless anxiety; he was about to rush to the crib, at the risk of his life, to carry off the child, when the tiger sprung forward. Alas! It is too late, and the savage beast will destroy it; but no, the tiger expects to join combat with its rival, and with a loud crash the mirror is dashed into a thousand fragments. The animal, frightened by the unexpected event and the wounds it received, without an attempt to commit further injury, turned round and leaped out of the open window by which it had entered. A few springs carried it to the outer wall, which, though of great height, it surmounted, and before pursuit could be made it escaped. The noise aroused the whole household, who came rushing into the apartment from all sides, while Mrs Clayton clasped the still sleeping child in her arms, to assure herself that it was unharmed. Surely this was one of those evident inter-positions of Providence which occur to most of us, but are seldom acknowledged in a proper spirit of gratitude. It is another of the many signal proofs I have had to convince me that God is everywhere. This escape of their darling endeared little Eva still more, if possible, to her kind guardians. I ought to have said that both they and Sir Charles had taken every measure in their power to discover our relations and friends, but that hitherto they had totally failed in the search. Most certainly they would have made the discovery with deep regret had it tended to deprive them of us; but still this sense of right prompted them to spare no expense or trouble for that object. Sir Charles drew up a circular, addressed to the consuls, Lloyd’s agents, and others, at all the ports from which the ship could have sailed to have carried us to the neighbourhood of where we were found; but though several were missing, and were supposed to have been lost about that time, there were no proofs forthcoming that we had been on board one of them. Now and then our friends fancied that they had found the clue to our identity; but either the children inquired after were subsequently discovered, or it was proved that we could not possibly be them. Thus year after year passed away, and I was entirely dependent on Sir Charles, while my sister was in every respect the adopted child of Major and Mrs Clayton. Little Eva, from a sickly infant, had become a very beautiful child; but at the time of which I am speaking she was remarkably small for her age, so that she looked even younger than she really was. I, on the contrary, was rather taller and stouter than most boys of my age. My excellent guardian had taken great pains, not only to cultivate my mind, but also to give me a variety of manly accomplishments; and I could ride, shoot, and fence, sufficiently well to elicit a considerable amount of applause from all who saw me. At a very early age, mounted on an elephant, I used to accompany parties of officers on their expeditions against the tigers and wild boars of the jungle. One day I was thus engaged, when the elephant I was on, being some way from the rest, a tiger flew out and fastened on his trunk. In vain the mighty beast tried to shake off his savage assailant. He then endeavoured to kneel upon him and so to crush him; and I fully expected to be thrown over his head. My gun was, however, ready. I caught a sight of the tiger’s eye; and, firing, sent a ball directly into it. In an instant his claws relaxed, and he fell to the ground dead. I gained great applause for the deed, and for the coolness I displayed; but I don’t see how, having a gun in my hand, I could have acted otherwise than I did.

Chapter Six.

I must pass rapidly over the next few years of my life, though they were not uneventful. One day Sir Charles called me to him, and, taking my hand, he said kindly, “I have been considering, Mark, that it will be necessary to send you home in order to complete your education, which cannot be done out here to my satisfaction.”

“Home!” I asked. “Where is that, papa? This is the only home I know.”

“In England, my boy; that is my home, where I hope to return to end my days; and it should be your home also. I wish you to be brought up to think, and feel, and act as an Englishman, and that you can only do by mixing on equal terms with other English boys of your own age. In fact, you are too much of a man already; and I wish you to be rubbed back into boyhood again.”

In reply, I tried to persuade him that I would endeavour to become in every respect what he wished, if he would allow me to remain with him; for I sincerely grieved at the thought of being separated from so kind a guardian; at the same time, I own that I could not help looking with very great satisfaction at the prospect of a visit to a land so full of wonders as I expected to find England. People are apt to think the country they have not seen much more wonderful than the one where they are residing. Before people travelled, as they do now, the most absurd stories of distant countries were reported and believed even by sensible men. It was supposed that races of men existed, some with their heads under their arms, others with three eyes, and that others, again, were of gigantic stature; indeed, the tales of the Arabian Nights appeared scarcely in any way to be exaggerations.

We were, at the time of which I speak, some way up the country; and as Sir Charles was about to proceed to Calcutta, I had the advantage of travelling in his society. An English gentleman is obliged to perform a journey in India in a very different way to what he would in England. A family of moderate size has a hundred or more attendants, with numbers of elephants, and bullocks, and horses, and, in some districts, camels. It is a curious sight to see a party starting on the first morning of a journey; the palanquins, and hackeries, and carriages, and long strings of animals, varying in size from the mighty elephant to the little pony, defile out from among the houses of the town. As there are no inns or other buildings to afford shelter, it is necessary to carry tents, and cooking apparatus, and furniture and provisions; then all the upper servants have their attendants, and the guards theirs, in addition to the drivers of the animals; so, as may be supposed, a very few officers will require a whole army of followers. The more weighty articles are packed in hackeries, which are the small carts of the country, drawn by bullocks. Females, chiefly of the lower ranks, are conveyed in a similar rough vehicle, covered over at the top. Trunks are also slung across the backs of bullocks. Tents are carried by camels or elephants; and lighter articles, liable to fracture, are borne on the heads or over the shoulders of men. China and cooking apparatus are carried in large baskets hung on poles by four men, like a palanquin. The meter walks along with his dogs in a leash; the shepherd drives his sheep before him; and ducks and hens journey in baskets. There are spare horses led by grooms, and watermen and water-carriers march alongside their bullocks. Among the miscellaneous concourse appears the head-servant, or khansamah, mounted generally on some steed discarded by his master, while his inferiors either walk on foot, or get a lift in a hackery, or on the back of a camel; but all trudge along with cheerfulness, and alacrity.

Palanquins are sometimes like small four-post beds, with richly ornamented curtains, and supported by a long horizontal pole, borne by four men. Children are conveyed in a palanquin carriage, a curtained vehicle on wheels, not unlike the cage of a wild beast. The nurse sits on the floor with the baby on her knees, while the rest of the children may be seen looking through the bars which keep them in. It is drawn by bullocks; and as it moves floundering along over the heavy roads, it threatens to upset at every jolt.

It is surprising to see the rapid manner in which the multifarious materials, which compose the temporary city, are reduced to order. The spot so lately a silent desert is peopled, as if by magic, by crowds of human beings, and animals of every description. The ground on every side is strewed with packages, chests, and cloth bundles; while the men, moving about with violent gesticulations and loud exclamations, employ themselves in their well-known and allotted tasks. By degrees graceful forms arise, and richly-tinted pavilions, with gilded summits, glitter in the sunbeams, while gaudy banners flutter in the air. Long lines of canvas sheets appear, and spacious enclosures formed of kanauts secure the utmost privacy to the dwellers of the populous camp; while the elephants, who have trodden out the ground, and smoothed it for the chief’s or master’s tent, retire to their bivouac. Not only comfort, but even elegance is imparted to these temporary abodes, fitted up with such rapidity in the midst of the wildest jungle. Gay-coloured shawls form the roof and sides, rich carpets the floor, and soft couches run round the walls of the tented apartment.

Palanquins and carriages begin to arrive: the ladies find their toilet-tables laid out; baths are ready for the gentlemen; the khidmutghars are preparing breakfast, and the hookabadhars are getting the chillums in readiness; while the elephants, camels, bullocks, horses, and the other animals, as well as their drivers, and the tent-pitchers, coolies, and all those who have been employed in fatiguing offices, are buried in profound repose.

Day after day the same scene takes place, varied sometimes by a tiger or a wild boar hunt, when one is passing through a part of the country, where they are to be found.

The dinner in camp is usually as well supplied with the products of the larder as the repast served up in a settled establishment. Several very excellent dishes have been invented, which are peculiarly adapted to the cooking apparatus suited to the jungle.

Immediately after the dinner the khidmutghars, cooks, and mussaulchees pack up the utensils belonging to their department, and set forward with the tent, which is to be to-morrow’s dwelling, leaving the bearers to attend at tea, their objection to doing duty at table extending only to repasts composed of animal food.

During our long journey, we were compelled to halt several times for a day or two, to refresh the weary frames of the men and cattle, toiling under the burthen of the camp equipage. The camp on those days used to present even a more busy scene than usual. The dobies were employed in washing and ironing their master’s clothes, while the other servants and camp-followers were mending, making, and repairing garments, saddles, and harness, and tackle of all descriptions.

Part of our journey was performed by water down the Ganges, on hoard a budgerow. The name of this boat is a native corruption of the word barge. It is somewhat in appearance like an overgrown gondola—very picturesque, and not altogether inelegant. The interior is fitted up with sleeping apartments and a sitting-room, with an enclosed verandah in front, which serves to keep off the sun; the cabin is on all sides surrounded by venetians, which serve to keep off his burning rays by day, and to let in the air at night. On a small deck, left free at the bows, the boatmen stand, urging on the boat with long sweeps; while the roof of the cabin, or upper deck, as it might be called, is the chief resort of the servants and the rest of the crew. The helmsman is posted on a high platform at the stern, guiding the boat with a huge rudder; and the goleer, stationed at the bow, ascertains with a long pole the depth of the water. When the wind is fair, two large square sails are hoisted; and as the vessel draws but little water, they send her rapidly along. A baggage boat is always in attendance on a budgerow; she also carries the provisions and the servants, and the cooking apparatus. Besides these two boats, a smaller one, called a dinghee, is used to communicate between the two, or to send messages on shore. When the wind is contrary, or when there is none, and the banks of the river will allow it, the boats are towed along by sixteen or more men, dragging at a rope fastened to the mast-head.

I remember being particularly struck with the number and beauty of the lotus, floating on the waters of the Ganges, as also with other flowers, of scarlet, yellow, and white hues; while numberless others, of every tint, garnished either bank of the stream.

A remarkable feature of the Ganges is the fine Ghauts, or landing-places, one of which is to be found leading from the water even to the smallest village. They consist of five flights of steps, either of stone or chunam highly polished; and have, besides being most useful, a very handsome appearance. On either side are stone balustrades, and sometimes beautiful temples, mosques, or pagodas, according to the creed of the founders. At every time of the day, on the Ghauts, may be seen groups of bathers; while graceful female forms are continually passing and re-passing, loaded with water-pots, which are balanced with the nicest precision on their heads.

As we proceed down the river an infinite variety of scenes meets our sight—now overhanging cliffs, crowned by some beautiful Oriental edifice; then green woods and fields, with quiet villages seen among them; next a herd of buffaloes wallowing in the mud, their horns and the tips of their noses alone out of the water, or, perhaps, their keepers are about to drive them across the stream, for though fierce in appearance, they are as tame as oxen. The herdsmen mount on the necks of the strongest, and thus fearlessly stem the current, almost completely immersed in the water. We saw wide pastures covered with innumerable herds; forests, with their eternal shade; and indigo plantations, in charge of Europeans. Sometimes a gigantic elephant was observed under the shade of a tree, fanning off the flies with a branch of palm; others were pacing along, decked in gaudy trappings, and hearing their masters in howdahs through the fields or plantations.

The most elegant and picturesque buildings are the temples and habitations of the Brahmins, in situations remote from the busy haunts of men. Here the mistaken devotees of a barbarous faith spend their time in weaving garlands for their altars, or to deck the rafts which they commit to the holy stream.

Innumerable varieties of birds are seen, some flying in flocks, and others stalking along the reedy shore.

After leaving these wild and picturesque scenes behind, one comes suddenly upon one of the beautiful modern towns, built by the British, on the banks of the river, filled with superb palaces, well suited for the habitations of princes, though but the residences of the civil servants of the East India Company.

During the day the heat in the cabin is often very great; but as the sun declines, the temperature agreeably decreases. As the crew will not work at night, it is necessary, as it grows dark, to moor the budgerow to the shore. The moment this is done, a very active and animated scene commences; the domestics, whose services are not required on board, and all the crew, immediately disembark; fires are kindled for the various messes; those who are anxious for quiet and seclusion, light up their fagots at a considerable distance from the boat.

At length we arrived at Calcutta, where Sir Charles, to his great satisfaction, found Captain Willis, who was on the point of sailing for England in his old ship, the Governor Harcourt. I was, accordingly, forthwith committed to his charge, and consigned to the care of a brother of my kind guardian, the Reverend Mr Plowden. I parted from Sir Charles with much sorrow, which, I believe, was fully shared with him.

We were detained some days by contrary winds in the Hoogly; so that, by the time we got clear of the mouth of the river, we were tolerably well acquainted with each other. I made myself perfectly at home, and gained the friendship of all the passengers. I had none of that false shame or bashfulness about me which makes so many English boys appear to disadvantage among strangers, and prevents them from gaining the regard of their acquaintance, though I had perfect respect for my elders, and due deference for the opinions of those who, from their age and experience, I felt ought to know the world better than I could myself. I must not forget to mention that we came in sight of the far-famed temple of Juggernaut, on the coast of Orissa, in the district of Cuttack. The dark and frowning pagoda, rising abruptly from a ridge of sand, forms a conspicuous object from the sea, its huge shapeless mass not unlike some ill-proportioned giant, affording a gloomy type of the hideous superstitions of the land. This huge pagoda, half pyramid and half tower, is built of coarse red granite, brought from the southern parts of Cuttack, and covered with a rough coating of chunam.

The tower containing the idols, which is two hundred feet high, and serves as a land-mark to the mariner, stands in the centre of a quadrangle, enclosed by a high stone wall, extending 650 feet on each side, and surrounded by minor edifices of nondescript shapes. The magnitude of these buildings forms their sole claim to admiration; they are profusely decorated with sculpture, but of so rude a description as to afford no satisfaction to the beholder. The great temple of Juggernaut was erected in the twelfth century. The idols are of huge size and hideous shape. Krishna, the chief, in intended as a mystic representation of the supreme power; for the Hindoos assert that they worship only one God, and that the thousands of other images to which they pay homage are merely attributes of a deity pervading the whole of nature. Every one of the idols particularly venerated by the numerous tribes and sects of Hindostan, obtains a shrine within the precincts of the temple; so that all castes may unite in celebrating the great festival with one accord. The installation of the mighty idol upon his car, and his journey to a country residence, about a mile and a half distant only, though it occupies three days, is performed with numberless extraordinary ceremonies by his devotees. The car is a sort of platform, forty-three feet in height, and thirty-five feet square, moving upon sixteen wheels, each six feet and a half in diameter.

Though the ponderous wheels of Juggernaut no longer go crushing over the bodies of prostrate victims, the assembled crowd rush to the car with almost appalling fury and excitement. Pilgrims, however, come in vast numbers from all parts of the country to the temple, and thousands die from famine and exhaustion on the arid road across the sands which surround it. That the vile and dark superstitions I have been describing may disappear before the pure light of Christianity, should be the prayer of all believers; but we must remember, also, that the personal exertions and example of those who are called into that wonderful land are also required to effect that great object, and that they can in no way be excused if they neglect that duty.

This was the last glimpse we had of India. We did not even sight the Cape of Good Hope; and Saint Helena was the first land we made. We remained there two days, and everybody went to see the grave of Napoleon. I remember after dinner, on the day we again sailed, that there was a long discussion as to the right England had to keep him a prisoner. It was the opinion of all the older and most sensible men, that as he had been the greatest curse to Europe, and a constant source of annoyance and expense to our country, we were only performing our duty in taking the most effectual means to prevent him from committing any further mischief. In less civilised times, he would probably have been deprived of life by one of the many means once resorted to for that purpose.

The remainder of our voyage was as prosperous as the commencement, and we arrived safely in the Thames about four months after leaving Calcutta. As there was not a human being I knew in England, I was in no hurry to leave the ship; and I therefore waited till Captain Willis could accompany me to call on Mr Plowden. On first landing, and when driving through the streets, I was completely bewildered by the noise, and bustle, and apparent confusion going on around me. I wondered how the people could thread their way along the pavement, and more how they could venture to cross the road while carriages were dashing by at a rate so furious that I thought they must be constantly running into each other. After proceeding some miles to the west-end of London, we reached Mr Plowden’s house. He received me very kindly; and after some conversation, he inquired whether I should like to go to school, or to live with a private tutor by myself. I replied, “To school, by all means,” as I wished to see life, and to make friends. To school, therefore, it was settled I should go.

Chapter Seven.

Mr Plowden selected for me a large school near London; it was considered a first-rate one. There were a good many sons of noblemen and men of landed property, as also of officers of the East India Company’s service, of West India proprietors, and of merchants. It was a little world in itself, influenced, however, by the opinions of the greater planet within which it revolved. The boys took rank according to that of their parents, except that a few, either from their talents, their independent spirits, or from their sycophantish qualifications, had become the more intimate associates of those generally considered their superiors.

The proprietor was considered an excellent school-master. I do not say he was a bad one, though he was not capable of teaching much himself. He, however, paid liberally for good ushers, and thus his pupils were tolerably well instructed in Greek and Latin; but as the junior master was appointed to teach geography, history, and other branches of useful science, of which he had a very superficial knowledge, they gained but little information on those subjects. It struck me, also, that they were not sufficiently instructed in their future duties and responsibilities in life. It was not sufficiently impressed on those destined to become landed proprietors, that they should consider themselves in the light of stewards over their estates, and guardians and advisers of their tenantry; and that it was as much, if not more, their duty to study hard to fit themselves for the station of life to which they were called, as it was that of those boys who had to fight their way through the world.

Though I was not older than many of the boys, I had far greater experience and knowledge of mankind than they had; and I accordingly made observations on many things which escaped their notice. Little attention was paid to the moral cultivation of the boys, and still less to their physical development.

Gymnastic exercises were not thought of; and, except cricket, they had no manly games to strengthen their muscles and improve their forms. There was a dancing-master; but as he had the art of making a toil of a pleasure, few of the boys learned. A drill-sergeant came once a week, but few seemed to benefit by his lessons. However, as every care was taken to fill the heads of the boys with as large an amount of Greek and Latin as they would hold, the school was considered a very good one; indeed, as they were tolerably well fed, and not flogged over much, and as the bedrooms were clean and airy, and as a respectable matron presided over the establishment, no complaints were made, and parents and friends were pleased with all they saw.

It must be understood that I think Greek and Latin very important branches of a gentleman’s education but, at the same time, there are many other things which should on no account be neglected, and which are so too often.

The knowledge I possessed was of too varied a kind to enable me to take my place in any class; and I therefore sometimes did duty with one and sometimes with another, generally getting to the top in a very short time. Of mathematics, history, and modern languages I knew more than the oldest boys, while some of the younger ones surpassed me in making verses, and in Latin and Greek. In consequence of my accomplishments and information, I was a general favourite with most of my companions, whom I used to teach to fence, to knot, and splice, which I learned on my voyage home, and to some I imparted a few words of Hindustanee.

I also entered into all their amusements; and as I had a great dislike to anything like bullying, I would never allow those I could master to ill-treat the weaker ones, and I, on more than one occasion, stood up against a boy much stronger than myself, to defend a little fellow he was going to thrash. We fought, and though he got the best of it, he suffered so severely that he never again attempt to interfere with me. I thus gained all the advantage a victory could have given me. I was not unhappy at the school; but I found the life rather irksome after the freedom I had been accustomed to enjoy, and I studied as hard as I was able, to emancipate myself from it.

Although I had many friends, I had few intimates—indeed, to no one did I confide the story of my being discovered at sea in a boat with my sister; and I was supposed to be the nephew of Sir Charles Plowden. Among the boys I liked best, was one called Walter Blount. He was almost friendless, though his birth was good; and he had fortune sufficient to enable him to be sent to this school, with the intention of his proceeding afterwards to Oxford or Cambridge. He was a fine-spirited lad. He was nearly two years younger than I was, and accordingly looked up to me as his superior. I first gained his friendship by saving him from a thrashing which Hardman, the greatest bully in the school, was about to give him.

“If you touch him you will have to fight us both,” I exclaimed; “and I alone am not afraid of you.”

The bully doubled his fists, and looked very fierce, but stalked away without striking a blow. I got Blount out of several scrapes; once he had been letting off fireworks in a part of the garden not seen from the house, and being disturbed by the report that one of the ushers was coming, he thrust a handful of touchpaper, part of which was ignited, into his pocket. I luckily met him as he was passing the washing-room, and turning him as he was smoking away, I tore out his burning pockets, and plunged them into the water. We afterwards had to cut away the burnt lining, and to sew up his pockets, so that what had happened might not be discovered.

Another time, he, with a dozen or more other boys, had planned an expedition into the master’s garden at night to get fruit. He did not join it, I am sure, for the object of obtaining the fruit, but merely for the sake of the excitement. Another boy, who had been asked to join, told me of it directly after the party had set out. I immediately dressed and followed in their track, determined to bring them back before they had committed the robbery. I, however, only fell in with Blount, who had been separated from the rest; and, with some difficulty, I induced him to return. We had got back to our rooms, when one of the ushers discovered the whole party. The master was called up, and, with birch in hand, went round the room, and inflicted summary punishment on all offenders. The next morning they were called up by name, their crime announced, and severe tasks being inflicted, they were all sent to Coventry for a fortnight. As the whole punishment was very disagreeable and irksome, Blount was very much obliged to me for having saved him from it.

The winter holidays I spent with Mr Plowden in London, and in the summer he took me on a tour through a considerable portion of England, Scotland, and Ireland. I thus became acquainted with what I was taught to consider my native land, and was able to compare other countries with it. I own that, although I have always felt proud of the name of an Englishman, and of what Englishmen have done, yet there are many things in which the people of other nations are their superiors. Some of the faults of the English, as they appeared to me, were a want of unostentatious hospitality, a due respect to parents and superiors in age, and a churlishness of behaviour to those of the same rank, with an unwarrantable suspicion of their motives, and an inclination to criticise and find fault with their behaviour and appearance.

My summer holidays I enjoyed very much; but I was not fond of London; though, I believe, had I made a point of visiting all the spots of interest contained within it, and of gaining information about their history, I might have passed my time more profitably than I did. In those days there were fewer sights, so called, than at present; and the great lion was Exeter Change, truly a den of wild beasts. It was, indeed, painful to see animals deprived, not only of liberty, but of fresh air. I, who had faced the royal Bengal tiger and the fierce lion in their native wilds, could not help feeling some amount of contempt for the exhibition.

When I got back to school, I was welcomed by all the boys, especially by Blount and by John Prior, one of the oldest and most steady of them. He was, indeed, more particularly my friend and my constant companion. He was the son of a merchant connected with India, and reputed to be of great wealth. Of his father he said little, but his constant theme was his mother, who must have been a very excellent person. He averred that he had gained from her all the good in his composition; and certainly, judging from what I saw of him, she might well be content with the result of her prayers to Heaven for his improvement in virtue, and her own watchful and constant exertions. I do not mean to say that any one is perfect; but certainly John Prior was, in the true sense of the word, one of the best fellows I ever met. He gave me much of that advice and instruction which I have ever since found so important. He knew the great aim of life; he saw things in their true light, and taught me to see them also; he called things by their proper names; and while he could make ample allowance for the faults of others, he never attempted to extenuate his own errors; nor did he mistake vice for virtue, or the semblance of virtue for the reality. From the companionship of such a person I could not fail to reap much benefit. I did not enjoy it long. We afterwards met under very different circumstances in a far-off region, which he at that time did not dream of visiting. I had many other friends; I mention Prior and Blount because they will appear again in my narrative. I was pursuing my usual course of study, when one day I was summoned into the study. Mr Liston held an open letter in his hand.

“This is from your uncle, I mean Mr Plowden,” he began: “Sir Charles is ill, and wishes to have you with him. You are to return to India immediately, unless you desire the contrary.”

The first feeling this announcement created was somewhat selfish, I am afraid, or rather I did not realise the fact of my kind guardian’s illness; and my heart leaped at the thought of returning to India, with which country all my pleasantest recollections were associated.

“I wish to go, sir, as soon as I can,” I replied.

“You do not appear to regret leaving your school-fellows, and your other friends here,” observed Mr Liston, who naturally wished that all his boys should be fond of his school; and as he was making his fortune by means of it, had taught himself to believe that they must regard it with the same eyes of affection that he did.

“Yes, sir, I am though. I am sorry to leave many of the fellows; but you know Sir Charles is my oldest friend. Does he say that he is very ill, sir?”

“No; he talks of his declining strength, and of his wish to have some one about him in whom he can thoroughly confide,” said Mr Liston, fixing his eyes on me, as if he would read every thought passing in my mind.

“I long to be with him,” I answered quickly. “And, sir, if you knew what a kind and indulgent friend he has been to me, you would not be surprised.”

“Well, well, I hope that you will find him in better health than he now is,” said Mr Liston, in a kinder tone than usual. “Mr Plowden has also written to say that your old friend, Captain Willis, is on the point of sailing, and that a cabin in his ship will be secured for you. Now go and wish your friends good-bye, for you have no time to lose, as you must go up to London this afternoon to get your outfit.”

On being thus dismissed, I hurried off into the playground.

“I am very, very sorry that you are going, Seaworth,” said Prior, leaning on my shoulder as we walked up and down apart from the rest. “Do remember all the things I have often talked to you about. The more I think of them the more I feel their importance, and so will you, I am sure, if you continue to think; but you are going to join in the active busy world, with men of all shades of religion, and some without religion and thought—I mean serious thought; and reflection and earnest prayer may be forgotten.”

As I never knew my mother, it seemed as if God had sent me this friend to afford me the inestimable precepts which he had received through his parent. Soon afterwards Blount came up, and wringing my hand, burst into tears.

“I wish that I was going with you,” he exclaimed. “I would follow you everywhere. I can’t stay behind you, that is very certain—you’ll see.”

The other boys now crowded round us, and in a thick mass we continued walking up and down, talking of the wonders I was to see, and all expressing regret at my going. Thus the play-hours flew quickly away. I did not remark it at the time, but I now distinctly recollect that there was a subdued tone among all the boys; there was no wrangling or loud shouting; and a few of the little fellows, whom I had at times befriended and aided, were in tears. It was very gratifying to me; and it showed me what a little exertion of power in a right cause will effect. Whether as schoolboys or in manhood, we shall do well to remember this. We talk of being repaid for good actions: now I think that the very feeling which results from doing good, more than amply repays us for the trouble to which we may have been put. The remaining result is a gift Heaven kindly bestows as an incentive to virtue, but in no way gained by us.

I was allowed to pack up my books during school hours. The greater number, however, with some trifles I possessed, I distributed among my friends, as parting tokens. When I went round to wish the ushers good-bye, they shook my hand warmly, and wished me happiness and prosperity; and as I passed up the schoolroom to the door, there was a general shout of “Good-bye, Seaworth; good-bye, old fellow. We’ll not forget you.” The tears rose to my eyes, and I could say nothing in return.

Prior, Blount, and a few others accompanied me to the coach; and by them I sent back my last remembrances to all the rest. In less than an hour I stepped into a hackney coach at the White Horse Cellar, Piccadilly, and was rumbling away to Mr Plowden’s house.

Chapter Eight.

Once more I was on the deck of the Governor Harcourt, her bows turned towards the south, ploughing up the waters of the Atlantic. It was the last voyage Captain Willis intended to make, as he had now realised a handsome competency, and hoped to be able to retire and enjoy it with his family in the country of his birth. We had very different people going out to those who were on board on our homeward voyage—or rather, they were the same sort of people at a different period of their lives. There were a few civil and military officers, and ladies, who had before been to India; but the greater number were young men just emancipated from school or college—griffins, as they are called—who knew nothing of the world or its ways, though they fancied that they knew a great deal, the most ignorant generally appearing the most conceited. There was also a number of young ladies, going out to their relations and friends in India. As Captain Willis was well-known for the excellent care he took of his lady passengers, they had been committed to his especial charge.

For some time nothing of importance occurred, nor did we see any land to distract our attention from the varying line of sky and sea. At last, one morning, at an early hour, when Captain Willis said we were near the island of Madeira, the cry of “Land ahead!” was raised, and in a short time we were passing between that beautiful place and a group of rocks called the Desertas. They are about ten miles from the mainland, and extend for almost fifteen miles from north-west to south-east. Some of the seamen told me that they are called the Desertas, because they have deserted from the mainland to stick out in the ocean by themselves; but the true origin of their name is, that they are desert or barren rocks.

The island, when first seen, looked dusky and gloomy; but, as the sun rose, his rays dispersed the mist, and the mountains, and hills, and valleys, and orange groves, and picturesque shore, and the plantations, and neat white villas and small villages, burst forth in all their beauty. As we rounded the southern side, the town of Funchal, the capital, opened to our view, backed by an amphitheatre of hills, covered with the variegated tints of a luxuriant vegetation, the whole forming a lovely scene which we longed to visit.

As we did not require fresh provisions, Captain Willis wished to proceed. Madeira belongs to Portugal, and is inhabited by Portuguese. Their costume is different, and they are generally inferior to the inhabitants of the parent state.

I have heard people say that they cannot find amusement on board ship. I can reply that I have found abundant matter of interest for many a long voyage, both under the sea and on the sea. I remember, on one calm day, when the ship was scarcely moving through the water, a boat was lowered to enable us to capture some of the Physalia, or Portuguese men-of-war, which were seen in unusual numbers gliding over the surface of the deep. Several of the passengers, among whom were three of the cadets, formed the party intent on scientific discovery. One, whose name was Jellico, but who was more generally called by his companions Jellybag, was among them.

Some of my readers may wonder what is meant by a “Portuguese man-of-war,” and think that, notwithstanding the daring of British seamen, we were bound on rather a hazardous expedition, in attempting to attack one in a jolly-boat. The truth is, that it is the name given to a beautiful molluscous animal, which by means of a sort of sail, the wind blows along as if it were a real boat. It consists of a bladder, tinted with various hues, and this keeps it afloat; while long tentaculae, of a deep purple colour, extend beneath, some of them several feet in length, with which it captures its prey. This animal must not be confounded with the Nautilus, from which it is totally different, though one is often mistaken for the other.

Our friend Jellybag did not exactly know what he was to see, but he expected to find something uncommon. We had not rowed many strokes before one of the Physalia was observed floating by, its back ornamented with a fringe tinted with light-blue, delicate sea-green, and crimson.

“I’ll have it,” exclaimed Jellybag, leaning over the bows and grasping hold of it, regardless of the injury he was inflicting.

Scarcely had he got it on board, then he flung it down at the bottom of the boat, with a loud cry, exclaiming, “The horrid beast has stung me, as if it were a great nettle!” So it was, for it had thrown round his fingers its long tentaculae, discharging, at the same time, an acrid fluid from them, which caused the pain he felt. We all laughed at him at first very much; but he suffered so considerably during the day from the effects of the sting, that the more humane really pitied him, in spite of the ridiculous complaints he made.

“Catch me taking hold of strange fish again in these outlandish places,” he observed, as he twisted his arm about with pain. “If a little thing like that hurts one so much, I should think a whale or a dolphin would be enough to poison a whole regiment.” By the next day, however, he had recovered, and only felt a slight sensation of numbness, which in two days completely left him.

The next land we saw was the lofty mountain of Saint Antonio, on the island of Saint Jago. The summit was covered with clouds, which rolled away as the sun rose, and we coasted along the somewhat barren shores. In the afternoon we anchored off Porto Praya, the capital. It is a small town, without any buildings worthy of notice. As we looked over the side of the ship, we were amused by the way the fishermen caught their prey. There were several boats fishing. They first sprinkled something which looked like crumbs of bread on the water, and this seemed to attract the fish in large shoals to the surface. The fishermen then swept among them a long stick, to which a number of short lines and hooks were attached; the fish eagerly seizing the bait, several were caught at each cast. The women in each boat were busily engaged, as they were on board, in cleansing and salting them.

We landed next day, and enjoyed a pretty view from the town, looking down on the harbour; but my impression of the island is, that, with the exception of a few cultivated spots, it is a very barren, uninteresting place. We visited, however, the plantation of the sugar-cane; and among a variety of tropical trees, such as the guava, tamarind, plantain, and custard-apple, there was a species of the monkey-bread tree, which struck us as very curious. This tree was about sixty feet high and forty feet in circumference; the bark was smooth, and of a greyish colour, and the boughs were entirely destitute of leaves. This fruit hung thickly at the end of twisted, spongy stalks, from one to two feet long. The fruit is of an oval form, about six inches in length, and three or four inches in diameter; and the outer shell being broken, it contains a farinaceous substance, enveloping dark brown seeds of an agreeable acidulated taste.

On entering the tropics, we used to watch the flights of the flying-fish, several of which, at different times, were caught leaping through our ports, or into the boats towing astern in calm weather. We saw some bonitoes in chase of a large shoal. The flying-fish made an audible rustling noise as they arose before their pursuers, who, in eager chase, often sprang several yards out of the water. Besides their finny enemies, the former had to encounter in their flight armies of boobies, gannets, and other tropical birds, which hovered over them, and secured many of them before our eyes. Notwithstanding this, I do not suppose that flying-fish are more unhappy or more persecuted than their less agile brethren; and while they live they probably have a keener enjoyment of existence. I believe that, in the minutest details of creation, the all-beneficent God metes out to all living beings the advantages and disadvantages of existence for some great end, which it is not His will to disclose to man.

One of the most beautiful subjects of interest is the phosphorescent light seen at night on the ocean, as the ship ploughs her way through the waters. Some of the passengers tried to persuade Jellybag that it was caused by the ends of cigars, and the ashes of tobacco-pipes, thrown overboard from a fleet ahead. It no doubt arises from the quantity of dead animal matter with which the sea water is loaded. The wake of the ship appeared one broad sheet of phosphoric matter, so brilliant as to cast a dull pale light over the stern; the foaming surges, as they gracefully curled on each side of the bow, look like rolling masses of liquid phosphorus; whilst in the distance, even to the horizon, it seemed an ocean of fire, the far-off waves giving out a light of inconceivable beauty and brilliancy.

Albicores, bonitoes, and dolphins followed the ship for several days in succession; and one albicore, which had a mark on his back, from which we knew it, followed us from 3 degrees north latitude to 10 degrees south latitude, a distance of eight hundred and forty miles. An immense whale rose close to us one day, like an island emerging from the deep. Farther south Cape petrels appeared; and still farther, large numbers of the powerful albatross came gliding round us on their wide-spreading wings.

The Cape of Storms was rounded without a storm; and once more the Governor Harcourt entered the Hoogly. It appeared to me as if a lifetime had passed away since I was last at Calcutta, though scarcely two years had elapsed since I left it.

My first inquiries, on the pilot’s coming on board, were for Sir Charles. With breathless anxiety I listened for his answer.

“Sir Charles—Oh ay—Sir Charles Plowden, you mean, sir. I haven’t heard of his death; so I suppose he is still alive, though he is very sickly, I know. But perhaps you are his son, sir, and I am speaking carelessly.”

“No, I am not his son, my friend, but I love him as if I were,” I replied. “And I earnestly wish that you could recollect when you last heard of him.”

The pilot stopped to consider for some minutes. “Now I come to think of it, sir, I do remember but last night hearing that Sir Charles was going on much as usual; but I did not mark at the time what Sir Charles was spoken of,” was the vague answer, with which I was obliged to be satisfied.

The wind falling to a dead calm, it was necessary to bring the ship to an anchor. To save time, therefore, as I was very eager to be on shore, I, with some of the other passengers, hired a country boat, in which we proceeded up to Calcutta. On landing, some in palanquins, others in carriages, or on horseback, proceeded to their various destinations. Hotels were not so common in those days as at present; so that people went at once to the houses of those to whom they had introductions, who aided them in establishing themselves in their quarters.

I threw myself on a horse, and galloped, in spite of the hot sun, as fast as he could go, to the house, or rather to the palace, where Sir Charles resided. There was more than the usual Oriental stillness about the building as I entered. A few servants were flitting about noiselessly among the pillars of the vast hall, and through the open doors of the chambers leading from it. Others were reposing on mats in the shade. Although I had grown considerably, I was soon recognised. The words, “The young sahib has returned! the young sahib has returned!” were soon echoed among them; and those who had known me, hurried forward to meet me. Their kind looks and expressions cheered my heart, which was heavy with fear as to the information I was about to receive.

From my inquiries I learned that Sir Charles was still alive, though the medical man entertained but slight hopes of his recovery. He had frequently asked for me, and had desired that as soon as I arrived I should be conducted into his presence. In another minute I was by the bedside of my benefactor. By the pale light which was admitted into the room, I could perceive the alteration which sickness had wrought on his countenance; and I, too truly, feared that the hand of death had already stamped its mark upon it.

My name was mentioned; he recognised me instantly, and stretched out his hand affectionately to press mine. Tears started into my eyes, and my heart swelled with the pain I tried to conceal, lest it should distress him.

“I am glad you are come in time, my dear boy,” he said in a weak voice. “I have much to speak of, and my hours are numbered. I would recommend you to these kind friends, for you will want comfort and aid, though they would give it unasked.”

At these words I looked up, and for the first time perceived that some other persons were in the room—a gentleman and a lady. The first I did not know; but I soon, to my infinite satisfaction, recognised in the other my old and charming playmate—once Ellen Barrow, now Mrs Northcote—not less charming, but more matronly than before. She and her husband shook hands most kindly with me; but we had no time for conversation before I was again summoned to the bedside of Sir Charles. His looks showed that he wished to speak on some matter of importance; but his voice was so low that it was scarcely audible. He beckoned me to lean forward to listen to him.

“My dear Mark,” he whispered, “I am the only person in the world you know of on whom you have any claim; and let it be a consolation to you, that I think you have amply repaid me for my care of you. Remember my last words: Fear God, and trust to his goodness: never forget Him. Be honest, and show charity to your fellow-men; be kind to those below you, and thoughtful of their welfare, and you will obtain contentment and competency—a mind at peace, if not wealth. What would now be to me all the honours I have gained without peace of mind—a trust in God’s mercy through our Saviour’s merits? Never repine at what He orders; be prepared for reverses, and pray for fortitude to bear them. Your friends will tell you what has happened, and you will have need of all the fortitude you possess. I cannot tell you the sad history; but remember that God, who careth for the young birds, will not neglect you if you trust in Him. To Him, in faith, I commit my soul. He is merciful, my boy—He is everywhere—”

Sir Charles was silent—his hand, which had held mine, relaxed—his spirit had fled, and I was alone in the world. I could scarcely believe what had happened; but the medical man in attendance assured us of the reality of the sad event, and Mrs Northcote was led weeping from the room.

I had lost more than a father, and, as far as I knew, I, who had been brought up to enjoy all the luxuries wealth can afford, was not only penniless, but without any friends on whom I had claim beyond what their charity might induce them to afford me. I did not think of this at the time, all my feelings were engrossed with grief at the death of my benefactor. Very soon, however, my real position was suggested to me. Even to the Northcotes Sir Charles had never spoken of any provision he had made for me. He had, they thought, intended to tell them, when my coming interrupted him, and before he could finish what he wished to say, death overtook him.

Chapter Nine.

I was too much absorbed by grief at the death of Sir Charles to ask Captain and Mrs Northcote any questions during that day as to the misfortune to which he had alluded; but during the night the matter several times occurred to me, and next morning I could no longer restrain the curiosity I naturally felt to learn the truth. I ought to say that Sir Charles had some time before begged them to come and stay with him; and when he became dangerously ill, they had remained to nurse him. Captain Northcote had gone out to make arrangements about the funeral, and I therefore asked Mrs Northcote to give me the information I required. Tears came into her eyes as she spoke.

“It must be told, so that it is better now than later,” she observed. “You have heard that Major Clayton was unwell, and that a voyage was recommended to him. At that time an uncle of his, a merchant, residing at Macao, was seized with a severe illness. His uncle having sent for him, he resolved to take a voyage to that place, in the hopes of being of use to his relative, and at the same time of benefiting his own health. We saw him as he was on the point of embarking, when he appeared so much debilitated that I even then feared that he could not recover. Poor Mrs Clayton, too, could not bear the thought of parting from your sweet little sister, who, it was resolved, should accompany them. They sailed in an English ship, which was to touch at Singapore, and from thence to proceed direct to Macao. The voyage did Major Clayton some good; and in a letter I received from his wife, at the former place, she said that she entertained great hopes of his recovery. However, I regret to say that, by the accounts received by the next ship which sailed from Macao after their arrival, my worst forebodings were fulfilled—Major Clayton had gradually sunk, and a few days after his uncle had breathed his last, he also died, leaving his poor wife and your little sister to return home without any relative, or any friend on whom they had claims, to protect them.”

“What!” I exclaimed, bursting into tears I could not restrain, “is Major Clayton dead? Then do tell me where are dear Mrs Clayton and my own darling little Eva. I will fly to them immediately.”

Mrs Northcote shook her head, and looked more grave than before, as she replied, “You must, indeed, be prepared for a very sad history. I cannot tell you where your sister and your friend are. You shall hear. On the death of her husband, it was natural to suppose that Mrs Clayton would wish to return to England; but it was absolutely necessary that she should first visit India, where her property had been left, with arrangements made only for a short absence. No ship was, however, sailing direct to Calcutta at that time; and as she was anxious to leave Macao at once, she secured accommodation on board a small fast-sailing brig, bound to Singapore, whence she hoped to find the means of reaching India. A few days only, therefore, after her husband’s death, she sailed, carrying with her a considerable amount of property, which had been left to him by his uncle, and which was now his. Thus much we have heard from the merchants at Macao; but I regret to say, that no accounts have been received of the arrival of the brig at Singapore, and serious fears are entertained that some misfortune has happened to her. Either she has been wrecked, or has been run away with by her crew, or has been attacked and carried off or destroyed by pirates. The latter conjecture is but too probable, as, from her small size, those marauders of the sea are likely, if they have fallen in with her, to have been tempted to capture her.”

“I must go and find them,” I exclaimed, jumping up as if I would start off immediately. “It is too dreadful to think of, to suppose that those dear ones should be in the power of such ruffians. But why do you talk of their being carried off by pirates? Is it not just as likely that the brig may have been wrecked?”

“I wish that I could say so; for then we might hope to discover them on one of the thousand islands of that thickly-studded sea,” was her answer. “At first we hoped that such might prove the case, and we half expected to hear of the arrival of our friends on some Chinese junk or Malay prahu at Singapore; but accounts were afterwards received by two ships, stating that a brig, exactly answering her description, was seen steering for the Billiton passage, on the western coast of Borneo; so that either her crew must have turned pirates, or she must have been in the hands of the Malays, if the vessel seen was the one supposed. Of that, however, we can be in no way certain; indeed, the whole circumstance remains wrapped in the most painful mystery.”

“I must solve it, or perish in the attempt,” I exclaimed, jumping up, and walking about the room in a state of agitation more easily conceived than described. “I must find them—I will find them—nothing shall stop me in the search. I must consider how I can accomplish the undertaking.”

“You will have many, many difficulties to undergo; I fear they will be insuperable,” observed Mrs Northcote. She said this not to deter me, but because she was considering how I could possibly perform the work. “You will, in the first place, require large funds to carry out the search efficiently. The first difficulty will be to provide them; for, though we would most gladly aid you, I regret to say that Captain Northcote has not the means to do so to any extent; and we have great fears that Sir Charles has left no provision for you.”

I stopped in my walk, and meditated on what my friend had said. My thoughts immediately flew to a subject which I had not before considered. How was I to exist in the future? I had been brought up in luxury, with a supply of everything that I required, and I had literally never thought of the future. I had a vague idea that Sir Charles would find me a post in the civil or military service of the East India Company, but I never supposed, as my friends appear to have done, that he would have left me any fortune. That he had not done so, under any other circumstances, would not have caused me any disappointment. Now that money was of so great importance to me, I keenly felt the want of it.

“I will go, then, as a seaman before the mast,” I cried energetically. “I will work my passage from place to place; I will go in every sort of craft, from the Chinese junk to the Malay prahu and sampan. I will wander through every portion of the Indian seas till I discover those dear ones, or gain tidings of their fate.”

“I do not see how you can accomplish the work; but consult with Captain Northcote. If there is a way, he will advise you,” said the lady.

“There must be a way,” I replied vehemently. “I will consult with him how I am to begin the work; but not whether it is to be performed—on that I am determined.”

“I pray Heaven that you may succeed,” said Mrs Northcote. “I feel as anxious as you do for your success; but I dread to see you risk your life on an almost hopeless undertaking in those strange lands, among lawless and bloodthirsty people, who would not for a moment hesitate to destroy you.”

“I fear no danger or difficulty,” I replied. “I remember Sir Charles’s last words, ‘God is everywhere.’ In a just cause He will protect me.”

Such was the spirit and such the feeling with which I resolved to set out on my undertaking; and God did protect me. When Captain Northcote returned, I discussed the matter in every point with him. He pointed out to me that I should lose the chance of employment in the Company’s service; that, after wandering about, as I must do, I should be unfit for any steady employment, and that I should be without funds to enable me to commence any profession should the Company not afford me an opening. He soon, however, saw that it would be useless to attempt to dissuade me, and he then most generously told me that he would place at my disposal all the means he could possibly spare, and that he would endeavour to interest other friends who might enable me to prosecute the search.

After the funeral of my kind benefactor had taken place, search was made for his will. It was discovered without difficulty, when it appeared that the bulk of his property was left to his relatives in England. But on looking over his papers a codicil was found, by which the sum of ten thousand pounds was bequeathed to me, and five thousand to my sister, should she survive, naming us as the children found in a boat at sea by the ship Governor Harcourt, and named Mark and Eva Seaworth; while a further sum of two thousand pounds was left to me to be expressly expended in searching, as he named it, for his dear friend Mrs Clayton, and her young charge Eva Seaworth. I was much affected by this unexpected mark of his regard. I found also that a writership would, from his application, be given me on my return; and I ought to say that any surplus from the two thousand pounds was to be expended in prosecuting inquiries respecting my birth, whenever I should return to England, should I continue to feel any anxiety on the subject; though he advised me not to waste my energies in an inquiry which would probably prove unavailing. The first difficulty was thus got over. My friends offered no further opposition to my plan, and I immediately set about making active preparations for my departure.

Singapore was my first destination; from thence I intended to sail north or south as I found most advisable; and to one of the most reputable merchants there I transferred a considerable sum of money to meet the expenses which I expected to incur. I found a fast-sailing schooner on the point of starting, and at once engaged a passage on board her. Wishing the Northcotes good-bye, and many other friends who warmly sympathised with me, I was the very next morning on board the schooner, and dropping down the Hoogly. Having now commenced the more interesting portion of my adventures, I must be more minute than I have hitherto been in my descriptions. While the schooner, the Nelly, is gliding down towards Diamond Harbour, I will describe her and her officers. She measured about one hundred and sixty tons, was low, with great breadth of beam, and very sharp bows, and a clean run aft. Her master, Captain Griffin, was a young man, not more than twenty-four or twenty-five, perhaps; strongly though slightly built, with a profusion of light crispy curling hair, and a complexion which would have been fair had it not been thoroughly tanned by the sun. He had polished manners, great primness, and was a thorough seaman. He had once been in the Royal Navy; but had left the service for some reason, which he did not explain to me, and was now engaged in the opium trade, or, in other words, he smuggled opium into China. At first I was much pleased with him; but when I came to be more thoroughly acquainted with him, I found that I could not approve of the principles which guided him, or many of the acts he committed without compunction. I have, however, seldom met any one who, at first sight, was more likely to win confidence and regard. I have frequently met people like him; and I consider them much more dangerous companions than men with inferior manners and education. His first officer was a dark, large-whiskered, tall man, with an expression of countenance not in any way prepossessing—he was called Mr Laffan. He was a bold seaman, and not without education. The second mate was a young man of very active and enterprising disposition, and who, I think, was formed for better things than to serve in an opium smuggler. There was an important officer on board who was called the gunner, though his duties were similar to those of a boatswain; he was of Portuguese descent, a native of Macao, though as dark as an Indian. He was especially placed over the Lascars, of whom we had twelve on board. The rest of the crew were Europeans, or of European parentage—mostly English—all picked men, and of tried courage: such qualities were necessary, for, in the prosecution of their lawless trade, they often had to fight their way through the Chinese junks sent to capture them. We were some time getting down the river, for the wind was too light to enable us to stem the tide, and we therefore had to anchor during each flood. It consequently took us five days before we got down to Diamond Harbour. Weighing at daylight the next morning, we got a little below the Silvertree, where we anchored. The next day we passed Kedgeree, and anchored in Saugur Roads; furled sails, and veered to forty fathoms. On the following day we passed the Torch, the floating light vessel, which is moored in the eastern channel of the tail of the Saugur sand, for the purpose of guiding vessels up the river during both monsoons. When we once more got into blue water, I felt that I had really commenced my undertaking. I am not going to copy out my log, and I must run quickly over the incidents of my voyage. In standing through the straits of Malacca, we sighted the beautiful island of Paulo Penang, or Prince of Wales’ Island, a British possession, on the coast of Tenasserim, a part of the Malay Peninsula. It is hilly and well wooded, and is considered very healthy. It is inhabited by a few British, and people from all parts of India, China, and the neighbouring islands. Nothing of importance occurred on our passage to Singapore. I found cruising in a clipper schooner very different work to sailing on board a steady-going old Indiaman; and had a constant source of amusement in the accounts of the wild adventures in which the master and his officers had been engaged, and their numberless narrow escapes from Chinese custom-house junks, Malay pirates, New Guinea cannibals, storms, rocks, fire and water.

I was surprised, when anchoring in Singapore Roads, to find myself before so large and handsome a town, remembering, as I did, how short a time had passed since its foundation by Sir Stamford Raffles. It stands on the banks of a salt-water creek, which has been dignified by the name of the Singapore River; one side contains the warehouses, offices, stores, etcetera, of the merchants and shopkeepers, with fine and extensive wharves; and on the same side are the native streets and bazaars. Opposite to it is an extensive plain, adorned by numerous elegant mansions; and beyond is the Kampong Glam and Malay town, with the residence of the Sultan of Jahore and his followers. From this chief the British Government purchased the island, with an agreement to pay him an annual stipend.

Beyond them, again, is an undulating country, backed by thickly-timbered hills, which add much to the beauty of the landscape. It may truly be called a town of palaces from the handsome appearance of its colonnaded buildings, and, still more justly, a city of all nations; for here are to be found representatives of every people under the sun engaged in commercial pursuits. The costumes of Europe, Arabia, Persia, all parts of India, China, Siam, and all the islands of the Archipelago, may be seen in the streets together, while their flags wave above the residences of their consuls, or at the mast-heads of the barks which crowd the harbour. Even at the time of which I speak, there were upwards of twenty thousand inhabitants, while in no place are so many flourishing merchants to be found. A few years ago this place was a mere swamp, with a few huts on it, inhabited by barbarians. It will be asked, What has worked this change? I reply, Commerce. Its position on a great highway of trade—a strong government, and protection to all comers, and perfect freedom to well-doers. Besides those attracted by trade, numbers take refuge here from all parts of the Archipelago, from the tyranny and misrule of their chiefs; and were other ports established by the English, they would, from similar causes, be peopled with equal rapidity.

The river near where we lay presented an animated scene, from the arrival and departure of native boats, with fruit, vegetables, and live stock, as well as from the numbers of neat sampans plying for hire, or attending upon the commanders of vessels; while at anchor were numbers of the Cochin-Chinese, Siamese, and Chinese junks, as well as the Bugis and other prahus from all the far-surrounding islands.

I went on shore as soon as we dropped our anchor, to endeavour to obtain information regarding the object of my search. I saw several merchants to whom I had letters, and they were all very anxious to aid me; but I could learn nothing, and therefore resolved to proceed to Macao, and to commence my inquiries from thence.

Once more at sea, away we flew over the light curling waves, thrown up by the fresh but favouring breeze. In ten days we came in sight of the Ladrone Islands, off Macao, at the entrance of the Tigris river, on which Canton is situated. The captain and crew were now on the alert to guard against surprise from any of their enemies, either from the pirates who take shelter among the islands I have named, or from the Chinese revenue cruisers—not that the latter are much feared. We ran into the harbour of Cap-sing-moon, and went alongside a large opium-receiving ship, into which we were to discharge our cargo. From this ship it would, I learned, be conveyed up to Canton in Chinese smuggling boats. These boats are well manned and armed; and if they cannot get away from the mandarin boats, the crews will often fight very desperately.

I, in the meantime, proceeded to Macao. This ancient colony of the Portuguese in China has a very picturesque appearance from the sea, and has received its name from the supposed resemblance of the peninsula on which it stands to a mallet, of which macao is the Portuguese name. The streets are narrow, dirty, and ill-paved, but the houses of the merchants are large and commodious. Besides the Portuguese and Chinese, there are a large number of English and also American residents. Of course I had but little time or inclination for visiting the objects which usually interest strangers. I managed, however, to take a glance at the Cave of Camoens, the poet of Portugal, where it is said he composed his immortal Lusiad. It is rather a pile of granite rocks than a cave; and the garden in which it is situated is full of shrubs and magnificent trees—a romantic spot, fit for a poet’s meditations.

After many inquiries, I found that the vessel in which my friends left Macao had been consigned to a Mr Reuben Noakes, an American merchant; and to him I accordingly went, in the hopes of gaining some information to guide me. His counting-house had not an attractive appearance; nor did I like the expression of countenance of two clerks who were busily writing in an outer room. When I asked for Mr Noakes, one of them pointed with the feather of his pen to a door before me, but did not get up. I accordingly knocked at the door, and was told to come in.

“Well, stranger, what’s your business?” was the question asked me by the occupant of the room, a tall lank man, with a cadaverous countenance. He was lolling back in an easy chair, with a cigar in his mouth, a jug and tumbler, containing some potent mixture, by his side, and account books and papers before him.

Wishing to be as concise as he was in his questions, I asked, without attempting to look for a chair, (he did not offer me one):—

“Were you the consignee of the Emu brig, which sailed from here last year, and has not since been heard of?”

“Well, if I was, and what then?” said he.

“I wish to know full particulars about her,” I replied.

“By what authority do you ask me?” he said, looking suspiciously from under his eyebrows.

“I had friends on board her, and wish to know what has become of them,” I answered.

“Oh, you do, do you? Well, I wish, stranger, I could tell you; good morning.”

I soon saw the sort of man with whom I had to deal.

“Now, to be frank with you, Mr Noakes, I have not come all the way from Calcutta to Macao to be put off with such an answer as you have given me,” I said, looking him full in the face. “I have determined to learn what has become of my friends; and if I find them I shall find the brig, or learn what has become of her; and at all events I will take care that you are not the loser.”

“I see that you are a young man of sense,” he remarked, looking up at me with one eye. “What is it you want to know about the Emu? But I guess, you smoke now?”

“No, I do not touch tobacco,” I answered. “But I wish to know if a Mrs Clayton, a little girl, and servant embarked on board her.”

“I’d have sold you a chest of fine cheroots, if you did,” he observed. “Yes, those people embarked on board her; and what then?”

“I wish to know who was her commander; what sort of a man he was; and what sort of a crew he had,” I replied.

“Oh, well, then, her master was one Stephen Spinks. He wasn’t a bad seaman, seeing he was raised for the shore; but he had a first-rate hand for a mate, an old salt, who knew a trick or two, I calculate; and had a crew of five whites—Yankees, Britishers, and Portuguese—and ten Lascars; so the brig wasn’t badly manned at all events. She sailed for a trading voyage, to touch wherever Spinks thought he could pick up a cargo, or do a bit of barter. There never was a better hand at that work than Spinks.”

When Mr Noakes had got thus far, it seemed to have occurred to him that it would be but civil to ask me to sit down; and by degrees he became more communicative than I at first expected. From the information I gained from him, and from other merchants of whom I made inquiries, I learned that Captain Stephen Spinks was a very respectable man in appearance and manner; and that Mrs Clayton, having met him, was induced to take a passage in his brig, just on the point of sailing. There were, however, some suspicious circumstances connected with the history of his first mate: stories were told of ships, on board which he served, being insured to large amounts and cast away; of his captain being found dead in his cabin; of a ship having caught fire from an inexplicable cause, and of bags of dollars unaccountably disappearing.

“I would not have allowed the fellow to have put foot on board any ship in which I was interested,” said Mr Randall, a merchant to whom I had a letter. “He was bad enough to corrupt a whole crew. Who knows what sort of fellows he had with him? Captain Spinks might have been very respectable, though not much of a seaman, and so may be Mr Noakes, though I know little about him, except that he can drive a hard bargain, and likes to get things done cheap. This made him engage that suspicious fellow, Kidd, who was ready to sail without wages—Richard Kidd was his name—an ominous one rather; and when I saw poor Mrs Clayton and your little sister on board, I so disliked the looks of the crew that I was much inclined to persuade her to wait for another ship.”

This account gave a fresh colouring to the matter. If Kidd was the character described, he might probably have run away with the Emu for the sake of the dollars on board, and have carried her into a Dutch or Spanish settlement, where he could have sold her.

This also gave a wider range to the field of my search. Had she been captured by pirates, I should have looked for my friends in their haunts in the Sooloo Archipelago, and on the coast of Borneo; now I should have to search from Java, among all the islands to the east, up to Luzon, in the north. I was resolved to leave no spot unvisited; and the circumstance of a brig like the Emu having been seen to the west of Borneo determined me on visiting the Dutch settlement first. I have not attempted to describe my feelings all this time. I felt that I was engaged in a sacred duty, and I was rather calm and braced up for the work than in any way excited. I held my object, distant though it might be, clearly in view, and nothing could turn me away from it. I do not think I could have persevered as I did had I been influenced by what is called enthusiasm or excitement.

Chapter Ten.

Having resolved to undertake a work, the first point to be considered is how it is to be performed. I therefore immediately made every inquiry in my power, and found a Dutch brig sailing direct for Batavia. My intention, on arriving there, was to prosecute my inquiries for the Emu, and then to continue my voyage to the eastward, on board any craft I could find.

When I paid my last visit to Mr Noakes, he winked his eye at me with a most knowing look, observing, “I guess you’ve got some little trading spec in hand, or you wouldn’t be running your nose into those outlandish places. Well, good-bye, young one, you’re a ’cute lad; and I hope you’ll turn a cent or so before you get home.”

The worldly trader could not believe that my sole object was to look for my sweet little sister. Wishing farewell to all my friends, I went on board the Cowlitz, Captain Van Deck. Both he and his crew spoke English; indeed, besides the Dutch, there were Englishmen or Americans, with the usual number of Malays to do the hard work.

The captain had his wife on board—his frow, as he called her; and Mrs Van Deck appeared to take no inconsiderable part in the government of the ship. She had her husband’s niece with her, a very pretty girl, whom she used to make attend on her like a servant; and there were two lady passengers, a mother and daughter, also Dutch, going to their family. So, as may be supposed, we had plenty of ladies to make tea in the cabin. Unfortunately none would agree whose duty it was to perform that office; and though Miss Van Deck, the captain’s niece, was ready enough to do it, her aunt would not let her; and so we ran a great risk of going without it altogether, till the captain volunteered in order to keep concord within the bulkhead. As the disputes were carried on in Dutch, I could only partly understand what was said; but the gestures of the speakers made me fully comprehend the whole matter; especially as the worthy master used to relieve his feelings with a running commentary in English, and sundry winks of the eye next to me, and shrugs of the shoulder, expressive of his resignation to his fate.

“My good frow is a very excellent woman,” he used to say. “We all have our tempers, and she has hers. It might be better—we none of us are perfect. I took her for better and for worse, and so—”

He never finished the sentence, but shrugged his shoulders; and if he was smoking, which he generally was when he spoke on this delicate subject, he blew out a double quantity of vapour. His was true philosophy: he was very fond of saying, “What we cannot cure, we must endure, and hope for better times.”

Although Captain Van Deck was a philosopher, he was not much of a seaman, nor was his personal courage of first-rate order. He was only perfectly confident when he had a coast he knew well on his weather beam; and then he was rather apt to boast of his knowledge of seamanship and navigation. Fortunately the first mate of the Cowlitz was a better seaman than the master, or she would not have been able to find her way from one port to another even as well as she did.

The second mate was an Englishman of a respectable family. He had run away to sea because he did not like learning or the discipline of school; but he acknowledged to me that he had more to learn, and was kept much more strictly, on board ship than on shore. His former ship had been cast away on the coast of Java; when, finding the Cowlitz, he had joined her, and had since remained in her.

I liked Adam Fairburn very much. He had certainly been wild, careless, and indifferent to religion; but adversity had sobered him, and allowed his thoughts to dwell on holy and high objects. The many misfortunes he had met with, he assured me, were, he felt, sent by a kind Providence for his benefit. Far from repining, he received them gratefully. I found his advice and counsel of great assistance; indeed, he was the only person on board whom I could truly consider as a companion.

I need not describe the rest of the crew; but there was a little personage on board who must not be forgotten. He went by the name of Ungka; and though he did not speak, as one looked at his intelligent countenance, and watched his expressive gestures, one could scarcely help believing that he could do so, if he was not afraid of being compelled to work. Ungka was in fact a baboon from the wilds of Sumatra. He had been caught young by a Malay lad, who sold him to Captain Van Deck. He was about two feet and a half high, and the span of his arms was four feet. His face was perfectly free from hair, except at the sides, where it grew like whiskers. It also rather projected over his forehead, but he had very little beard. His coat was jet black, as was the skin of his face. His hands and fingers were long, narrow, and tapering; and both feet and hands had great prehensile power, as he used to prove by the fearless way in which he swung himself from rope to rope. He used to walk about the deck with great steadiness, let the ship roll ever so much, though with rather a waddling gait, and with a quick step, sometimes with his arms hung down, but at others over his head, ready to seize a rope, and to swing himself up the rigging. His eyes were very close together, of a hazel colour, and with eye-lashes only on the upper lid. He had a nose, but a very little one; his mouth was large, and his ears small; but what he seemed most to pride himself in, was having no tail, or even the rudiment of one.

One of his chief amusements used to be attacking two other monkeys who had longer tails. He would watch his opportunity, and, catching hold of little Jacko’s tail, would haul him up the rigging after him at a great rate. Ungka would all the time keep the most perfect gravity of countenance, while poor little Jacko grinned, chattered, and twisted about in a vain endeavour to escape. The tormentor, at last, tired of what was very great fun to him and the spectators, but not at all so to the little monkey, would suddenly let him go, to the great risk of cracking his skull on deck. Ungka, having nothing which his brethren could seize in return, very well knew that they could not retaliate. At last they grew too wary for him, and then he set himself to work in the rather hopeless task of endeavouring to straighten the crisply curling tail of a Chinese pig, which was among our live stock. He always came to dinner, and sat in a chair with all due propriety, unless he saw something very tempting before him, when he could not always refrain from jumping across the table and seizing it. He was, however, well aware that he was acting wrongly; and one day, moved by the angry look of the captain, he went back and put the tempting fruit in the dish from which he had taken it. He had as great an objection to being made the subject of ridicule as have most human beings; and if any one laughed at his ludicrous actions at dinner, he would utter a hollow barking noise, looking up at them with a most serious expression till they had ceased, when he would quietly resume his dinner. He and I got on very well; but he was most attached to little Maria Van Deck, his constant playmate, as also to a young Malay, who brought him on board. He seemed to consider the captain a person worthy of confidence, and he would let no one else take him in their arms. He certainly had a great antipathy to the captain’s frow and the lady passengers. His general sleeping-place was in the main-top; but if the weather looked threatening, he would come down and take up his berth on a rug in my cabin. So much for poor little Ungka.

We had been some days at sea, delayed by light baffling winds. The captain began to grow impatient; his wife scolded him more than ever; and the lady passengers began to inquire when they were likely to see their homes, while I began to regret that I had not taken some more rapid means of conveyance. It now first occurred to me that it would have been better had I secured a small vessel to myself, so that I might at once sail in any direction I might deem advisable.

I was one evening walking the deck with the second mate, Adam Fairburn, when he stopped, and I saw him look earnestly ahead. He immediately took a telescope to watch the object which had attracted his attention.

“What is that you see?” I asked.

“Why it may be the curl of some wave, or a low shore, with some scattered trees on it, or a fleet of prahus; or it may be only fancy, for this uncertain light deceives one,” he replied. “However, I’ll go aloft and take a better look before I tell the master, and frighten him and the ladies out of their wits.”

Saying this he sprung into the rigging and ascended to the fore-topgallant mast-head. When he came down, I asked him what he had seen.

“A fleet of Malay craft, of some sort or other, there is no doubt of it,” he answered. “They may be honest traders; but they may be Illanon pirates from Sooloo, on the coast of Borneo, bound on some plundering expedition. The rascals often venture into the China seas, and sometimes right up the strait of Malacca, though they like best to skulk about their own coasts, and steal out on any craft passing that way. If there is a good breeze we need not fear them; but they are fellows not to be trifled with. I must tell the master.”

Captain Van Deck was seen hurrying from his cabin and ascending to the mast-head. His countenance on his return showed what he thought about the matter; and summoning his mates, he held earnest consultation with them. Fairburn was for standing boldly on and running past them in the night, keeping a look-out, to give them a warm reception should they come near us; but the Dutchman thought that the safest plan would be to keep altogether out of their way. As they were steering about south-west, our course was altered to south-east. We soon, however, perceived that we were seen and watched, for some of their prahus shortly tacked and stood in a direction to cut us off—so thought Captain Van Deck. On this his trepidation became excessive, not a little increased by the alarm expressed by his better half. He saw that the safest plan was to keep well to windward of the enemy; so he ordered the yards to be braced sharp up, and we stood away on a north-east course.

The breeze was fresh, and we might hope before morning, even should the prahus attempt to follow us, to run them out of sight; so Captain Van Deck lighted his pipe and betook himself to a bottle of his favourite schiedam. None of the officers were disposed, nor was I, as may be surmised, to turn in during the night, for the Sooloo pirates were not fellows to be trifled with. In those days they plundered every craft; and if they did not destroy their prisoners, they sold them into captivity, whence there was no hope of redemption. Since then, thanks to the enlightened plans of Sir James Brooke, aided by the British ships of war in those seas, their depredations have been somewhat lessened; but much must be done before their destructive power is completely destroyed, and the surrounding people can enjoy to the full the blessings of unrestricted commerce. The night was sufficiently light to enable us to see a considerable distance. Our captain walked the deck with an uneasy step, his night-glass constantly to his eye, and he declared that he could distinguish in the far distance the suspicious prahus, as they were endeavouring to beat up to capture us. The more he looked the more alarmed and agitated he became, till at last he appeared to lose all command over himself. With a groan he rushed down to console himself with a glass of his favourite schiedam. Taking the telescope which he had left on deck, I looked towards the spot where the Malay vessels were last seen. I looked for some time, but could make nothing out on the dark horizon. I then handed the glass to Fairburn.

“I begin to doubt whether the prahus are there at all,” I observed. “I trust they are conjured up by the skipper’s fears.”

His answer was a low laugh; but he, notwithstanding, swept the telescope carefully round the southern horizon.

“Whether the skipper’s fears conjured them up or not, I don’t know; but there they are, sure enough,” he quietly remarked, turning my hand in the proper direction. His practical eye had discovered what I had neglected, and as I now looked I saw what appeared a number of black spots floating on the water.

“If the wind holds good we may laugh at them,” he remarked; “but if it should chance to fall calm, the rascals would very soon be up with us.”

“But could we not fight?” I asked. “We have boarding-nettings, and plenty of hands, and muskets, and two guns; surely we might beat them off.”

“From what I have seen of the captain, he is not a fighting man,” answered Fairburn. “I trust the breeze will hold; but if not, we shall run a very great chance of having our throats cut by those fellows, if they do not think we shall make good slaves to their friends in Borneo.”

“You surely are not serious,” I remarked. “The captain would not yield without a struggle for life and liberty. But if he will not fight, we certainly have a right to make him; and I have no doubt the men will be ready enough to second us.”

Fairburn shook his head. “I fear not,” he said. “But here he comes again, with some Dutch courage in him, I suspect.”

The captain paced the deck all night in great anxiety; and I certainly do not think he could have used better means than he did to get away from the enemy. We knew that they must have been in force, and that they felt sure of being able to overcome a vessel of our size, which they were well able to distinguish to be only a merchantman. I cannot say that I felt afraid of the result, though I did not shut my eyes to it; but my hope of escaping was the strongest feeling.

The breeze rather freshened than fell as the morning came on; and as the brig had every stitch of canvas she could carry set on her, she went through the water far more rapidly than was her custom. The night was bright and clear, the stars shone forth from the sky with a brilliancy unknown in the northern latitudes, and ever and anon flashes of light burst from the ocean, and, as the ship ploughed her onward way, she left a golden thread in her wake. I could scarcely persuade myself that we were in any danger, or that we were no longer pursuing our voyage in the direction we wished to go.

The ladies remained below, trembling with fear; for the captain, for the sake of having some one more alarmed than himself, had taken care to tell them that a whole fleet of pirates were rowing as fast as they could after us. Little Maria Van Deck was the only one who behaved heroically. When I went below, I found her in the cabin, offering up prayers to Him who had power to protect us. I watched her as she knelt, the lights from the cabin-lamp falling on her upturned childish countenance. She was too much absorbed to observe me. At length she rose from her knees. She smiled when I spoke to her, and thanked her for setting so good an example.

“Oh, I have no fear,” she answered; “God is good, and will not allow us to be injured.”

Reminded of my duty by the little girl, I also knelt and prayed earnestly for our safety. Returning on deck, I waited till the rising sun should show us the position of our enemies, or assure us that we were beyond their reach. The first mate went aloft with the glass in his hand directly the first faint streak of day appeared in the sky, to look-out for the prahus the moment the rays of the sun, striking on their sails, should enable him to see them. The captain, meantime, paced the deck in a state of no little agitation. We all watched anxiously for the mate’s report, as the coming sun gradually lighted up the whole sky with a glow of brightness. Each instant it grew more intense, till all near objects could be clearly distinguished, but still the mate gave no announcement from his lofty perch. Had not the matter been too serious for laughter, I could have laughed heartily at the poor master’s ludicrous expression of countenance, so full was it of fear, doubt, and anxiety, as he turned up his eyes to the mast-head, to watch for any signal which might relieve his mind. The mate kept his glass sweeping round the southern horizon, till at last he seemed satisfied.

“Nothing in sight in any quarter,” he shouted from aloft.

“What! are you sure—nothing?” exclaimed the master, scarcely believing his senses. “Then we shall not this time have to dig yams for the blackamoors.” And he gave a grunt of satisfaction, so loud that I thought he had exploded, while he sank down on a gun, overcome by his feelings. He now became much braver than he had been all the night, and talked boldly of how we would have treated the pirates if they had dared to attack us. We, however, still continued standing to the northward. At last Fairburn, to whom he had been addressing himself, lost patience.

“Well, sir,” he exclaimed, “if we keep away, and make all sail after them, there is little doubt we shall fall in with them before long.”

This silenced the captain for the time; but he again broke out when he found himself in the cabin with the ladies, till he made them believe that he was a very brave man, except his wife, who knew him too well to be so deceived. All day we continued standing away from where the captain thought the pirates might be, and it was not till night that he was persuaded again to stand on his proper course.

I did not repine at the increased length of the voyage as much as might be expected; for my time was busily employed in studying the geography of the Archipelago, the productions of the islands, the habits and manners of the people, and more particularly the Malay language, which I knew, in order to obtain my object, it would be important for me to speak well. With so powerful a stimulus, aided by a Malay seaman on board, I acquired a fair knowledge of it with great rapidity. I also studied Dutch, which I knew I should also find useful.

Chapter Eleven.

The Cowlitz was once more on her course, with the wind nearly right aft. I guessed, however, from the observations I saw the captain attempting to take, and his more frequent attention to the chart, that he was somewhat out of his reckoning. That part of the China seas is tolerably free from shoals and reefs; but still there are some about midway between Cochin China and the islands of Luzon, Palawan, and Borneo, in the neighbourhood of which, after our flight from the pirates, we must clearly have been.

The navigation among coral reefs is very dangerous; because, as they rise like mountains of various heights from the depths of the ocean, and frequently do not appear above the surface, a ship may be among them, and having passed over some, may too late discover her danger, without the power of extricating herself. In fine weather, with a clear sky, they may, from the different colour of the water over them, be perceived at a distance; but at night, or with thick weather, their neighbourhood is only known by the noise of the sea dashing over them, or by the white crests of the breakers rising either ahead, upon either beam of the ship.

We continued running on all that night, without taking more than the usual precaution of keeping a look-out ahead. Towards the end of the morning watch, I came on deck to enjoy the freshness of the air, when, as I was looking over the side, I observed that the water, broad on the starboard bow, was of an unusually dark colour. I watched it attentively, when, turning round, and looking over the larboard quarter, I there perceived a similar appearance. I felt certain that it could arise but from one cause—either a sand-bank or a coral reef; for there was not a cloud in the sky to cast a shadow on the water. I called the attention of Fairburn to it, as he fortunately just then came on deck to relieve the first mate. He instantly sprang aloft; and, after taking a hurried glance all around, he ordered the cabin boy to call the captain, directing two men to station themselves at each fore-yard arm. The captain’s face exhibited no little consternation when he saw the position in which we were placed; but we could now do nothing except stand on, and keep our eyes about us.

“This is the consequence of not keeping a careful reckoning,” said Fairburn, as I stood beside him. “The poor master, afraid of a fancied danger, has managed to run us into a real one. However, if the weather holds good, I think we may yet do well.”

“I trust so,” I said. “I should think there can be little danger while we can see the reef as clearly as we now do.”

“Oh, you know, there is nothing a sailor hates so much as reefs and shoals,” he replied; “and with good reason. We may see the larger reefs, but there are some come up almost like the point of a needle, and if there is a ripple on the water, I defy the sharpest eye to make them out.” He was all this time looking sharply ahead, and urging the men stationed aloft to do the same.

We had frequently to alter our course to avoid the reefs which appeared ahead; and at last we seemed to be almost surrounded by them, as we threaded our course through a narrow channel, where we certainly had no business to be. Everybody was on deck looking out; for even the ladies were acquainted with our position, though the master took care to tell them that it was not his fault we had got into it. However, the sky was so bright, and the sea so calm and sparkling, that, as we glided slowly and calmly on, it was difficult to believe the real state of the case. In time, we even got accustomed to it; and when the steward came to summon us to breakfast, we went into the cuddy with our usual appetites not in the slightest degree blunted.

On my return, I went forward to look for Fairburn. “I think we must be pretty well clear by this time,” he observed. “The reefs off that island there, do not extend to any great distance.” He pointed, as he spoke, to a low little island which I had not before observed. It had a few trees on it, which seemed growing out of the water, and were clearly of recent growth. “It does not do, however, to be too certain in a hurry. Keep a sharp look-out there, my men,” he continued, hailing the people on the fore-yard. Scarcely had he spoken, when the breeze having freshened somewhat, and the brig going rapidly through the water, a tremendous blow was felt forward, which almost threw us from our feet, and her way was instantly stopped. The masts groaned and rocked as if they would have fallen, and the sails bulging out, fixed the vessel only faster on the pinnacle on which she had struck. Instantly, loud cries rose from many of the crew, the master pulled his hair, and puffed out four times more smoke than usual from the meerschaum he had in his mouth, while the ladies shrieked and cried with terror. Captain Van Deck did not seem to know what to do himself, or to order his crew to do; but Fairburn rushed here and there, calling the people together, and soon got the sails clewed up.

“What is to be done?” I asked.

“We must carry a kedge out astern, and try and haul her off; and if we succeed we must get a thrummed sail under her bows, and then pump out the water which will have got into her, for it will not do to stick here always.”

He had scarcely spoken, when the Dutch carpenter came from below with a face full of consternation.

“The ship will never move from this except to go to the bottom,” he exclaimed, as he heard the order given to get the kedge out. “We had better think of lowering the boat and saving our lives, for the water is rushing in like a cataract, and it will very soon be up to the decks.”

This was indeed disastrous information, and I soon found it to be too true, by going myself below to see the state of affairs. I quickly beat a retreat again on deck, where the ladies and all hands were now assembled. I must do the master the justice to say, that now the danger had actually occurred, he behaved far better than I could have expected. He certainly took things very phlegmatically. Calling the crew aft, he slowly made them a speech, telling them, that as there was no chance of the ship’s carrying them on farther, they must now take to the boats, and that he hoped they would all behave well. He then ordered the boats to be lowered, and the gangway ladder to be rigged, to enable the ladies to descend with ease. We had three boats—the long-boat, the jolly-boat, and a skiff. It was arranged that the captain should go in the long-boat, the first mate in the jolly-boat, and the second mate, whom I volunteered to accompany, in the skiff, which, though small, was a very seaworthy boat; and I preferred trusting myself to his seamanship. The captain and mates then chose the crew in the same way as is customary in forming a watch—namely, one officer selects a man, and then the next, and so on till the crew are disposed of. The ladies were, of course, taken into the long-boat, in which there were in all fourteen people, and eight in each of the other boats; and it was agreed that we should keep close together, that we might afford assistance to each other in case of necessity. Before embarking, we had to arrange a very important business, the selection of the articles we should take with us. Fairburn hurried on the people, and urged me to do the same, whispering in my ear, that any moment the vessel might slip off the reef, and that we might be engulfed before we were ready. The first thing we did was to get the ladies into the long-boat; and fortunately it was so calm that there was no difficulty in so doing, except that Mrs Van Deck insisted on not being parted from her husband.

“Wait a minute, my dear frow,” he shouted to her in return. “I must not desert my people till I have seen them in safety.”

We all agreed that no private property should be taken; but only the necessary water and provisions, clothing to shelter us from the weather, arms to defend ourselves, and charts and instruments to guide our course. Some time was required to select the articles, and during it I observed that several of the seamen were missing. I mentioned it to Fairburn.

“The fools!” he exclaimed. “They cannot resist the seaman’s curse—even at this moment they have gone to put an enemy into their mouths to steal away their wits. Come and help me, we must put a stop to it.”

Saying this, he rushed below, seizing an axe, in which I imitated him. Five of the men had broached a cask of rum, and were drinking from it as rapidly as they could, while two others were about to join them. Fairburn, on seeing this, instantly stove in the cask with his axe before they could prevent him, which they attempted to do; and there being three others near at hand, we destroyed them likewise.

“Madmen!” exclaimed the mate, “you would throw away your own lives, and risk those of your shipmates for the sake of a moment’s beastly enjoyment. On deck now, and attend to your duty. I will brain the first man who lingers.”

This determined conduct had the desired effect. The men had not drunk enough to become intoxicated, and his resolute manner at once awed them into obedience. Like sulky dogs driven away from a bone, they ascended on deck. Among the articles selected for the long-boat were three casks of water, some biscuits, salt beef, pork, hams, and cheese, tea and sugar, four jars of Hollands, some cooking utensils, a lantern, candles, tinder-box, and matches, a keg of gunpowder, some muskets and cutlasses, a chronometer, sextants, quadrants, a compass and necessary books of navigation; a topgallant studding-sail, boom, and fore-royal were also thrown into her for a mast and sail; a little canvas, tarpauling, and some deal boards were not forgotten; and the carpenter was enjoined to take such of his tools as might prove useful. One boat and the jolly-boat had their barrels likewise filled with water, and each of us was provided with our proportion of the same articles, except that we had fewer arms or blankets; and indeed so small was our stowage room, that we had to depend on the long-boat for some of our provisions. While all these preparations were going forward, my sensations were far from pleasant; for I could not help feeling that any moment the ship might slide off into deep water, and carry us all down with her. The captain thought differently, and nothing would hurry him. At length her stern perceptibly sunk, and this was the signal for a general rush towards the boats.

“Stay!” exclaimed the captain; “I tell you she will not go yet; and have I not a right to know? There is plenty of time to get quietly into the boats; you will be tired enough of them before you get out of them again. We must see that we have left nothing we may want behind.”

Fairburn volunteered for this duty, and one by one the men were told off into the other boats. They then examined everything that was in the boats; a few trifling articles were suggested as likely to prove useful; we searched for them, and then took our places in the skiff. As we pulled round under the bows, we could see, through the clear water, the immense hole which the coral had made through the stout planking; at the same time so securely hooked did she appear, that I doubt whether she could have sunk unless the coral point on which she hung had broken off, or the sea had knocked her to pieces.

In the hurry of getting into the boats at the last moment everybody had forgotten poor Ungka, who was seen leaning over the bows looking most imploringly and mournfully at us. Little Maria was the first to draw our attention to him.

“Oh! Ungka, poor Ungka! we must not go without him,” she exclaimed.

Her appeal was not to be resisted. We in the skiff, pulled back, and Ungka, seizing a rope which hung from the bowsprit, lowered himself into the boat, as we pulled under him. The other three monkeys, seeing where he had gone, attempted to follow his example. One was in so great a hurry that he fell into the water, but we picked him out; the other two reached us without wetting their jackets. Ungka looked at them very seriously, and seemed to think that they ought to have been left behind. At Maria’s solicitation, we sent Ungka into the long-boat, and while we were alongside the others leaped in after him. But to more serious matters. A short hour ago we were sailing securely on with a good ship under us—now we were homeless wanderers on the wide ocean, at a time of the year when storms might be expected, and in the neighbourhood of coasts inhabited by piratical tribes, who would show us but little mercy if we fell into their hands.

After pulling some little distance from the ship, we lay on our oars, of one accord, to give her a last parting glance, and we then all came close together to consult what course we should steer. The nearest port where we should find civilised people was the Spanish settlement of Manilla, in Luzon; but that was nearly to windward, and if we failed to make it we might be driven on some shore where we might find no means of escape. The next place was Singapore, which, though much farther off than Manilla, was to leeward, and from thence the Dutch people were certain of finding an easy means of return to Batavia.

Some of the crew wished to pull to the little island we had passed, in order to refit the boats, and by raising the gunwales, better to prepare them for encountering any rough seas; but Captain Van Deck did not think this necessary, and was, besides, unwilling to lose the advantage of the favourable breeze which was now blowing, and the smooth water which would render our voyage easy. We lost sight of the Cowlitz just as the sun sunk in the western wave. We were now gliding calmly over the starlit sea—the beautiful firmament above us shining with a splendour peculiar to the torrid zone. The boats sailed well, and kept company easily together.

“This is one of the vicissitudes to which a seaman is exposed, Mr Seaworth,” observed Adam Fairburn, as I sat by his side. “I have been so knocked about, and have met with so many, that to me it does not seem strange; but it must so to you.”

“Not so much as you may suppose,” I answered. “I have read so constantly of shipwrecks and disasters at sea, that I am scarcely surprised to find myself an actor in one of them. How soon shall we reach Singapore, do you think?”

“It may take us eight or ten days, or less if the wind holds fair; but even that seems a long time to sit in an open boat, and yet people have passed as many weeks, with a scarcity of food, and have been preserved.”

“I have no fear of the future, even did not the present calm weather almost preclude the sensation of fear; for I have been taught that God is everywhere, and has power to preserve us if He so will it.” I said this in answer to Fairburn’s remark.

“Do you know,” he observed, “that when I am at sea especially, as now, in an open boat, or in a small craft, or during the raging of a storm, that I always feel more clearly that I am in the hands of the Almighty, or perhaps, I might say, a sense of man’s perfect helplessness. We are too apt to forget this when roving on shore, in the full enjoyment of high health and spirits; yet, if we consider how small an injury is sufficient to make the strongest man as feeble as an infant, we should cease to boast of any strength which is in us.”

Such was the style of our conversation, as we sat side by side hour by hour, in the boat. I gave Fairburn an outline of my history, and he in return related to me his own adventures, which were romantic in the extreme; indeed, since he came to sea, not a week had passed away without affording him matters worthy of note.

We had run on some hours, when, as the skiff was in the wake of the long-boat, we observed that the people in her were, by their movements, in a great state of alarm. Some were hard at work baling, while the ladies were turning round as if imploring our help. We instantly got out our oars, and pulled up to her as fast as we could. We found that she was leaking very much, from having been long out of the water, and that it required the constant labours of the crew to keep her free. As the jolly-boat and skiff were already as full as was safe for them, we could do nothing to assist our consort, though we would have run every risk rather than see them perish, yet it was utterly impossible to take them on board with the slightest hope of saving our lives, should any bad weather come on. While we were almost in despair what to do, one of the men, whose duty it was to keep a look-out, declared that he saw land ahead. We all turned our eyes in the same direction, and there, sure enough, was a grove of trees just rising out of the water. This raised our spirits, and enabled the crew of the long-boat to renew their exertions. We ran on, when by degrees the stems of the trees appeared, and we saw before us a small but thickly-wooded island. The breeze had freshened up, and though the sea was tolerably smooth, a heavy surf was breaking along the whole northern coast. To the eastward, a reef extended a considerable way; so we stood more to the west, and hauled round the island, in the hopes of finding a spot on which we could land. After sailing along for a mile, we observed a yellow sand beach in a little bay, free from rocks, where the boats might be hauled up free from danger. We joyfully entered it, and scarcely had our keels touched the shore, than the crews leapt out, rejoicing at the feeling that they were at liberty, even although it was on a desert island. A tent was first made with our boats’ sails, by the aid of boughs, for the ladies, and we then set to work to repair the long-boat. The carpenter pronounced some of the planks so rotten and worm-eaten, as to make it surprising that she had not at once gone to the bottom, and he was afraid of doing anything to them lest he should make matters worse. Our only means, therefore, of stopping the leaks, was to nail some canvas we fortunately had with us over the bottom of the boat; having first carefully inserted some oakum between the planks, and rubbed them over with tallow.

Everybody was busily employed: some were drying the bread, which had got wet by being carelessly thrown into the bottom of the boat; others were gathering oysters, of which a large number were found; and the largest number were scouring the island in search of water, lest our present stock should fall short; while little Maria Van Deck was amusing herself by taking care of poor Ungka, who appeared fully to comprehend the nature of our disaster. A chain had been fastened to him to prevent his escaping when we landed, though he seemed to have no inclination to leave his human companions; but no sooner did the other little fellows find themselves on shore, than off they set towards the nearest trees, and leaped and frolicked about in the full enjoyment of unrestrained liberty. Off they went, springing up from bough to bough; and when any one approached, they redoubled their exertions, showing clearly that they did not intend again to trust themselves to the dangers of the deep.

To make the boats more seaworthy, we formed bulwarks of canvas all the way round them, and converted the fore-royal into a lug and a jib for the long-boat. We then again launched them; and as they floated securely in the little bay, we rejoiced to find that none of them leaked sufficiently to cause uneasiness.

Our work being over, we assembled to take our last meal on shore; and, as we sat round the fire we had lighted to dress our provisions, we looked more like a picnic party than a set of shipwrecked people. The ladies had recovered their spirits, and Mrs Van Deck presided at the feast with becoming dignity. The captain then made the people a speech. He told them that they had behaved very well, and that he hoped they would continue to do so; and drawing the boats to shore, we finished loading them, and stepping in, once more continued our voyage.

Chapter Twelve.

The breeze held favourable, though lighter than we required it; and the setting sun gave every indication, as we thought, of a continuance of the fine weather. The long-boat led the way, and the other two boats were stationed on either quarter; and, as the stars shone brightly, we had no difficulty in steering our course, while we should have been able to distinguish any coral reefs which might have appeared. We thus ran on all night, at the rate of from three to four knots an hour. Two people kept watch at a time, while the rest slept—one steered while the other looked out. I relieved Fairburn at the helm; for I had now gained so much practical experience in seamanship, that he had more confidence in me than in the crew, some of whom were careless about keeping the proper course. The boatswain had the first watch, Fairburn had the middle, and I was to take the morning one. The first passed away as I have described. Soon after Fairburn took the helm, I awoke, and felt very little inclination to go to sleep again; indeed the very snoring of the boatswain, who was a Dutchman of the stoutest build, and my near proximity to him, contributed much to drive sleep from my eyelids.

“I have been thinking, Fairburn,” said I, “that I will no longer trust to the chance means of getting about from place to place but, as soon as we reach a port, I propose to look-out for some small fast-sailing craft, which I shall arm well for self-defence, and then I shall be independent. What do you think of my plan?”

“I like it much,” he replied. “You must get a good hand as a master, who knows these seas; or do you propose to go master yourself?”

“I am not so conceited with my seamanship as to trust entirely to myself,” I answered. “The idea has occurred to me, that you might like to go as master, and I am sure you would make a good one.”

“Nothing I should like better in the world,” he exclaimed in a tone of delight. “I assure you that I am most grateful to you for thinking of me. The life I have often had to lead under inferiors, often tyrannical, rude, and uneducated, has been very irksome, and has at times nearly driven me to desperation; but with you I shall have all the pleasures of a roving life, without any of the drawbacks I so much hate.”

“Well, then, it is settled, Fairburn,” I said, equally pleased with him. “We will not lose an instant, when we get into port, in looking after a vessel, and picking up a good crew.” So we went on, hour after hour, talking on the subject till the watch was worn out, and daylight began to appear.

“We must get into port first, however, on the old principle of catching a hare before cooking it,” he remarked, laughing.

A hail from the long-boat interrupted us. We were some little way astern, and we saw her lower her sail, the jolly-boat doing the same. We stood on till we got up to her.

“Down with your canvas—down!” exclaimed the captain vehemently—“Don’t you see that ahead?”

We had been quietly following the long-boat, and had not looked beyond her. We now did so, and by the uncertain light of the coming dawn, we could see the dark sails of several large prahus standing directly across our course from the eastward. Had we been a little farther advanced, we should have been directly under their stems. If they were pirates, our position was perilous in the extreme. The captain proposed that we should instantly put about, and pull away from them to the northward and east; but then it was argued that the moment the sun got up the flashing of our oar-blades in the water would inevitably betray us, and that our best mode of proceeding was to be perfectly quiet, so that they might pass without perceiving us. The last proposal was carried, Fairburn, whose opinion was always of weight, voting for it. The oars were accordingly laid in, and we all crouched down at the bottom of the boats, no one’s head being allowed to appear above the gunwales. We hoped thus, if the Malays should see the boats, that they would fancy they were without occupants, and would not think it worth their while to go out of their way to examine them. The canvas of the bulwark, at the bow, was lifted a little to enable one person to look through, in order to watch the proceedings of the prahus. Our preparations were made before it was quite light; and now came the most trying time, when the sun, as he rose from the water, should first shed his rays across its surface. That is the period when seamen of every nation are more particularly accustomed to take a steady scrutinising glance round the horizon, to see what ships or land may be in sight. We could observe the sails of the prahus gliding by to the westward like silent phantoms in the cold pale light of the morning. We were to the eastward of the greater part of the fleet, and we began to hope that all might pass us, when Fairburn and I simultaneously perceived three others, more to the north than the rest, and directly to the eastward of us. Being thus more to windward than the rest, they came down rapidly towards us.

“What shall we do now?” I asked of Fairburn. “If we stay where we are, they will scarcely miss us. If we pull on, we shall be directly to leeward of them, and they will certainly see us, and we cannot escape them.”

“To own the truth, I do not see that we have a chance of escape,” he whispered. “In attempting to pull away out of their course to the northward, we shall certainly be observed. We must make up our minds to the worst.”

“What do you think that will be?” I asked.

“If they grant us our lives—abject slavery,” he answered, with a groan. “If we could fight first, I should not so much mind; but to be picked up by those rascals without a struggle, as a worm is picked up by a bird, is very trying.”

“But don’t you think we might master one of the prahus, and escape in her?” I asked.

“A brave thought; but one, I am afraid, our captain is not a man to execute,” was his reply. “I am thinking about the poor women. We may one of these days find means of escaping out of the hands of these villains; but they never can.”

“Indeed I can feel for them,” I said, thinking of the fate of my own sister.

“Well, we will try if we can stir the captain up to adopt your plan,” he exclaimed, after a minute’s silence. “We have arms enough, and we will throw ourselves altogether on board the first vessel which comes up. If we take her by surprise, we shall have a greater chance of success.”

“I will back you up,” I said. “I am sure all hands here will join us.”

“Yes, yes,” said the men; “we will fight before we yield.”

And to show that they were in earnest, they set to work to examine the arms we had in the boat. We then hailed Captain Van Deck, and told him what we proposed doing.

“It would be madness,” he answered. “We should not have a chance of success, and we should all be knocked on the head and thrown into the sea together.”

“Fight! fight! Who is talking about fighting?” shrieked Mrs Van Deck. “We can’t fight, and we won’t fight. We will ask the pirates, or whatever the black gentlemen may be, to be civil; and I am sure that they are more likely to be so if we are submissive, than if we were to try and turn them out of their vessels, which we could not do.”

I must own, now I come to reflect calmly on the subject, that there was some wisdom in Mrs Van Deck’s observations. As a rule, it is folly to threaten unless we can perform, or to fight unless one has a fair chance of success. Our chance of success was certainly very small; but still I could not help thinking we should have some, especially if we could get on board one of the afterward vessels; and anything was better than the slavery to which we should be doomed.

On came the prahus. The southern division had not seen us, and had already got to the westward of us; but the northern line was approaching, and would pass most dangerously near where we were—perhaps a little to the south. We almost held our breaths with anxiety. A slight change of wind might make them alter their course rather more away from us; but that was scarcely to be expected. Our glasses now showed us clearly what sort of vessels were in our neighbourhood, and made every shadow of doubt as to their character vanish completely. Their threatening and ominous aspect was increased, from their dark sails appearing against the glowing mass of light, which covered the whole eastern part of the sky from the zenith, growing still more intense towards the horizon, whence we expected the sun every instant to appear. The vessels we now saw were of considerable size, capable of carrying some hundred and fifty men or more. The lower part was built of solid wood-planks and timbers, like the vessels of European nations, but the upper works and decks were chiefly of bamboo, ingeniously fastened together. The bows were very sharp, the beam was great, and in length they exceeded ninety feet. The after part had a cabin or poop deck; and a raised deck, or platform, ran right fore and aft, for the purpose of affording standing room to the fighting men, of whom Fairburn told me we should find some forty or fifty on board. The platform was narrower than the beam, except forward, where it expanded to the full width, and where there was a strong bulkhead, with a port in it, through which a long brass gun was run. A sort of gallery extended all round the sides, like the nettings of a ship, in which sat the rowers, who were slaves, and not expected to fight unless in extreme cases. The vessel had from forty to fifty oars in two tiers, with two men to each oar. They had two triangle or sheer masts; these sheers were composed of two long poles. The heels of the two foremost were fitted in a pair of bits in the deck, through which ran a piece of horizontal timber, on which they worked; so that they could be raised or depressed at pleasure. The after pole was shorter than the others, and served as a prop to them. When the pirates intend to board an enemy, they allow this mast to fall over the bows, and it serves them as a ladder to climb on to her decks. They were steered in a curious way, by two broad-bladed oars running through the counter at either quarter. A broad platform extended over the counter, low down abaft the raised poop. Besides the long gun I have described, the larger vessels had a similar one run through the bulkhead of the cabin aft, besides numerous large swivels, four or more on a side, of various calibre, mounted in solid uprights, secured about the sides and upper works. On the stanchions supporting the platform were hung long matchlocks, fire-arms of various sorts, with spears and swords. These swivel guns are called lelahs, and are generally of brass. The klewang is a sort of hanger, or short sword. Their most formidable and favourite weapon is the kriss—a short dagger of a serpentine form. Each vessel had a square red flag at its foremast head, and a long pennant aft. The Illanon pirates wear a large sword, with a handle to be grasped by two hands. They dress, when going into battle, with chain, and sometimes plate armour, which gives them a very romantic appearance. The chain armour is made of wire, and though it will resist the thrust of a kriss, it will not turn a musket bail.

I never in my life passed a more anxious time. “See, they are keeping away,” exclaimed Fairburn, who had been attentively watching the pirates. “They will pass nearly a mile from us, and we may escape.”

Scarcely had he uttered the words, than the sun rose with full radiance from the water, shedding a mass of glittering light across the surface, lighting up the sails and hulls of the southern division, and, as we felt conscious, making us far more conspicuous than before to the approaching enemy. For a few minutes we had hopes that we had escaped observation; but the uncertainty did not long continue. The whole line of prahus were seen to haul their wind, and to stand directly for us. As they approached, we could see the warriors clustering on the platforms, brandishing their spears and matchlocks, while the lelahs were pointed at us. All hope of successful resistance was now gone. They evidently mistrusted us, and perhaps expected that we were the boats of some man-of-war sent to intercept them. Even Fairburn acknowledged that the slightest show of resistance would now seal our fate.

“We must give up our idea of an independent cruise round these seas,” I remarked to him. “My sweet little sister!—I think of her captivity the most, if captive she is.”

“Never despair,” he answered. “Depend on it, all turns out the best in the end; and what we most try to avoid is often the very thing to bring us what we require.”

“I will try to adopt your philosophy,” I replied. “But are the pirates going to fire on us, or give us their stems?”

“We will escape the latter treatment, at all events,” he exclaimed. “Out oars, my men, and pull boldly up to them, as if we were glad to see them—it is our last chance. The people in the other boats will follow our example.”

We fortunately had a Malay with us; and we told him to sing out that we were friends that were shipwrecked, and would pay those well who placed us in safety. This arrangement was made as we pulled towards the headmost prahu. It had the effect of stopping the pirates from firing, though the warriors still kept their hostile attitudes. While we were advancing, the long-boat and jolly-boat kept back, which further convinced the Malays that we had no hostile intention. The breeze being fortunately light, we easily pulled up under the counter, on to which we hooked, when Fairburn and I, followed by the Malay interpreter, climbed up on board. No one attempted to injure or stop us; but a man, whom we recognised as the chief or captain by the respect the rest paid him, beckoned us towards him. We had instructed the interpreter what to say, and he told the story well. He informed the chief, who was keenly eyeing us all the time, that our vessel had sunk, with all our property on board; that we had been some days at sea trying to reach a port where we could find some of our countrymen, and that we would pay him well if he took us there. He looked incredulous, and told our Malay that he doubted our friends paying so much for us as he could pay himself by selling us, which he intended to do. At a signal from him, the pirates, who were closely pressing us round with sharp krisses in their hands, their bright eyes glittering maliciously, seized us by the arms, which they securely bound with ropes, so that we were completely at the mercy of any one who might choose to run his weapon into our breasts. We felt, indeed, that they were only prevented from doing so by recollecting our marketable value.

Meantime the long-boat and jolly-boat were each taken possession of by different prahus, the former being very nearly run down by two of the pirate vessels, in their eagerness to get hold of her, she being considered the most valuable prize, from having the women and the largest number of people in board. What the Malays did to our companions in misfortune I cannot say. We heard loud shrieks and cries when they were first captured; but I suspect they arose from Mrs Van Deck and her female friends, at sight of the ferocious-looking beings among whom they found themselves. We saw no more of them; for the pirates, dropping our boats astern, made sail to join the remainder of the fleet.

Chapter Thirteen.

When the chief had done questioning us, we were taken below, and placed under the platform I have described, with a guard to watch us, though there was no possibility of our escaping. The Malay was, however, kept on deck, for the purpose, we concluded, of being further interrogated. No further attention was paid to us, and the pirates seemed to consider that we were totally beneath their notice. Towards the evening a little boiled maize was handed us by our guards, as they were aware that without food we should soon become of no value to them. For the same reason, they gave us a little dirty water to drink; and so thirsty were we, that, foul as it was, we were grateful for it, though we remembered that it was a piece of unnecessary cruelty, as we had provisions and an abundance of water in our own boats.

My greatest consolation was in the society of Fairburn, for we were allowed to sit down on the deck close together, and to converse without interruption—not that at first we could bring ourselves to talk much, for our spirits were too depressed at our change of fortune. The rest of the crew were in still worse spirits, and sat brooding over their fate in total silence.

“Well, Fairburn,” I at last exclaimed, with a sigh, “our prospects seem bad enough now, at all events.”

“Oh, they might have been worse,” he answered, smiling in spite of our situation. “You know the gentlemen might have cut our throats, or made us walk the plank, or stripped us of our clothes, or lashed us to different parts of the vessel apart from each other, or they might have amused themselves by beating us, or we might have been sent to work at the oars. Then, perhaps, our Malay is persuading the chief that he will make more of us by ransoming us, and, as we are still alive, we may find a chance of escaping. Oh, depend upon it, things might be much worse than they are; and we should be grateful.”

“I like your philosophy; but it is difficult to follow,” I observed.

“No, not at all,” he replied. “Only get accustomed to believe that everything is ordered for the best, and you will find it very easy. We cannot tell what misfortunes we may have escaped by the adventure which has befallen us. We should always compare our present state with what it might have been under still more adverse circumstances, not with what we wish it to have been.”

“Then you mean to say, that if we had remained in the boats, some greater misfortune might have happened to us?” said I.

“Exactly so,” he answered. “The boats might have sprung leaks, and have gone down, or might have run on some coral bank in the night, and have been lost; or a storm might have arisen and overwhelmed them, or some other casualties might have occurred. My firm belief is that God is everywhere, he orders everything for the best. We cannot too often repeat this for we may even forget the greatest truths at times when they are most needed. If we could but always remember this one, we should be saved the guilt of much impious repining and despondency.”

“True; true; I was almost forgetting this,” I exclaimed. “Thanks, Fairburn, for reminding me.”

I can assure my young friends that the perfect confidence I felt in God’s kind providence enabled me to bear up wonderfully against the misfortunes which had overtaken me; and I am sure that, in similar cases, if they put their trust in God, He will equally support them.

While we had been speaking I had observed a young Malay lad pass constantly, and put his head in to look at us. There appeared to be a look of peculiar intelligence on his countenance, and as if he wished to draw our attention to himself. When he came again, I pointed him out to Fairburn, whose back had been towards him. He looked at him attentively. The lad, however, did not attempt to speak; and when he saw that no one was observing him, he put his finger to his lips, the universal sign all over the world of imposing silence.

“What can he mean?” I asked of Fairburn, when the lad had again disappeared.

“I think I recollect his features—I must have met him somewhere,” he said. “Oh! now I know. He must be a lad whose life I once saved from a party of savages on the coast of New Guinea. He belonged to a small trading vessel from Ceram, or one of the neighbouring islands, which are accustomed to visit that coast to barter fire-arms, calico, and ironwork, for slaves, nutmegs, trepang, tortoise-shell, and edible birds’ nests. She had been driven out of her course by a gale, and found herself on a part of the coast with which no one on board was acquainted. Before she could make good her retreat, she was perceived by some of the inhabitants. The inhabitants of New Guinea are called Papuans. They are negroes, with very ugly features, and are composed of two races—the hill and the coast Papuans; the latter being very fierce and barbarous, and keeping the former in subjection. The people of whom I am now particularly speaking are said to be cannibals. They possess a number of small vessels, which they send out on piratical excursions to a very considerable distance from their homes. Their mode of warfare is rude in the extreme, their weapons consisting only of bows, arrows, and spears. They are said to devour the prisoners they make during these excursions. They may do so sometimes but I think it more probable that they preserve their lives to sell them as slaves. Well, as soon as the strange prahu was seen, a number of these war-boats put out of a harbour, the entrance of which was concealed by trees, and, before she could escape, surrounded her. The Malays fought bravely, but they were not prepared for war, and after several of their number were killed they were overpowered. I, at that time, was serving on board a whaler, which had put into a bay near where this took place. I was away in one of the hosts, when, rounding a point, I saw what was going forward. The Papuans, having rifled the vessel, and taken all the people out of her, set her on fire, and were making the best of their way to the shore. Having heard of the barbarities they practise, and my boat’s crew being well armed, and having a gun in the bows of the boat, I determined to rescue some of the victims. My men gave way with a will, and we dashed after the pirates. They had had experience of the effects of our fire-arms and when they saw us in chase they suspected our intentions, and did their utmost to reach the shore. All escaped except two. We sent a shot through the bows of the first, and the people on board, finding her sinking, leaped into the water, and endeavoured to escape by swimming; the other we ran alongside. The crew fought very bravely. We saw three prisoners among them. Before we could prevent them, they cut the throats of two of the unhappy men. One of their chiefs was going to treat the third, a young lad, in the same way, when I shot the rascal dead. The rest of the people then jumped overboard and swam on shore.

“If there were any prisoners on board the vessel which sunk, they must have gone down in her, for we could find none, and they would certainly have swam towards us had their hands been free. It afterwards struck me that I had no right to interfere as I did. I certainly caused of great loss of life, and the preservation of the lad was the only result. However, I had no time for consideration, and could not help it; indeed, I should probably act exactly in the same way if I were placed in a similar situation again. The lad was very grateful, and became very much attached to me. I took him on board the whaler, and he very soon got into our ways; but as we were bound to the southward, I was afraid the cold would kill him, accustomed as he was to a torrid zone, so put him on board a vessel we fell in with, sailing to Borneo, to which country I understood he belonged. I managed to explain to him, with some difficulty, my reasons for parting with him. When he comprehended them, he appeared very grateful, and shed many tears as he went over the side. I certainly never expected to see him again.”

“If, as I think, you did rightly, by attempting to save the lives of some fellow-creatures, from the hands of cannibals, you see you are likely to benefit by the deed; for I have no doubt that this young lad will do his best to be of service to us. He tries to show us his good wishes,” I said.

“I am sure he will. I know that I intended to do right when I saved his life,” remarked Fairburn.

He then continued, after a long silence: “I wonder how it is God allows cannibals and suchlike savages to exist. Does he punish them as he would us if we committed the like acts, do you think?”

“I have been taught to think that we ought not to attempt to account for many of the divine ordinances, otherwise than by believing that they are a part of one great and beneficent system. As God is just, we cannot suppose that he would consider ignorant savages equally guilty with educated men, who know and disobey his laws. I have an idea that savages exist to employ the energies of Christian men in converting them to the truth, and civilising them. We have the poor to feed and clothe, the ignorant to educate, the turbulent to discipline: why should we not believe that, situated as Great Britain is, with more extensive influence than any other nation on the earth, she has the duty committed to her of civilising the numberless savage tribes with whom her commerce brings her in contact?”

Night came on, and we began to suffer from the pangs of hunger, but more especially from thirst, and our barbarous captors turned a deaf ear to all our petitions for a little water. At last, hopeless of relief, we stretched ourselves on the deck, in the expectation of recruiting our strength by sleep. We, at all events, were better off than the slaves in the hold of a slave-vessel, for they have not room to stretch their legs, or to rest their weary backs. I had managed to fall asleep, when I was awoke by a voice saying, “Eh; glad me see massa. Want drink?” I guessed it was that of Hassan, the young Malay. I awoke Fairburn, who sat up. The lad took his hand, and kissed it over and over again, but was afraid of speaking. He then showed us that he had brought us a jug of water, that we afterwards found he had taken from our own stock in the boat. He also brought a pannikin to drink from. We passed it round to our companions, and when we had exhausted our supply, he took away the jar with the same caution and silence as before. Here, against all probability, was a friend who might be useful to us now, and ultimately might serve us greatly.

Somewhere towards the evening of the next day we found, by the noises around us, that we were in the middle of the fleet, which had formed one compact mass. Gongs were struck as signals, arms were clashed, and the chiefs were continually calling to each other, as if holding consultation as to some important proceeding. Some time after dark, we could feel, from the perfect calmness, and the want of that heaving motion which is nearly always experienced at sea, that we had entered a deep bay, or a gulf, or the mouth of some large river. We glided noiselessly on for some time, the only sound heard being that of the oars as they dipped into the water, till the anchors were let go and the vessels remained stationary.

I asked Fairburn what he thought of the proceedings of our captors.

“I think, from the silent way in which they go on, that they must be on one of their kidnapping expeditions,” he answered. “At first I thought they were approaching their homes, and they might be Bornean pirates from the west coast; but I have now no doubt that they are Illanons from Sooloo. They more nearly answer the descriptions I have had of the latter; but, as you know, my cruising has been more to the south and to the eastward, so that I have not fallen in with them.”

All night long we lay in perfect silence. I contrived to get my head out a little way from under the platform, at the risk of a blow from a kriss; but I wanted fresh air, and to see what sort of a place we had brought up at. Of fresh air I got but little, though I discovered that we were in a small bay, closely surrounded by lofty trees, which completely concealed us, except from any one passing directly in front of it. We were evidently in ambush for some purpose or other, probably for the object at which Fairburn surmised.

We were visited during the night by young Hassan, he brought us water and food. Fairburn tried to learn from him where we were, and what was going to happen but, putting his finger to his mouth, he intimated that he was afraid of speaking, and hurried off. We remained, unable to sleep, in anxious expectation of daylight. At early dawn every one was astir, though cautious as before of making any noise. The anchors were got up, and the warps which had secured the vessels to the trees were cast off, and we glided out of the bay.

The pirates were so engaged in the work they were about, that they did not watch us as narrowly as before, and we were, therefore, able to creep out from under the platform, and, by climbing up the stanchions, to look about us. We were pulling up a broad stream, bounded on either side by dark forests, the trees of which grew down to the very edge, their boughs overhanging the stream, while their shadows were reflected with peculiar distinctness in it. Behind arose ranges of lofty mountains, whose summits were lost in the gloom of that early hour. The trees were alive with monkeys and squirrels; and birds of gaudy plumage flitted about in every direction on the wing, apparently to take a look at the strangers. Alligators were enjoying their morning swim, and, disturbed by our approach, they plunged under the water to escape from our keels. Here and there in the forest were open patches, where ruined huts showed that villages had been once destroyed by some incursion like the present, or by the attacks of hostile tribes of the Dyaks, eager to fill their head-houses with the heads of the conquered.

At last, rounding a point, we came suddenly on a large Dyak village. Treachery had been at work. The boom, which should have been across the river to prevent surprise, was not secured, and was easily driven aside and passed. Just at that moment the rays of the rising sun first struck the topmost peaks of the surrounding mountains, casting on them a pink hue, and making the scene below appear of a yet darker tinge. The town consisted of some thirty or more large houses raised on piles, and each capable of holding several families, perhaps altogether amounting to two hundred people. On either side of the town, on slight eminences, were two forts surrounded by a strong stockade—the upper part surmounted by a sort of chevaux de frise of split bamboos. The whole town was also surrounded by a stockade. On the walls of the fort were several lelahs, or brass swivel guns, of native manufacture. Outside the stockade were groves of cocoa-nut trees, and patches of open ground for the cultivation of rice, yams, and sago. The inhabitants were still apparently buried in profound repose, unsuspicious of coming evil. No one was stirring—not a sound was heard.

We dashed on at a rapid rate; and I had scarce time to observe the scene I have described. The Malays ran the sharp bows of their shallow prahus on to the shore—the triangle masts were instantly lowered, and formed bridges on to the banks, and, in some places, to the very walls of the forts. Before the alarm was given they were swarming with savage warriors, who, kriss and assegai in hand, rushed into the town, and clambered into the forts and houses. Those who resisted were slaughtered without mercy—the young people and children were bound with cords, and were given over to a band who followed the warriors on purpose to take charge of the prisoners. When they had secured as many prisoners as their vessels could carry, they no longer gave quarter to any they met, but wantonly destroyed them. The remainder of the inhabitants escaped to the woods, where the Malays could not follow them.

While the battle was raging at its height, the attention of the Malays on board was so completely drawn from us, that it struck me we might be able to make our way along the mast on to the shore, and then concealing ourselves in the woods, wait till the expedition had sailed. I thought that we might then get away to Singapore in a Dyak vessel, or a Chinese trader, many of which I had heard visited the coast. Fairburn, however, was of opinion that the attempt would be worse than futile. In the first place, we would be inevitably seen by the Malays, and should be very likely fired at and killed; or, if brought back alive, treated with far greater harshness than before. The Dyaks too, he pointed out, were worse savages than the Malays; and, irritated by their defeat, they would not stop to consider whether we were the cause of it, but for the sake of our heads alone, would murder us without compunction. All hope, therefore, of escape was for the present abandoned.

The pirates then set fire to the houses, which being built of bamboo, and thatched with palm-leaves, burnt like tinder. Having accomplished their work of destruction to their entire satisfaction, with little loss to themselves, they shoved their prahus into the stream, and proceeded as fast as they could towards the sea. The captives, on being brought on board, were placed under the platform close to us, very much to our additional inconvenience.

In appearance they were far from an attractive race. They were of a copper colour, with small eyes, black and piercing, mouths large, thick lips, and teeth filed into points, and blackened by their custom of chewing the betel-nut. The noses of some of the men were almost aquiline; but generally they were rather inclined to be flat. Their heads were well formed, and might be almost called intellectual; their hair was slightly shaven in front, and all thrown to the back of the head. They were of the middle height, very strongly and well built, and with limbs admirably proportioned. They were most remarkable for the number of rings they wore in their ears, those of higher rank having no less than fifteen, which weighed the lobe down almost to the shoulders. Their dress consisted of a cloth round the waist, which hung down in front, and some had on a sort of skin waistcoat, and a cloak over the shoulders.

The women had petticoats of native cloth fastened above the hips. Their hair was fine and black, and fell down in profusion behind their backs. Some of them, indeed, might be called pretty. The greater number of these people had a frank and pleasing expression of countenance and we since have good reason to know that they can be easily civilised. Their arms were brought on board as trophies. They consisted of the blow-pipe, (the sumpitan); it is about eight feet long, and from it they eject small arrows, poisoned with the juice of the upas, chiefly for killing birds. They had also long sharp knives called parangs, spears, and shields, in addition to the fire-arms, which they procure where they can find them.

Reaching the mouth of the river without interruption, we stood out to sea.

Chapter Fourteen.

The prahus were now so deeply laden that the Illanons were anxious to return as fast as possible to their own country. They kept a good offing from the shore to avoid molestation from any of their brethren, who might be tempted, by guessing the nature of their freight, to sally out and pick off any stragglers. The truth is, that the whole of this magnificent archipelago was given up to anarchy and predatory warfare, the strong on all points preying on the weak; they in their turn, as they became enfeebled by their own victories, succumbing to other tribes, who had in the meantime risen to power, while even their commerce was combined with a system of slave-dealing and plunder. The following morning there was a dead calm. I never felt the heat so great. The sun shone down with intense fury, and seemed to pierce through the bamboo covering above our heads. The very atmosphere was stagnant. Had it not been for the supply of water with which Hassan had furnished us during the night, we should have died of thirst; as it was, we suffered much. From the feeling of the atmosphere, Fairburn prognosticated that we were about to be visited by a storm of unusual severity. The pirates seemed to think the same, for they lowered their sails, which were indeed useless; and putting the heads of the vessels seaward, endeavoured to obtain a good offing from the land.

From this we judged that we were off a part of the coast where they had been accustomed to commit depredations, and that they were afraid, should they be shipwrecked, that the inhabitants would retaliate by destroying them. There could be no doubt that such was the case, because otherwise they would have pulled towards the shore, in the hopes of being in time to take shelter in one of the numerous bays and creeks with which it is indented.

“Such is the consequence of evil-doing,” said Fairburn, moralising, as we came to this conclusion. “Honest men can go where they like, and have no enemies to fear; rogues have the door shut in their faces in all directions, and have reason to fear that all men are their enemies.”

The poor slaves tugged at the oars till their strength almost gave way. At last two dropped from fatigue and died. At all events, they were without ceremony thrown overboard. Several of the Malays then advanced towards us; they looked at Fairburn and me, and seeing by our dress and appearance that we were officers, and might prove more valuable to them in some other way, they passed us by, and selected two of the Dutch seamen to fill the places of the wretches who had died.

The Dutchmen, though they could not help comprehending what they were expected to do, showed a strong determination not to set about the work, till the sharp point of the glittering knives held at their breasts warned them that it would be wiser to obey. Uttering a groan of pain, the poor fellows went to their laborious occupation. Unaccustomed to such severe toil, with a burning sun overhead, they feared that a few days would terminate their existence. An ominous silence pervaded the ocean; so calm lay the vessels that neither the bulkheads nor masts were heard to creak. The heat grew, if possible, still more oppressive. Then came on a sudden and slow upheaving of the deep, followed quickly by a loud rushing noise. A mass of boiling froth flew sweeping over the hitherto tranquil sea. The vessels, as it struck their broadsides, heeled over to it; some righted as they were turned by the oars and flew before it; several, we had reason to believe, went over to rise no more. Every moment the sea got up higher, and the wind blew more furiously. Onward we flew, the oars now perfectly useless, the men at the rudders scarcely able to move them so as to guide the course of the vessel. Where we went we could not tell. Clouds chased each other over the hitherto serene sky, and a thick driving rain, a complete cataract of water, descended, shrouding the coast from our sight. The seas leaped to a terrific height in our wake, and following us, almost dashed over our stern; but the tightly built vessel rose over them, and onward again we went uninjured. The tempest had raged for three or four hours, and showed no signs of abating. We climbed up, as we had done before, to look-out. The whole sea was a mass of tossing waves and foam, and far as the eye could pierce through the gloom, not another prahu was in sight. The tempest had scattered far and wide the barks of the fierce warriors as the summer breeze would the light chaff. The working of the vessel, as she was tossed up and down by the waves, caused her to leak most alarmingly, and all hands were set to work to bale her out. In this we of course very willingly joined, for our lives depended on her being kept afloat; and it besides enabled us to stretch our limbs and look about us. Everything capable of holding water was made use of, and the calabashes, kettles, buckets, and pans were passed along from hand to hand from the hold to the side of the vessel and back again with the greatest rapidity. We kept the water under, but that was all; and it seemed most questionable whether we should be able in this condition to get back to Sooloo. Along the whole coast there was not a place where we could venture to enter to repair damages, for although the Malays might not kill their fellow-religionists they would not hesitate to confiscate their vessel and to sell them as slaves. While we were employed as I have described, Fairburn observed to me.

“You were saying, Mr Seaworth, that everything is for the best. Suppose now we had been caught in our boats by this storm, how do you fancy the skiff would have weathered it?”

“But badly, I suspect,” I replied.

“So I have been thinking. We could not possibly have reached Singapore; and though we might have been picked up by some vessel, the chances are that we should not; and so, what we thought our greatest misfortune, may, after all, have proved the means of our preservation.”

“The very idea which has been passing in my mind,” I replied. “I wonder, though, what has become of Captain Van Deck and his wife, and poor little Maria, and the rest of the party in the long-boat.”

“He who rules the waves will have preserved them, if He has thought fit so to do,” observed Fairburn. “Remember, we have only our own selves to account for. If we are preserved, it is not because of our own merits, but by his inscrutable will, for some end we know not of. If they are lost, it is not because they are worse than we, but because He knows that it is better that so it should be.”

The pirates seeing us talking, and fancying that we did not work as hard as we might, gave us a hint to be silent, by showing us the point of a spear, and we were obliged to bale away harder than ever. While we were at work, the clouds opened, the sky in the horizon cleared slightly, and there were evident signs of the gale breaking. In a little time more the gale lessened, and the sea no longer ran so perilously high as before. Still we were in much danger, for the leaks rather increased than lessened, and it required the utmost exertions of all hands to keep the vessel free of water. We hoped, however, when it grew calm, that the leaks would close, and that we might be able to pursue our voyage.

In this condition the night overtook us. Whether we should keep afloat till daylight, none of us could say. It was one of the most weary nights I ever spent; for we were allowed no cessation from our toil. We now felt that we were slaves indeed. Our masters looked on, and some slept while we worked. Daylight found us still labouring. The pirates looked out anxiously to discover some of their consorts. Two were in sight in the far distance, but they beheld another spectacle, which filled them with alarm, while it made our hearts bound with hope. It was a square-rigged vessel, her topsails just visible above the horizon and from the squareness of her yards, and the whiteness of her canvas, we trusted that she was a man-of-war. The Illanons, who are well accustomed to discern the various classes of vessels, and to know their armaments, that they may avoid catching a Tartar, were of our opinion. The stranger was to windward, so that they would have had but small chance of escaping, even by attempting to pull up in that direction. By keeping before the wind, when their oars would less avail them, their chance of escape was still smaller. We watched the proceedings of the stranger with intense interest. The other two prahus were nearer to her than we were, and thus she would certainly make sail after them before she attempted to follow us; and, in the meantime, it was possible that, by keeping on a wind, the prahu we were on board might escape. The brig might also perceive some others of the fleet more to windward, which we could see, and might go after them. If so, the possibility of her escaping was very much increased, and we might still be doomed to a long if not an endless slavery.

It was with the greatest difficulty that we could keep to our baling, so intense became our anxiety to watch the proceedings of the stranger; and more than once I felt the sharp point of a lance against my ribs, reminding me of the task imposed on me. We saw by her movement that the brig had very soon discovered the other two prahus, for as fast as she could she was making sail, and standing after them. They endeavoured to escape, and to our great joy, ran after us, thus increasing the probability of our being captured. The brig however came up very rapidly with the other prahus; and, as soon as she got near enough, she opened her fire on them,—a foretaste of what we were to expect, for pirates deserve no mercy, and they were not likely to receive any at her hands. They were brave, or, at all events, desperate men, and returned her fire with their big stem gun and lelahs, though the latter were not likely to do much harm. Her guns were well and rapidly worked. The foremost mast of one of the prahus was shot away, and the others fared still worse. Several shots seemed to have struck her, still she held on. We saw her rise to the top of a wave, then down she glided into the trough of the sea. We looked for her in vain. It was her last plunge; and with her crew of savage warriors and helpless slaves, she sunk to rise no more. The brig did not heave-to in order to save any of the wretches, but ran close to the vessel she had crippled. Before she ran alongside, she opened her entire broadside on the pirate, so as to still more effectually prevent her escaping. The chiefs fought fiercely, like men who know that their fate is sealed, and are determined to sell their lives dearly. They discharged their lelahs in quick succession; they kept up till the last a hot fire from their long gun, and sent showers of arrows from their bows. When they got to still closer quarters, their spears came into play; and as the Europeans leaped down on their decks to take possession, many were severely wounded by the spears and krisses thrust through the bamboo planking. Then, when the Malays saw that they could do no further injury to their conquerors, they fired their vessel in several places, in the hopes of destroying them at the same time with themselves.

The Dutchmen were brave fellows, and in spite of the risk they ran, they managed to save some of those they found on board, before they cast loose from the burning prahu. The brig then made sail after us. Long before she came up to us, the Malay vessel, with her crew of savage desperadoes, had followed her consort to the bottom of the ocean. Dreadful as was their fate, they had, from their numerous atrocities, so richly deserved it, that no one could pity them. We next had to look-out for ourselves. The same sanguinary scene that we had witnessed at a distance was now to be enacted on board our vessel. As we kept right ahead of the brig, her bow chasers only could reach us, and with those she plied us as rapidly as they could be loaded, the shot flying over and around us, and one striking us on the counter, and killing two men who were working the lelahs placed there. The pirates in return were not idle. The long gun was worked vigorously, though not with much effect; but the lelahs and matchlocks kept up a galling fire on the brig, while the bows and arrows were kept ready to come into play as soon as she could get near enough to feel their effect.

I will not acknowledge exactly to have felt fear; but I experienced a very disagreeable sensation as the shot of our friends came flying around us, and some of the equally unfortunate Dyaks, and one or two Malays were struck down close to us. The feeling would have been still worse, had we not been so eagerly engaged in watching the brig, with the expectation of being released, and hoping to escape unhurt. At last a shot struck the head of our mainmast, and down came the sail, the foremast very soon followed, the after part being struck, and with the sail it swung over the bows. As the musketry of the Dutchmen came rattling among us, they sent forth the most frightful shrieks and yells in return, gnashing their teeth and clashing their weapons together, as they waited to meet their assailants hand to hand. The Dutch captain, knowing that there were prisoners on board, instead of firing away till the prahus sunk, as from the character of the Malays, he would have been justified in doing, ran alongside, shouting out that he would afford quarter to those who sought it. The fierce Malays answered him with loud cries of derision and shrieks of despair, and continued discharging their weapons with greater fury than before. We now discovered, that what we at first thought a great misfortune, namely, the leaky condition of the vessel, was in reality the means of preserving our lives. Had it not been for that, we should have remained bound and helpless; but in order to allow us to work at baling out, the pirates had set us free. Although the slaves are not usually expected to fight, yet in the present desperate state of affairs, arms were put into their hands, and they were told that if they did not defend themselves they would all be slaughtered. Men often fight blindly, scarcely knowing for what, and such was the case with these unfortunate wretches. I speak of the slaves who had before been on the prahus to work the oars. Many of the poor Dyaks still remained bound, though at the last moment their countrymen endeavoured to relieve them. No sooner did the sides of the two vessels touch, than the Malays, with that mad fury which sometimes possess their race, endeavoured to climb up the sides of the brig, careless of their own lives, and only seeking to destroy their enemies, well knowing that they had not a chance of success. They were repulsed with musketry, boarding pikes, and pistols; still on they rushed, the death of some only increasing the madness of others. Fairburn and I, with the Dutchmen, hung back, endeavouring to shelter ourselves from the shot on the opposite side of the platform, till we could find an opportunity to get on board. The Dyaks shrunk down appalled at the unearthly din, unaccustomed as they were to so rapid a discharge of fire-arms. But a fresh enemy was now assailing the devoted vessel of the pirates. No one attending to baling her out, the water was rapidly gaining on her; its ingress being expedited by the shot-holes lately made. Loaded as she was with booty, with living men and dead bodies, as the water rose she sunk lower and lower. Many of the wounded were drowned where they lay. Several of the Dyaks, not yet released, shared the same fate. We had time to cut the thongs which bound the limbs of a few, when we saw that not another moment was to be lost. We had worked our way forward as the pirates were clustering more thickly at the stern. The bow of the prahu swung for a few seconds toward that of the brig, the mast becoming entangled in the fore chain-plates; we seized the opportunity, and crying out in Dutch and English that we were friends, which indeed our dress showed, we ran along it, and leaped into the fore-chains.

A few pistols were fired and pikes thrust at us before the seamen discovered that we were not pirates and a wounded Malay thrust his pike into the back of one poor fellow as he was about to spring forward. A few of the Dyaks followed our example, and we endeavoured to preserve their lives, but no sooner did the Malays perceive what had happened than they attempted to reach the brig in the same way. With terrific shrieks they rushed on, but they were too late—the sea had already reached the deck of the prahu. The Dutchmen cut off the grapnels, and with a sudden lurch, down she went, carrying with her the still shrieking and threatening warriors. I shall never forger the dreadful expression of countenance of those almost demon-like beings, as, brandishing their arms with furious gesticulations, their feet still clinging to the platform on which they so often had fought and conquered in many an action, the water closed over their heads. How great was the contrast which a few short minutes had wrought! But lately we were surrounded by them, and had every prospect of sharing their fate, and now we were among civilised men eager to succour us. Truly we had to thank Heaven who had so mercifully preserved us.

As I lay that night in a hammock, slung in the cabin of the kind Dutch officer who commanded the brig, I heard a voice whisper softly in my ear,—“God is great—God is everywhere.”

Chapter Fifteen.

As I was climbing into the chains of the brig, I caught sight, through the smoke of the pistols flashing round us, of a Malay closely following me. I thought that he was about to run his kriss into me, and I was about to strike him on the head with a sword I had seized to defend myself, when I observed that it was young Hassan, who had all the time been watching our movements with the intention of aiding us. The rush of seamen and the Dyaks threw him off the spar, and he was precipitated into the sea, between the two vessels.

“Poor! poor fellow! I could have done much to save his life,” I exclaimed to myself. “But it is not a moment for regret.”

Scarcely a minute after, the prahu sunk, ingulfing all with her. Fairburn and I, with those who had been preserved, were going aft to the captain, when I caught sight of a marine levelling his musket at the head of a man floating in the water.

“There still lies one of those rascally Malays,” he said in Dutch. “I will put an end to his misery.”

Without a moment’s thought I sprang towards him, and threw up his weapon. I thought I recognised the features. I was right. It was the faithful Hassan. He was almost exhausted, and looked as if he could not reach the side of the vessel. Instantly Fairburn threw off his jacket, and plunged overboard, while I cast a rope towards him. He swam out with powerful strokes towards the poor fellow, and grasped him just as he was on the point of sinking. As the brig had only been drifting to leeward, they were at no great distance. I again hove the rope towards them. Fairburn seized it, and, lifting the light form of the Malay lad under his left arm, he hauled himself on board.

In a short time Hassan recovered. He told us, that knowing the prahu must sink, he had struck out away from her; and, though he was drawn a short distance down in the vortex she made, he soon again reached the surface, and then swam towards the brig, trusting that we should see him, and would endeavour to save him. He was the only survivor of the Malays. Two of the Dutchmen belonging to the skiff and the Malay interpreter were missing. Twelve of the Dyaks also escaped, though several of them were wounded, who were immediately placed in the surgeon’s hands. The poor fellows looked very grateful, and, although they certainly never before had heard of the healing art, they seemed fully to comprehend that what he was doing was for their benefit.

When we got aft, we had an account to hear, which naturally very much shocked us; however, I will narrate it as things occurred. We found that the vessel we were on board was the Dutch colonial brig Swalen commanded by Lieutenant Cloete. The commander was on the quarter-deck with several of his officers, and, as we were led up to him by a midshipman, he received me and Fairburn with the greatest kindness, shaking us by the hand, and congratulating us on our providential escape. He at once saw that we were weak from the want of food, and the danger and excitement we had undergone.

“I would at once ask you into my cabin to refresh and rest yourselves, gentlemen,” he said; “but it is at present occupied by some of your late companions in misfortune.”

“What! have any escaped? Indeed we rejoice to hear it,” we both exclaimed.

“Some few have; but many have been lost,” answered the commander gravely. “It was a hard necessity; but I know the nature of the Malays well, and had we not fired on them they would not have yielded.” While he was speaking, a boy came out of the cabin, and went up to him. “Oh, they wish to see you; and I fear the poor master’s time is short. We will go below, gentlemen.” Saying this, the commander led the way into his own cabin.

It was, indeed, a sad sight which met our view. On the table in the centre lay Captain Van Deck, resting in the arms of the surgeon. The sheet which was wrapped round him was covered with blood. A round shot had torn open his side, and he had a wound from a kriss in his chest, and another in his neck, either of which, from their ghastly look, appeared sufficient to be mortal. His wife stood by his side holding his hand; and she seemed truly overwhelmed with genuine sorrow. She, very likely, was even then recollecting all the trouble and vexation she had caused him, by giving way to her temper. On a sofa lay a slight figure—it was that of little Maria. I started, with horror, for I thought I saw a corpse, she looked so pale; her eyes also were closed, and she did not stir. I scarcely dared ask for information. My attention was drawn to the dying master.

“I have begged to see you, gentlemen, for my moments are numbered,” he said, gasping as he spoke. “I crave your forgiveness, if, through my carelessness and neglect of my duties, I have brought you into the danger and misery you have suffered. I know you, Fairburn, held my seamanship light.”

We stopped him, and begged him not to think of the subject.

“Well, I will go on to a more important one, then,” he continued. “We have been shipmates for some time, and that makes us brethren. I commit my wife and that dear child, if she recovers, to your charge, to see them safe with their kindred in Java. And you, my poor frow, will be kind to sweet little Maria. I would not mention it, but to say that the kindness you show to her will more than compensate for any little want of it you have at times displayed towards me.”

He hesitated as he spoke, as if he did not like to call up old grievances.

Mrs Van Deck again burst into tears; and we who knew how very uncomfortable a life she had at times led him, could not help feeling that he was in a truly Christian and forgiving state of mind. Had he and she always been in that state of mind—had, perhaps, even a few words of mutual explanation taken place—undoubtedly their unhappiness would have been avoided. We promised the dying man that we would attend his wishes. He heard us, but his strength was exhausted; his wound welled forth afresh, and, before the surgeon could apply a restorative, his spirit had flown to its eternal rest. I will not describe the grief of the widow. Grief had worked a most beneficial effect on her, and she appeared a totally, different person to what she had before been.

The surgeon now turned the whole of his attention to little Maria. She had been wounded in the side by a splinter; but, though she was weak from the loss of blood, he assured me that he did not apprehend any danger. She was, though, suffering much from pain, which she bore most meekly.

When I first entered the cabin, I thought I had observed an object moving in the corner, but I took no notice of it. I had sat down by the little girl’s side, and, having taken one of her hands in mine, I was endeavouring to soothe her for the loss of her uncle, of which she was aware, when I felt my other hand, which hung by my side, seized hold of by a cold paw. I turned round, and what should I see but little Ungka, looking up towards me with a face as expressive of grief as that of any human being! He seemed fully aware of what had occurred. He then put his hands to his head, and chattered and rolled about in a way which, in spite of his gravity, was so highly ludicrous, that at any other time I should have burst into fits of laughter. When he had come on board, no one knew; for when he first made his appearance following the captain, the seamen thought he was some little Malay imp, and had thrust him back again, so that he also had a very narrow escape for his life. I suspected that he had caught hold of the end of a rope hanging over the side of the vessel, and had clambered up it when the fight was done.

It was with great sorrow we heard that the two lady passengers, of whom I have spoken, and nearly all the Dutch crew, were missing, and there was every probability they had been destroyed in the burning wreck. The crew of the jolly-boat had been taken on board one of the other prahus; but what their fate was, no one knew. Thus out of the crew and passengers of the ill-fated Cowlitz, only six people had escaped. We, who were among the number, had therefore reason to be grateful to Heaven for the mercy shown us.

The brig cruised about in the neighbourhood for two days, in the hopes of falling in with others of the piratical squadron. She, however, did not succeed in discovering any more.

I will pass over the events of the next few days. The north-east monsoon showing signs of beginning to blow in earnest, the commander of the brig was anxious to return to port, and accordingly with much reluctance gave up the search. Little Maria was slowly recovering. The widow bore her grief meekly and resignedly, and showed that she was a thoroughly altered woman. Wounds in that burning clime are more dangerous than in colder latitudes; thus three of the wounded had died. One was a little boy, the child of a Dyak woman. He had been badly wounded in the shoulder while resting in her arms. The child sank gradually, nor could the surgeon’s skill avail to arrest the progress of death. The poor mother used to watch him with supplicating looks as he dressed the wound, as if he alone had the power to save her boy: and when he died, she reproached him, with unmistakable gestures, for not preserving him to her. Savage as she was—accustomed to scenes of bloodshed and murder from her youth—the feelings of a mother were strong within her, and she would not be comforted. Captain Cloete was very anxious to land the Dyaks in their native country, and he consulted Fairburn as to the possibility of discovering it. We had, it must be remembered, been left below both on entering and leaving the river, so that we could only give a very rough guess at its position. Fairburn, however, of course, expressed his anxiety to be of service; and by consulting the chart, and considering attentively the courses we had steered, and calculating the distance we had afterwards been driven by the gale, we came to the conclusion that the poor wretches must have been taken from the Balowi river, on the north-west coast of Borneo. For the mouth of that river we accordingly shaped our course. It would have been barbarous to have landed the poor wretches at any other spot than their own country; for they would either have been made slaves of by the Malays, or killed by the other Dyaks for the sake of their heads. It is a curious fancy the Dyaks of Borneo entertain, of collecting as many dried heads as they can obtain, either to wear as trophies of their prowess, or to hang up in their head-houses.

We were treated with the greatest kindness by the captain and his officers, who seemed to vie with each other in doing us service. They all spoke some English, and most very well, so that we had no difficulty in carrying on conversation with them. When they heard my story especially, they seemed to sympathise warmly with me, and express themselves anxious to assist me by every means in their power. I, meantime, was not idle, and employed every spare moment in learning the Malay language, as also in attaining some knowledge of that of Java, as well as of others of the numerous dialects spoken in the Indian Archipelago. I felt that my success might depend on my speaking fluently the languages of the countries I should visit and consequently that I must exert myself to the utmost. To those acquainted only with their own tongue, it may appear impossible that I could gain knowledge sufficient to be of any material use; but it must be remembered that I was already accustomed to the Hindostanee, and other dialects of India, and that, therefore, with the stimulus I had, the acquisition of others was comparatively easy, considering the natural aptitude I possessed of learning foreign languages. Thus, notwithstanding my anxiety, the time flew rapidly by.

Four days after we had so providentially escaped from the Sooloo pirates, we sighted Cape Sink, on the north-west coast of Borneo, some way to the southward of which was the river whence the Dyaks had been captured. As we ran along the coast at a respectful distance, for fear of some sunken rocks and shoals which we believed to be off it, Fairburn and I were looking out, with our glasses, for the mouth, which we hoped to be able to make out. The rescued natives were on deck; and we fully expected that they would be able to recognise the approach of their native stream. We looked at them as they watched the shore with surprised and somewhat puzzled looks; but still they gave no signs to lead us to suppose that they were aware they were approaching their own country. We found, however, that their puzzled looks arose from their supposing that they were already many hundred miles away from their own country, and from their finding themselves, as they supposed, on a coast so very similar to it. As we ran along the coast, the mouth of a broad river opened before us, and, with the lead going to ascertain the depth of water we stood in towards it. On drawing near, it seemed to widen still more; and our captain being anxious to explore it, the wind also being fair, we crossed the bar, which had a considerable depth over it. The river, at the mouth, was nearly four miles wide, but it narrowed shortly to about a mile. Still the Dyaks showed no sign of satisfaction, and both Fairburn and I began to suspect that we had entered the wrong river; we continued, however, our course. As yet we had seen no signs of human beings; but just as we rounded a point, we came suddenly on a canoe, with three men fishing in her. They were so paralysed with the astonishment our appearance caused, that at first they forgot even to attempt to escape. Our boats were ready manned to lower into the water at a moment’s notice; so in an instant two of them were in the water in chase of the strangers. This somewhat restored the Dyaks to their senses; and seizing their paddles, they plied them strenuously in the hope of escaping from the formidable prahu, which the brig must have appeared to them. Seeing, however, that the boats rapidly gained upon them, they ceased rowing, and two of them seizing their sumpitans, or blow-pipes, shot several poisoned arrows at the Dutchmen. Fortunately no one was hit by them; and the officer in care of them bethinking himself of displaying a white handkerchief, this universal token of peace was understood, and all hostile demonstration ceased. The Dyaks, on this, seemed to banish all their alarm, and were at once on perfectly good terms with the boats’ crews. They quickly understood that they were required to pilot the brig up the river, and willingly came on board. Captain Cloete, who was well accustomed to deal with savages, explained to a fine young man, who seemed to be the chief, and the most intelligent of the party, the depth of water his vessel drew; that he must avoid all rocks and sand-banks, and that he wished to sail up about three times as far as we had already gone. The other Dyaks had hitherto been kept out of sight. They were now brought on deck; but when the fishermen saw them, instead of rushing into each other’s arms, they appeared much more ready to attempt cutting off each other’s heads; and the alarm of both parties was very evident, for they both fancied that there was some treachery to be practised against them. The captain, however, who at once understood their feelings, quickly managed to dispel their fears, first by producing the white handkerchief, and then by bringing both parties close to each other, and making them shake hands. It must be owned that they did not do so with much good grace, and they reminded me strongly of two dogs who have just been gnawing away at each other’s throats, being brought together to make friends by their peaceably inclined masters. At last, being convinced that our intentions were good, they began to talk to each other, the fishermen asking the prisoners whence they had come, and the latter giving them an account of their adventures. The result of the conversation raised the Dutch in the estimation of our new acquaintance, who learned to appreciate their power, and wished to serve those who trusted them.

We asked the young fisherman his name; and he made us understand that it was Kalong. His eyes sparkled with animation whenever any one addressed him; and with wonderful rapidity he seemed to comprehend our signs, and was never at a loss to answer us. To show us the course of the river, he knelt down on the deck, and, taking the end of a rope, he twisted it about to show the various reaches in it; then seizing a handful of chips of wood from the carpenter’s bench, he quickly formed one to indicate the brig, with two strips stuck perpendicularly into it to serve as masts. Holding this rough model in his hand, he tossed it about off one end of the rope, to show that there was the sea where we had been tossed about in the storm, and then he made it move slowly up the rope, to show how the brig had glided calmly up the river till she reached the spot where we then were. He next stuck several chips together, evidently to show that they were intended to represent a Dyak habitation, and these he placed further up the rope; and then touching himself and the other men, showed that he lived there. The rest of the rope he twisted about, and placed other houses alongside it, till he shook his head, showing that he knew nothing further of the country. We had now a very good chart before us of the river we were in, which Captain Cloete had forthwith copied on paper, to the infinite delight of the designer.

His success seemed to sharpen his wits; and taking another bit of rope which was given to him, he knelt down some way from the first, and twisted it about to form a river. He also placed some houses on it, and rushing up to the Dyaks, he touched them all severally, to show that they were to represent their habitations; and then taking several small chips in his hand, he moved them up rapidly towards the houses, several of which he knocked over. We thus understood that our Dyaks had come from a river to the north of the one we were in.

Captain Cloete, however, did not like to lose so favourable an opportunity of visiting on amicable terms these singular people, and therefore resolved to anchor off the village for the night, and to carry out charges to their native place on the following day. The wind continuing fair, though light, we slowly glided up the stream, the flood-tide aiding us. The scenery, as we advanced, improved considerably, the trees being of fine height, and mountains appearing in the distance. We had as yet observed no signs of cultivation, nor did the country appear to be inhabited. We saw, however, a great variety of animals. As I was watching the shore, I observed something move on a sand-ridge. I pointed it out to Kalong. He laughed, and opened his mouth very wide, as if he would eat me. The action was significant; and Fairburn, who had been turning his glass in that direction, exclaimed, “Why, that is a crocodile; and a big fellow, too, in truth.” The monster seemed arousing himself from sleep, and slowly crawled out of the slimy bed in which he had been reposing. Several shots were fired at him, but the balls glanced off harmlessly from his scaly sides. I afterwards saw some captured by a very simple method.

The breeze freshened, and we ran rapidly on, carefully, of course, sounding all the time. Kalong, our pilot, was in great delight, till he saw one of the officers going to fire at a crocodile, when he rushed up to him, and entreated him not to do so. Willing to please him, the officer desisted, and the monster escaped a slight tickling on the back. The reason was soon apparent; for, rounding a high and thickly-wooded point, we found ourselves in a little bay, on the shore of which was a large village, while close to us, under the shade of the lofty palm-trees which overhung the water, numerous groups of women and children were disporting in the refreshing stream. When we first intruded into this sylvan retreat, their consternation was so great that they scarcely knew where to run to screen themselves from our view; then setting up a loud and simultaneous shriek, they fled, dragging the young ones with them, some towards the village, and others into the wood. At the same moment we heard the tom-tom beat to arms, and observed the warriors putting on their wooden and woollen armour, and seeking their spears and sumpitans. Kalong had now sufficiently enjoyed the fright he intended to give his countrymen, and making his appearance in the rigging, he waved a white cloth to assure them that we came as friends. As soon as he was recognised, loud shouts proclaimed the satisfaction of those on shore, and a number of canoes were seen putting off towards us.

I must now stop to describe the wild and extraordinary scene before us, with which I was afterwards doomed to become so familiar. I have spoken of a village, but I should rather have said the castle; for the habitation of the numerous tribe assembled on the shore consisted chiefly of one large building, several hundred feet long, and standing on the summit of stout piles, not less than forty feet in height. At this great distance from the ground a bamboo platform had been constructed to serve as the floor of the house, which itself was not more than six feet high. The side-walls were also of bamboo, and the roof was made from the leaves of the nibong and other palms. It rose to the height of the surrounding trees, standing as it did on a high mound of earth thrown up artificially some little way from the banks of the river. It was intended to serve as a fortification; and also, I suspect, that airy style of building must much conduce to preserve the health of the people. Several rope ladders led from the ground to this singular residence. We received the chief, and a number of the principal people and their followers, on board. They had little clothing besides the waistcloth, made of bark from a tree; and large rings in their ears, and were very far from being prepossessing in their appearance. Captain Cloete, keeping on his guard against treachery, should such be attempted, allowed them to inspect everything on board the brig. They seemed pleased with all they saw, and behaved very well, but in no way showed surprise. We found, to our no little satisfaction, that some of them understood the Malay language, and that Hassan was able to converse with them. Soon after we made the discovery, Fairburn and I were standing with Hassan, surrounded by several, of whom we were making inquiries. Among other questions, Fairburn asked if they were not surprised at seeing so large a vessel off their village.

“They say no,” replied Hassan; “for not many moons ago there was another vessel off here nearly as big, only she had not so many chiefs with fine dresses, or so many people in her. But then there were women in her; and one little girl just like the one here,” meaning Maria.

On this I pricked up my ears, and my heart beat quick with anxiety. I entreated Hassan to make further enquiries.

“They say that the vessel was rigged like this; she was a brig.” He continued, after speaking with them for some time: “She came in here for wood and water. She was not a war ship, but the people went about armed. They were very disorderly; and some of them behaving ill to the people on shore, were very nearly cut off, and barely escaped with their lives to their boat. She then set sail, and going down the river was no more seen.”

This account made me feel that it was more than probable that the brig was no other than the Emu, and that she had been run away with by her crew. Another dreadful idea instantly forced itself on my imagination. If the brig in question was the Emu, had she really sailed, or had the Dyaks, as they might have been tempted to do, cut her off? I begged Hassan to make every inquiry, and to cross-question the people to ascertain the truth of their story. I was inclined to believe it, as they had so frankly spoken about the brig; whereas, had they destroyed her, it would have been a subject they would have avoided. At all events, we observed no European arms or clothes in their possession; and Hassan assured us that he had every reason to think that they did not deceive us. In this unexpected way I discovered that the vessel I was in search of was not wrecked, and that there was every probability of my friends being alive. All other interests were now absorbed in this great one, and I never ceased making inquiries about the brig of all I met. I, notwithstanding, went on shore with a party of officers, to visit the strange residence before us. It struck me that the idea of Jack and the Bean Stalk might have originated from it. Having climbed up the ladder, we were ushered into the chief’s room, which was in the centre, behind it being arranged that of the women. There was but little furniture besides mats and cushions; and the only ornaments, if they could be so called, were a number of dried human heads hanging from the ceiling. I shuddered as I looked at them at first; but I own that I soon got accustomed to them. They were the heads of the enemies of the tribe taken in war, and were prized as much as the North American Indian does the scalps of his foes. No objection was made to our visiting the apartments of the women. They were clothed in long loose garments, of native cloth, suspended from the waist, their shoulders being bare. They were small, but well shaped. Their hair, which was long and dark, was twisted up at the back of the head; the front locks being plaited and drawn off the forehead. Their skins were of a light brown colour, smooth and glossy. They wore ear-rings of some mixed metal, of a size very disproportionate to their small figures, and very far from becoming. Their countenances, if not pretty, were highly good-humoured and pleasant. The younger women were diligently employed in pounding rice in mortars of large dimensions. There were groups of children playing in the verandah, who at first were very shy of us; but as we made them little presents of beads, and other trifles, their confidence was quickly established, and wherever we went they followed, laughing heartily, and dancing round us. At length, our curiosity being satisfied, we descended from the bird-like nest, and returned on board the brig.

Chapter Sixteen.

The information I had received, vague as it may appear, seemed to me of the greatest importance. I felt almost certain that this brig which had visited the river could be no other than the Emu; and the account of the behaviour of the crew tended to confirm my suspicions that she had been run away with by the mate, Richard Kidd, for the purpose of turning pirate on the high seas. I dreamed of it all night or rather lay awake the greater part of the time, thinking of the subject till I was almost in a fever. I pictured to myself my sweet little Eva in the power of the ruffians, probably employed as their slave, to tend them in their cabin at their meals, and forced to listen to their horrid conversation, while I trembled still more for the fate of poor Mrs Clayton, if she survived the grief, and terror, and anxiety to which she must have been exposed. I talked the subject over with Fairburn, who agreed with me that the brig was probably the Emu, while he, at the same time, did his best to relieve my anxiety respecting the fate of her passengers.

“You know, Seaworth,” he observed, “even the most abandoned wretches have generally some feelings of humanity about them. No one would be bad enough to injure your little sister; and, situated as these men are, they would very probably treat Mrs Clayton with respect, that, should they be captured, they may have some plea for claiming mercy at the hands of the law.”

“I trust it may be so,” I replied. But I remembered that when once men begin to break the law, the restraints which prevent them from committing the worst of crimes are easily broken down.

The Dyaks were swarming out of their hive at early dawn to bid us farewell, as with the first of the ebb we weighed anchor to drop down the river. Our new friend, Kalong, returned on board to act as pilot; and in spite of his knowing no other than the Dyak tongue, we were able to trust perfectly to his guidance. Fortunately the wind had shifted, and now blew so as to favour us in our descent; and in a short time we reached the mouth of the river. Here we thought our pilot would leave us; but he intimated that he was perfectly ready to accompany us up the river, where our passengers had their homes, if we would bring him and his companions back to where we then were. To this plan Captain Cloete at once gladly acceded; for he did not suspect that Kalong’s chief object was to spy out the condition of the people whose habitations we might pass, that, should his tribe wish to get a few heads, he might be the better able to lead them to the attack. Such, however, Hassan told us he had no doubt was his intention.

“Those not good people,” he said, looking very grave. “Too fond of taking heads; always taking heads. Kalong not bad; but still he like heads now and then.”

The truth is, that a great number of the Dyaks are as much addicted to piracy as the Malays, and are in some respects even more cruel.

The satisfaction of our unfortunate passengers was very great, and their gratitude knew no bounds, when they discovered that they were to be conveyed back to their native place. The river had a bar across it; but as the brig drew but little water, she was able to get over without difficulty, and, the sea breeze setting in, we ran up the stream. Our great risk was that of getting on a shoal; but, thanks to Kalong’s pilotage, we avoided all dangers in our way, and at last dropped anchor opposite a spot where a village had once stood. Fairburn and I recognised it as the one attacked by the Sooloo pirates. Tears started to the eyes of the poor people as they witnessed the desolation which had been wrought among their late habitations. Where, a few days before, they and their families had dwelt in peace and contentment, all was now silent and deserted. Not a human being was seen; their houses were charred heaps, and their paddy fields and sago plantations lay trampled under foot. We could pity them, but we could do but little else. We were compelled to land them, as we could not take them with us, and time was too precious to enable us to stay to assist them. Our kind captain did his utmost to make amends to them for their losses, by supplying them with food and clothing, and tools, which they use very dexterously, to rebuild their habitations. He pointed out to them, that, for greater security, it would be wiser in them if they erected it farther inland, out of the reach of the attacks of the sea-pirates. The boats were then lowered, and they were carried on shore. At first their grief at seeing the state of their homes overpowered every other feeling; but soon recollecting that they had escaped from slavery, they did their best to express their gratitude to those who had rescued them, and forthwith began to make preparations for erecting a shelter for themselves, till they could build a house like the one destroyed.

A number of the Dutch officers and men, and Fairburn and I, were on the shore, shaking hands with all round, preparatory to quitting them finally, when we observed a Dyak stealthily approaching from among the trees which closely surrounded us. He looked cautiously on every side—his sumpitan, with a poisoned arrow ready to discharge, was in one hand, while a spear and shield, prepared for defence or attack, was in the other—he then advanced a few steps farther and halted. Rings were in his ears and round his legs; a cloth bound his waist; and a sort of jacket without arms covered his body, serving the purpose of armour against the darts of his enemies. He was followed closely by others, dressed in the same manner. One by one they came out of the wood, till upwards of fifty warriors stood before us prepared for battle. We scarcely knew at first whether they came as friends or foes, but when the Dyaks we had landed saw them, they rushed towards them with loud shouts, throwing themselves into each other’s arms. Never was there before such shaking of hands, or so much said in so short a time. It was also highly favourable to the Dutch; for the warriors, throwing aside their arms, came forward in a body, and by signs tried to express their gratitude to the preservers of their friends.

I was inclined to form a very favourable opinion of the amiable qualities of these people, from what I then saw of them. We found that the newcomers were the remnant of the tribe who had escaped from the attack of the Sooloo pirates; and that the women and children belonging to them were concealed some distance in the interior. We again weighed; and Kalong being equally successful in his pilotage, though we had to make several tacks, we got clear out from the mouth of the river.

There are a number of fine rivers on the north-west coast of Borneo, their banks being inhabited by Malays, with tribes of Dyaks held in a state of vassalage, as well as by independent Dyaks, the greater number of whom, at this time, were addicted to piracy at sea, as well as to plunder and rapine on shore; indeed, the whole coast presented one scene of constant warfare. Nearly every tribe possessed war prahus, in which they would sally forth to attack any trader from China, Celebes, or any of the neighbouring islands, which might unfortunately get becalmed near their coasts.

We now stood back to land Kalong and his crew, according to the promise made to him. As we neared the mouth of the river, he was seen walking the deck in a state of great agitation; and when the brig was hove-to, and his canoe was lowered into the water, it considerably increased. At last its cause was explained. Taking his companions by the shoulders, he shook their hands warmly, speaking with them earnestly at the same time, while he made them get into the canoe. He then walked up to the captain, and by signs, which were not to be mistaken, signified his wish to remain on board, for the purpose of seeing more of the world. Captain Cloete was at first unwilling to accede to it; but Fairburn and I, thinking that he might be useful on board the vessel I proposed to purchase, interfered in his favour, and requested that he might be allowed to accompany us. His was an extraordinary case, for the Dyaks are, in general, not at all addicted to quitting their country. He seemed fully to understand at whose request his wish had been granted; and in consequence, at once attached himself to me and Fairburn.

We now stood away to the westward, sighting Cape Ape, the north-western point of Borneo, and then steered south for Java, through the Billiton passage. We were bound for Sourabaya, a large Dutch town towards the east end of Java, opposite the island of Madura. I should have very much liked to have touched at Singapore, as it was important for me to arrange my money matters. Without ready cash I could not hope to do anything. I had, however, fortunately secured a considerable amount of gold and some bills about my person, when I escaped from the wreck; and the pirates had not searched me. Fairburn had in his pockets all his worldly wealth, which he insisted should be at my service; and Captain Cloete kindly assured me, that he would be answerable for any sum I might require till my remittances could arrive, so that I might not be delayed in fitting out my vessel. I was never tired of discussing with Fairburn our plans for the future, as also every possible fate which could have befallen the Emu.

A strong breeze carried us quickly along; and one morning, when I came on deck, I found that we were standing through the Straits of Madura, the shore of that island exhibiting a belt of the richest tropical vegetation, white cliffs and lofty rocks appearing here and there above it, while the Java coast seemed very low, and bordered by extensive mangrove swamps. As we approached the anchorage, we saw rows of fishing-stakes projecting half way across the straits, and many boats and prahus, and a considerable number of square-rigged vessels, some of them being Dutch men-of-war. Over the mangrove bushes appeared in the distance a tower or two, a few flag-staffs, and here and there the roofs of some of the most lofty houses. The brig had come to the port to which she belonged, where she had been fitted out; and soon after she dropped her anchor, she was surrounded by the anxious friends of the officers and crew, eager to ascertain that all were well.

I have not spoken for some time past of the widow Van Deck and little Maria. The latter had, from the attention bestowed on her by the kind surgeon of the brig, completely recovered from her hurts, though her nervous system had received a shock which it would, I saw, take long to get over. The widow was well, and continued to prove the same reformed person she had at first given promise of being, showing the use of adversity in improving the character of some people. She devoted herself to her niece, and never seemed tired of watching over her, and indulging her in all the little whims to which, during her illness, she gave way.

Just before the brig came to an anchor, she called me to her, and said, “I hope, Mr Seaworth, you and Mr Fairburn will be able to fulfil my poor husband’s request, and see me and Maria safe with my relations. I have no claim on Captain Cloete and his officers, and, as you know, I have no money; but I am very certain my friends will repay you all you expend on my account, and will do their best to show their gratitude to you besides. They were angry with me for marrying Captain Van Deck; but my misfortunes will have softened their hearts, and now he is gone they will forgive me.”

I replied, that I would certainly do all she wished; at the same time showing her the very great importance it was to me to incur no longer delay than could be helped in getting the vessel I proposed purchasing ready for sea, and in prosecuting my enquiries about the Emu.

“My first object in life is to recover my sister,” I observed. “I can undertake nothing which in any way interferes with that, but in every other respect my time and my purse are at your service; nor will I fail to fulfil my promise to your late husband.” This answer contented her, for she saw its justice.

A number of flat-bottomed boats came alongside to convey us on shore. They have a broad seat and an awning for passengers, and are propelled by two men with paddles in the bows, and steered by another in the stern. Fairburn and I engaged one of these to convey the widow and Maria on shore. Captain Cloete very kindly pressed me to take up my residence at the house of a relative of his in the town; but, thanking him warmly, I answered that I would prefer being at the hotel, which I understood existed there, with Fairburn, that we might have perfect freedom of movement; at the same time, I assured him that I should be most grateful to him for all the introductions he could give me to his friends.

We pulled to the mouth of a canal, up which we were tracked by two boys, with a rope made fast to the mast-head, between two piers for a mile and a quarter; and then landing at a dock where some Chinese junks, and a number of country boats, laden with rice and other commodities, and several schooners were lying, we proceeded up a narrow street to the hotel, which we found kept much after the fashion of the smaller ones I have since met with in France. There was a table d’hôte, at which a number of people residing in the house and elsewhere, dined. The widow said she would wish to avoid the noise and bustle of so public a place; so we procured lodgings for her near at hand. My first care was to make arrangements to get supplied with money. I inquired who were the principal English merchants in the place; and resolved at once to go frankly to the first I could meet with, to state my case, and to ask his assistance. While I went about this business, I begged Fairburn to go and make inquiries as to our chance of finding a vessel to suit our purpose.

“We must do away with all ceremony, Fairburn,” I observed. “I have from this day engaged you regularly in my service; and I am sure you will enter it with zeal. Therefore, remember all you do is at my expense, and I expect you to counsel me whenever you think fit. I do not forget that I am but a boy, and have seen but little of the world; and I feel very certain that I shall always follow your advice.”

These remarks gratified Fairburn very much. He saw that I was likely to act sensibly, and that I confided in him thoroughly. It is difficult to speak of myself, and not to appear to my readers boastful and egotistical. At the same time, I must remark, that had I not been guided by great judgment, procuring information from everybody I met, and weighing it well before acting on it, I should very soon have brought my career to an end.

I took with me from the hotel a young Javanese lad as guide to the counting-house of an English gentleman, whom I will call Mr Scott, and who, I heard, was one of the principal merchants of the place. He conducted me to a large wooden bridge thrown across the river, leading to the Chinese quarter; and just above the bridge, shaded by a row of fine tamarind trees, were a number of large houses and stores, among which was the one I was in search of.

With some little hesitation I went into the office, and requested to see Mr Scott. A young Englishman, or rather a Scotchman, instantly got down from his stool, and, giving me a chair, requested me to be seated, while he went to inform his principal. I had not a minute to wait before he returned, and begged me to walk into Mr Scott’s private room. The merchant rose when I entered, and his eye rapidly running over me as if he would read my character at a glance, he put out his hand and led me to a seat.

“You landed, I think, this morning, from a brig-of-war commanded by Captain Cloete,” he began. “I have the pleasure, I conclude, of welcoming you for the first time to Java.”

I could not help, while he was speaking, contrasting his behaviour with that of Mr Reuben Noakes, the merchant whom I met at Macao.

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I have never been in this part of the world before; nor have I any friends to whom I am privileged to apply for the assistance I require. The truth is, I am almost without funds: nor can I get any for some time, and therefore I procured a list of the British merchants of Sourabaya, and pitched upon you as the first to whom I should make an application for aid.”

He said nothing to this; and I went on and gave him a short account of my history, of the adventures which had occurred to me, and of the search in which I was engaged. When I had finished, he laughed heartily, but with no little satisfaction at my having selected him to make my first attack on.

“I hope that I shall not disappoint you, Mr Seaworth, in the good opinion you have formed of me,” he replied. “I acknowledge, with the same frankness with which you have spoken to me, that I believe every word you have said, and I will do all I can to assist you. I assure you I already feel much interested in your cause.”

This kind answer at once set me at my ease; for I felt that I had a friend raised up to help me at a time I most required assistance. Without it, I might have been delayed many months, till I could get a remittance from Singapore. He, at the same time, at once put me in the way of having the money I might require forwarded to me in the shape of bills of exchange. Our business being concluded, he invited me to accompany him to his country house, for which he was on the point of setting out. I excused myself for that day, as I was anxious to hear what success Fairburn had had in his inquiries, and also to arrange how I could best fulfil my promise with the widow Van Deck.

When I got back to the hotel, I awaited some time for Fairburn. At last he came.

“What news?” I exclaimed. “Have you found a vessel to suit me?”

“I have seen a small schooner,” he replied. “She looks like a fine sea boat, and I am told is thoroughly sound; but her rigging and fittings are on shore, and it will take some time to get her ready for sea.”

“I wish we could have got a craft all ready for sea,” I observed. But if you find this one you speak of likely to answer our purpose, I will buy her at once; and I will leave you, Fairburn, to hurry on the workmen about her, so that we may not lose a moment more than is necessary:

The next morning Fairburn again went out to make further inquiries about the schooner; and his report was so favourable, that I resolved to apply at once to Mr Scott to enable me to purchase her. He told me that the people with whom I should have to deal would treat me honestly; and, taking my acceptance, he generously advanced me money to pay for her. I thus, in an unexpectedly short space of time, became the owner of a vessel exactly suited to my purpose.

I must not forget Hassan and Kalong, or a personage of no little importance in his own estimation, our friend Ungka, for the board and lodging of whom I made arrangements till the schooner was ready to receive them; as the two first had volunteered to accompany me, and as the last had said nothing, we took his silence for his consent. Though Captain Cloete might have claimed him, he had kindly looked upon him as belonging still to the widow Van Deck and little Maria, and they had made him over to me.

I accompanied Fairburn to look at the schooner. She was lying in a basin near the dockyard; and, at first sight, from her want of paint, and her dismantled state, I was much disappointed in her, and could not help showing that I was so to my friend.

“She is better than she looks,” he replied. “Wait a week or so, and you will think very differently of her. Many a gay-looking bark may have rotten timbers. Now I have narrowly examined hers, with an honest ship’s carpenter, and I find them all thoroughly sound.”

I felt the truth of his remarks, and was satisfied. She measured about a hundred and fifty tons, and gave promise of being both a good sea boat, and a fast sailer. I shall have to speak by and by of her armament and interior arrangements. She was built by the Spanish in Manilla; but being bought by some Americans, was employed as an opium smuggler, and captured by the Dutch. She was sold by the Government to some merchants who failed, and from whose creditors I bought her, not two years after she was launched. She was thus as strong as if new, and proved not unworthy of the good opinion formed of her by Fairburn.

Chapter Seventeen.

Java is one of the oldest possessions of the Dutch in the East. It was captured from them by the English during the late war, and held by us from 1812 to 1816, during which time it was placed under the government of the justly celebrated Sir Stamford Raffles, a truly philanthropic and enlightened man. Java, from what I saw and heard of it, is one of the most fertile islands in the world; and Sir Stamford, with every argument he could employ, urged the British Government, both for the sake of the natives, and for Great Britain herself, not again to abandon it to the Dutch. His advice was not attended to; and a country which would have proved of equal value to any of our possessions, was totally excluded from commercial intercourse with us. It runs east and west, being in length about seven hundred miles, and varying in width from thirty to a hundred miles.

Batavia is the capital of the west end, and the largest town in the island; while Sourabaya is next in size, and may be looked upon as the capital of the east. A glance at the map will show its shape and position better than can any description of mine. A small part of Java still belongs to some of the native princes; the rest is governed under a very despotic system by the Dutch. The natives are said to look back with affection to the English rule under Sir Stamford Raffles, and often express a wish that the country again belonged to Great Britain. In the centre of the south side of the island is a tract of country nominally ruled by two native princes, with the high-sounding titles of Emperor or Sunan of Surakerta, and the Sultan of Yugyakerta. Madura is also divided between the Sultan of Bankalang and the Panambehan of Sumanap. But these princes, potent as from their titles they may be supposed to be, are completely under the influence of Dutch viceroys, or residents as they are called; and I doubt if even they can have the satisfaction of cutting off the heads of any of their subjects without leave. The remainder of the island is divided into about twenty districts, each of which is called a Residency, from being governed by an officer called a Resident. His residency is again divided into districts, over each of which is placed a native chief, called a Regent, and a European officer, called an Assistant-Resident, who has under him other Europeans, called Controllers. Each Resident has under him officers, called Widono or Demang, whose deputies are called Bukkel; while every village, or Kampong as it is called, has its little chief, styled Kapella Kampong, or head of the village.

In this way, like an army, the whole population is arranged under a series of officers, the inferiors being answerable to those above them for the conduct of those whom they govern. The people live in communities, every man being obliged to belong to and reside in one particular kampong, which is fenced in, is governed by its kapella or head man, has its constable or police officer, and is guarded at night by one or two sentinels, armed with spears, stationed at the gate. All the land is the property of the government; no native, whatever his rank, being allowed to have land of his own.

The Dutch have not, as far as I could learn, attempted to convert the Javanese to Christianity, nor do they take any interest in educating them in any way. Their policy seems simply so to govern them that their productions may be increased, and, consequently, as large an amount as possible of revenue raised. Their rule being paramount, they have left the natives in their original condition, to enjoy their own manners and customs, and to be governed by their own chiefs in almost the same despotic manner as formerly. The Javanese are Mohammedans, but are not strict in their religious duties; and their priests can often only just manage to read the Koran, while their mosques are distinguished only from their houses by having a roof with a double gable at each end. The native population amounts to nearly nine millions.

The Javanese are a very docile, amiable, and intelligent people; they are faithful and honest servants, and are brave and trustworthy in danger, when they can trust to their leaders. Domestic slavery still exists, though the slave trade is prohibited. No European or native can acquire property in land, nor can any foreigner reside in the country without leave of the governor, or acquire the right of citizenship in it till after a residence of ten years. The governor has the power of banishing any troublesome subject from the island: all political discussion in society seems carefully avoided, and the freedom of the press is strictly prohibited. They do not now tax the people to such an intolerable degree as formerly, when they created an outbreak of the whole population, which was not put down till after much fighting in 1830. To prevent a similar occurrence, they have erected a chain of strong fortresses about fifty miles apart, from one end of the island to the other.

As I dare say some of my young readers will one of these days become governors of provinces, or hold other offices in our possessions abroad, I wish to impress strongly on their minds that the only just or lawful way of governing a people—the only sure way, indeed, of maintaining authority over them—is to improve, to the utmost of our power, their religious, their moral and physical condition. Of course there may be prejudices to be overcome, and bad spirits to be dealt with; but let a people, however savage their natures, once understand that we are anxious to do them all the good in our power, they will from that time submit to our rule, and gladly avail themselves of all the advantages we offer.

We may point with heartfelt satisfaction to the manner in which Sir James Brooke has brought peace and prosperity among the savage tribes of Sarawak, in Borneo, and how, having by a few necessary examples shown the power of Great Britain, the influence of his name is now sufficient to repress piracy in those seas where it once reigned predominant, and to encourage the honest and industrious in perseverance and well-doing. But I must return to my own adventures. I will, however, first give a list of the Dutch possessions in the East, many of which I visited. My creed is, that God rules the world; that He bestows his permanent blessing only on those who do his work; and that his work is to spread the truths of his religion, by our precept and example, among all those of our fellow-creatures over whom we have influence, and to improve their moral and physical condition. I believe also what is the case with individuals is the case with nations; and that, to prove this, we have prominent examples before our eyes. See what has become of the mighty empire Spain once possessed round the circle of the globe; remark how utterly unable France is to colonise, notwithstanding all her efforts to establish her influence in various parts of the world. The Dutch possessions in the East Indies consist of:

1. Part of the island of Sumatra.

2. Almost the whole of Java.

3. The islands of Banca and Billiton.

4. The islands of Bintang and Linga.

5. Large parts of the northern portion of the island of Borneo, which have been recently incorporated into one or two regular residencies, and assimilated to their Javanese possessions.

6. The Macassar government, including parts of the islands of Celebes and Sumbawa.

7. The Molucca Islands, and some detached outlying posts on several other islands.

8. The south-west half of Timor, and the neighbouring small islands.

9. To these may be added the recent conquests in the island of Bali.

The above rapid sketch will enable my readers to judge of the amount of influence which the Dutch have the power of exerting in those regions; how great a blessing they might prove to thousands and thousands of their fellow-creatures, if they acted in accordance with the divine precepts of Christianity, and as civilised and enlightened men should act. Surely, if they do not, their kingdom will be taken from them and given to another.

The evening of our arrival, Fairburn and I drove out to see the city and its environs, in a sort of calèche, drawn by two ponies, and driven by a Javanese boy, in a round japanned hat, like a china punch-bowl. The roads are lined on either side with fine avenues of trees arching overhead. We passed numerous villages, or kampongs as they are called, and many country houses, of good size, lighted up with lamps. In front of most of them were parties of ladies and gentlemen drinking coffee or wine, or smoking, or chatting, or playing at cards. We met several carriages with ladies in them in full dress, passed over numerous wooden bridges, and were much struck with the brilliant fire-flies which were flitting about among the trees. On re-entering the town, we passed large arched gateways leading to particular quarters, and remarked in that inhabited by the Chinese, the grotesque-looking houses, lit up with large paper-lanterns, of gaudy colours, and Chinese inscriptions or monsters on them, and the long rows of Chinese characters up and down the door-posts, or over the windows. After the quiet of the sea, our senses were confused by the strange cries, and the Babel of languages which resounded in our ears from the crowds of people who swarmed along the streets in every variety of Eastern dress. There was the half-naked coolie; the well-clothed Citinese, in a loose white coat, like a dressing-gown; the Arab merchant, in his flowing robes; and the Javanese gentleman, in smart jacket and trousers, sash and sarong, or petticoat, a curious penthouse-like hat or shade, and a strange-handled kriss stuck in his girdle. We could scarcely help laughing, when in our drive we met our corpulent Chinese gentleman, in a white dressing-gown-looking affair, smooth head, and a long pigtail, weighing down one side of a very English-looking little pony gig, driven by a smart Javanese boy, with the usual china punch-bowl worn by postilions, on his head. The Chinese flock here, as they do everywhere in the East, where money is to be made, in spite of all obstacles; and numbers of coolies, or porters, are to be found ready to carry anything or to go anywhere. The lower class of Chinese frequently act as pedlars; and we met several of them with two wicker cases slung on a bamboo yoke, selling drapery, or fruit, and other eatables; sometimes with a portable stove to cook them, or keep them hot.

On the following day I stopped one of these pedlars, who had, besides his cutlery, a display of ordinary jewels and female ornaments to sell. I was induced to do so, as I wished to purchase some trifle to give to little Maria as a parting gift. While I was looking over his stores, my eye fell on a brooch which was evidently of English workmanship. It struck me that it would answer my purpose by serving to fasten my young friend’s shawl, so I took it up to examine it more carefully. As I held it in my hand, I could not help fancying that I had seen it before. The idea grew stronger as I dwelt on it—my memory rushed back in an instant to the days of my childhood, and scenes long forgotten rose up before my eyes—my feelings grew intense—my heart beat quick—I gasped for breath. Yes, I was certain that very brooch which I held in my hand I had remembered since my infancy. Often had I gazed at it with delight. It was a cameo of exquisite workmanship, representing the three Graces, and had belonged to my kind friend, Mrs Clayton. I used to call one of the figures Mrs Clayton, another Ellen Barrow, and the third I said must be my mother. The pedlar’s eyes opened wider than any Chinese eyes were opened before, as he gazed at me with astonishment. He began to think that the jewel was some charm which had bewitched me, or that I was going into a fit. He, of course, could not guess the cause of my agitation; and I recovered my presence of mind in sufficient time to avoid telling him. I found that he set but slight value on the ornament, and infinitely preferred to it some glittering stores with gay tints. I looked over the remainder of his stores, keeping my eye constantly on the brooch to see that he did not remove it; but I did not find anything else which I could recognise. I then bought a bracelet for Maria, and a ring of trifling value, and next asked him carelessly for how much he would sell the brooch in case I wished to buy it. My coolness made him lower the price from what, when he first discovered the curiosity with which I regarded it, he intended to ask. He demanded a very moderate sum, which I paid him, and calmly put the jewel in my pocket. Had our conversation been carried on in a language I spoke fluently, I should certainly have betrayed the secret of my agitation by some hasty exclamation; but having to stop and consider the meaning of each word before I used it, gave me time to grow calm. The time had now come for me to put the inquiries I longed to make.

“By-the-bye, my friend, that jewel looks as if it were made in a country I have visited. How did you obtain it?” I asked with an unconcerned manner.

He looked at me with his keen eyes, as he replied, “I bought it with others to stock my cases.”

“Were there many others of the same description?” I inquired.

“Why do you ask?” he said, eyeing me sharply.

“Because it is an unusual ornament to see in this part of the world,” I replied.

“Yes, I bought a few other things, rings and other ornaments, and some European cutlery and arms, made in the land you come from,” he answered. “Your countrymen are very great in arms, and knives, and bales of cotton goods; and if we had not these dreadful taxes, we should purchase a large quantity from them.”

“That is very true,” I remarked. “But as you were saying, you have not had the jewels many months; tell me, how did you procure them?”

“I bought them in the way of trade,” he answered briefly.

“I suppose so; but when, and from whom, I am curious to know,” I asked. He was determined not to give me the information I required in a hurry.

“What makes you wish to know?” he said.

My patience was sorely tried; and I began to fear that he had some reasons for not telling me. I tried, however to disguise my feelings.

“People take fancies into their heads sometimes,” I said. “Now, I have taken a fancy to trace where that same brooch, which I have just bought of you, came from; and as I always repay those who gratify my whims, I do not think you will be the loser if you tell me.”

“My answer is, that I bought it in the fair way of trade, and I can say no more,” he replied, preparing, with an obstinate look, to put his bamboo yoke over his shoulder, and to walk away.

“Then you will lose a good customer for your folly,” I observed, feeling now that the more anxiety I displayed the less likely he would be to give me a true answer.

“However, if you think better of it, come to me to-morrow at my hotel, and perhaps I may be disposed to make some more purchases of you. But, my friend, remember a wise merchant takes a good offer when it is made to him.”

“You have not made me an offer,” he observed.

“What! do you expect to be paid simply for giving me a bit of information which cost you nothing, and cannot benefit you to keep?” I said, laughing. “However, as you value it so highly, I will give you the price of the brooch if you enable me in any way to trace where it came from.” The fellow, cunning as he was, was for a moment outwitted, and did not suspect the trembling anxiety with which I waited for his account.

“Well, then, you must know that two months ago I sailed from hence in a trading schooner to visit the island of Timor, where I wished to transact some mercantile business with the Portuguese. I can sometimes drive a bargain with them when I fail with the Dutch, who are very keen—too keen to please me. Have you ever been to Timor?”

“No,” I answered, with some little impatience; “no; but go on with your story.”

“I thought not,” he continued, with provoking slowness. “Timor is a large island, and a fine island, but not so large or so fine as Java. The Dutch have possessions in some part of it, as well as the Portuguese, and a good many of my countrymen are found there. It produces, too, a clever race of little horses—very clever little horses.”

“But what has that to do with the brooch?” I exclaimed, foolishly losing all my patience. “Go on with your story without further delay.” The fellow saw by the expression of my countenance that I was really anxious about the matter; and hoping, probably, to get better paid for his information another day, he pretended to remember that he had his goods to sell, and shouldering his bamboo, with his cases hanging at either end of it, off he marched, uttering aloud his cries to attract customers. I called him back; I felt inclined to rush after him—to seize him—to force the information from him; but he would not listen, and he was soon lost among the motley crowd I have described. I felt almost sure that he would come back the next day but in the meantime I was left in a state of the most cruel anxiety. Here was the best clue I had yet met with almost within my grasp, to guide me in my search for Eva and Mrs Clayton, and I was not allowed to reach it. The time had arrived for me to join Mr Scott, who had invited me to accompany him to his country house, about three miles from the town. The road led us past numerous kampongs and country houses, all the way being under lofty trees, which were made to arch overhead, and to afford a most grateful shade.

On our way, I mentioned my meeting with the pedlar.

“Should you know him again?” he asked.

“Among a hundred others,” I replied.

“Oh, then, there will be little difficulty in making him tell the truth,” he observed, with a smile. “If he does not do so of his own accord, I will get the resident to interfere, and he has wonderful methods of making a dumb Chinaman open his mouth. We will see about it the first thing to-morrow; for I agree with you, that the fellow’s information may be of great value.”

So it was arranged, and my mind was somewhat tranquillised. My new friend’s residence was like most country houses built by the Dutch in the island—long and low, and consisting only of one storey. In the centre was the chief room, of good size, opening both in front and behind, by two large door-ways, into spacious verandahs, as large as the room itself, and supported by pillars. In each of the wings were three good bedrooms. It stood in an enclosure of about an acre, with coach-house, stables, and servants’ houses and offices. The floors were formed of tiles, and in the principal room a cane matting was used. As it grew dusk, several people came in, some in carriages, and some on foot, and we had a good deal of amusing conversation, while cigars were smoked, and coffee, wine, and liqueurs were handed round. The Javanese were described as an excellent and faithful race of people, patient, good-tempered, faithful, and very handy and ingenious. A man who is a carpenter one day, will turn a blacksmith next, or from a farmer will speedily become a sailor; and a gentleman told me of a servant who, after having lived with him many years, begged to be allowed to go to sea, giving as his only reason, that he was tired of seeing the same faces every day. I partook of a curious fruit, of which the natives are very fond, called the Durinan. It required some resolution to overcome my repugnance to the scent, which is most powerful. The flavour is very peculiar; and I can best describe it as like rich custard and boiled onions mixed together.

There are about 60,000 inhabitants in Sourabaya. The lower orders of Javanese are a broadly built race of people, seldom above the middle height. The men, when actively employed, have on generally no other garment than a tight cloth round the loins; but at other times they wear a sarong, which is a long piece of coloured cotton wrapped round the waist, and hanging down to the knee. They sometimes add a jacket of cloth or cotton. The women seem to delight most in garments of a dark-blue colour, in shape something like a gown and petticoat; but the neck and shoulders are frequently left bare, and the sarong or gown is wrapped tightly under the armpits and across the bosom.

Both men and women wear their hair long, and turned up with a large comb, so that at a distance it is difficult to distinguish one from the other. The latter have no covering for the head, but the men wear conical hats, made of split bamboo.

A Javanese gentleman usually wears a handkerchief round his head, a smart green or purple velvet or cloth jacket with gold buttons, a shirt with gold studs, loose trousers and sometimes boots, and a sarong or sash, in the latter of which is always carried a kriss ornamented with gold and diamonds. The Chinese, as elsewhere, are a plump, clean, and good-tempered-looking people; they, as well as other people from the neighbouring countries, are under charge of a captain or headman, who is answerable for their good conduct. The Dutch troops, dressed in light-blue and yellow uniforms, and mustering upwards of two thousand infantry, besides artillery and cavalry, consist of Javanese, Madurese, and Bugis, with Negroes and Europeans, frequently Dutch convicts who, to escape punishment at home, have volunteered to serve in the army in Java. What can one think of the character of an army composed of such men? and how much more calculated must they be to injure and demoralise than to protect the people, and to maintain order, which is the only legitimate object of a military body! I hope that my readers are not tired with my long account of the Javanese. The next morning I returned to the town with Mr Scott, and immediately set out in search of the pedlar. I was not long in finding him, for he was hovering about the hotel in hopes of having another deal with me. He did not suspect that I had friends who could apply to the authorities to make him give me the information I required. I had my young Javanese guide watching, who instantly ran off to call Mr Scott, while I held the pedlar in close conversation. On Mr Scott’s appearance, the impudent look of the man instantly changed to one of submissive respect.

“I thought you were a wise man, Chin Fi,” began my friend, who appeared to know him. “Here is a gentleman offers you a handsome reward for a bit of trifling information, and you refuse to give it him; how is this?”

“Though the information is trifling, the young gentleman seemed very eager to get it,” answered Chin Fi, recovering himself. “But I am a reasonable man, and was about to give it when he interrupted me yesterday.”

“Continue your story, then,” said Mr Scott, aware, however, that he was not speaking the truth. “You were in the island of Timor when you procured the brooch in question.”

“I observed that I went to the island of Timor; but I did not say that I got the brooch there,” answered Chin Fi.

“Come, come, you are taking up our time uselessly. Where did you get it then?” exclaimed Mr Scott. “I must take other means of learning if you longer delay.” And he looked in the direction of the Resident’s house.

The Chinese guessed his intentions, and observed, “Well, if the gentleman will give me the price he offered, I will afford him all the information I possess. Knowledge is of value; and I am a poor man, and cannot give it without a return.”

On his saying this, I took out the proposed sum and put it into Mr Scott’s hands, who gave it him, saying, “Now remember, Chin Fi, if you wish to prosper, tell all you know about the matter.”

“I will,” said the pedlar, finding that he would gain nothing by further delay. “You must know that while I was in Timor, I was engaged in purchasing such merchandise as I thought would suit the taste of the people of this country. To obtain a passage back, I went to the Dutch settlement of Coupang. One day, having just transacted some affairs with a merchant, I was walking along the quay by the water’s side, when I observed a young Javanese lad following me. I happened to have remarked him while I was speaking to the merchant. He continued following me till I got into a narrow lane, where no one else happened to be; and he then came up to me, and said he had something to sell if I was inclined to buy. I asked him to show me his goods, and he pulled out a handkerchief from his breast, with some rings, a gold chain, and two brooches, one of which I sold yesterday to this gentleman. I purchased them of him, and asked him if he had any more. He said that he could not tell me; and I then inquired how he procured them. He answered it was a matter about which I had nothing to do, and being of his opinion I questioned him no further; but as I wished to have more dealings with him, I resolved to try and find out where he went. When he parted from me he took the way to the quay; and as from his dress and the look of his hands I suspected that he belonged to one of the vessels in the harbour, I went and hid myself in a spot where I could watch every part of the landing-place.

“I had waited about a couple of hours, when a boat came on shore from a European brig, lying outside all the other vessels, and presently two Englishmen or Americans, with two or three Malays, came down in company with the young Javanese lad, who was staggering under a heavy load of yams, shaddocks, bananas, cocoa-nuts, and other fruit and vegetables. It is odd, I thought, that this boy who has so much money at his command, should be made to do the work of a slave. I suspected that there was something irregular, and that the lad had either stolen the jewels or was selling them for some one else. I made inquiries about the brig, and found that she was an American, and had put in for water and provisions; but for her name, I can neither remember it, nor pronounce it, probably, if I did. I expected next day to find that the brig had gone, and to hear no more about the matter; but there she still was, and who should I meet but the Javanese lad walking by himself in a disconsolate manner near the quay? I beckoned him to me, and asked him if he had any more jewels to sell; but he answered, No; and that he wished he had not sold those, as it had done no good.”

“I inquired what he meant; but for some time he would not answer, till I persuaded him that I was his friend, and that I by chance knew some of his relatives. He then told me that the jewels had belonged to an English lady, who was kept on board the brig against her will, and that she had employed him to sell them, in the hopes of being able to bribe some one to help her to escape, or to carry intelligence of her position to the authorities of any port at which the brig might touch. The lad, who seemed in many respects very simple-minded and honest, said that he wanted to get away, but dared not—that he had not originally belonged to the brig, but was taken out of another vessel, and made to work on board her, his chief employment lately being to attend on the lady in the cabin.”

While he was speaking, several seamen came out of an arrack shop some way off. He caught sight of them and hurried off to the quay. They all jumped into the boat, and pulled away for the brig as fast as their oars could send her through the water. Instantly the vessel’s sails were loosed, her anchor was weighed, and she stood out to sea. Soon afterwards, a Dutch ship of war came in, and a boat from the shore going out to meet her, without dropping her anchor she made sail in the direction the brig had taken.

“Did she overtake the brig?” I inquired eagerly.

“I do not know,” replied the pedlar. “I came away before the man-of-war’s return, and had not again thought of the circumstances till your inquiries recalled them to my memory.”

Believing that the Chinese had given me a faithful account, I further rewarded him, and dismissed him, highly satisfied with the transaction. It must not be supposed that he used the words I have written, for I have given a very free translation of his story, which was in very flowery language, and occupied much more time than mine will to read. I cross-questioned him also about Eva; but he had heard nothing of a little girl, nor had he suspected that the brig was a pirate.

Mr Scott, however, agreed with me that there was every probability of her having been the Emu, and that my first point of inquiry should be at Timor, while I also should endeavour to fall in with the man-of-war which had chased her. It was suggested that I might most likely hear of the man-of-war at Batavia, and that I should endeavour to touch there. Oh, how I longed to have my schooner ready for the enterprise!

Chapter Eighteen.

Mr Scott accompanied me to the house of the Resident, that I might state my case; and on our way we met Captain Cloete, who volunteered to join us. The Resident received me most kindly, and promised to do all in his power to facilitate my object. He said that strict enquiries should be made on board all vessels coming to the port, whether a brig answering the description of the Emu had been met with; and he also engaged that the same inquiries should be made in Batavia and throughout all the ports belonging to the Dutch.

I was much indebted to the influence of my friends, and the warm interest they took in me, and for the alacrity displayed by the Resident; but I felt that this was no reason why I should in any way relax in my own exertions. The schooner could not be got ready for sea in less than three weeks, in spite of all Fairburn’s exertions; and I considered how I could best employ the time to forward my object. It must not be supposed that I had forgotten the widow Van Deck and little Maria. Fairburn and I had still our duty to perform, in seeing them placed in safety with their friends; but as his presence was essential in attending to the fitting out of the vessel, I resolved to undertake the office of their conductor, having already engaged to pay their expenses. They were both now sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey up the country, to a place where an uncle of the widow resided, as Assistant Resident.

I was, however, very unwilling to leave Sourabaya in the chance of obtaining any further news of the Emu, and had hopes of being able to send to their relations to induce some one to come down and receive them, when the point was decided for me. The heat and excitement of the town was already telling on me, and Mr Scott made me consult a medical man, who urged me at once to go up to the highlands of the interior, to regain my strength before I went to sea.

The widow Van Deck expressed herself much satisfied with the arrangement, and very grateful for the care taken of her, while little Maria seemed highly delighted at finding that I was to accompany them on the journey. Captain Cloete’s first lieutenant, Mr Jeekel, also arranged to join the party, of which I was very glad, as he was a very well informed man, and a most amusing companion. We engaged a carriage, with two inside seats for the widow and Maria, and two outside for Mr Jeekel and me. Mr Scott kindly urged me to take care of myself and get well. Fairburn promised to get on with the schooner’s outfitting; and just as we were starting, Captain Cloete came and put a sum of money into the hands of the widow.

“There,” he said, “sailors should always help each other; so I and a few other friends have collected that little sum to defray the expenses of your journey; so that you need not feel yourself a burden to your young friend here, while you will have something in your purse when you present yourself to your relatives.”

The tears came into the widow’s eyes as she received this unexpected kindness, and her feelings almost checked her expressions of thanks.

The evening before our departure, as I was sitting with the widow and little Maria, the former observed—“You may be surprised, Mr Seaworth, at my thinking it necessary to give you so much trouble about my return to my relations; but I must confess to you that I offended them very much by marrying Captain Van Deck, whom they looked upon as my inferior in rank, and I am full of doubts as to my reception. Had he been alive, I should not have ventured to return; but now that he is in his grave, I trust that their anger may be softened. I have no one else to depend on. I cannot obtain my own livelihood; but they would not, I trust, allow a relation to beg in the streets. If they will once receive me, I hope, by my conduct, to gain their affection, which before I married I did not, through my own fault, possess; and I therefore do not in any way complain of their treatment of me. I have had, I assure you, a great struggle with the rebellious spirit within me; but I have conquered, and am happier even than I ever expected to be.” In reply, I assured her that I thought her relations would, after she had spent a little time with them, rejoice at her return; for in the frame of mind to which she had brought herself, I felt sure she would very soon gain their regard; and I thought that little Maria could not fail of attaching to herself every one who knew her.

I have not space to afford a full account of our journey. Indeed, I cannot do more than give the general result of my observations. We had passports, without which we could not have proceeded; and we were obliged to obtain leave from each Resident to pass through his district. We had four good little horses; and for many miles proceeded along the plain, on a fine broad hard road, raised two or three feet above the level of the country. The post houses are about six miles apart, and at each of them there is a large wooden shed, stretching completely across the road, to shelter the horses and travellers from the sun while the horses are changed. The country, as we proceeded, became very rich and highly cultivated; and between the groves of cocoa-nuts and areca palms, and other trees, which bordered the road, we got glimpses of a fine range of mountains, which increased its interest. The crops were sugar-cane, and maize and rice. The rice-fields are divided into many small plats or pans, about ten yards square, with ridges of earth eighteen inches high, for the purpose of retaining the water, which is kept two or three inches deep over the roots of the grain, till it is just ready to ripen. A number of little sheds stood in the fields, with a boy or girl stationed in each, who kept moving a collection of strings, radiating in every direction, with feathers attached to them, for the purpose of keeping off the flights of those beautiful little birds, called Java sparrows, hovering above. From these plots the rice, or paddy, as it is called, is transplanted into the fields, each plant being set separately. How our English farmers would stare at the idea of transplanting some hundred acres of wheat! Yet these savages, as they would call them, set them this worthy example of industry. We passed a market crowded with people. There were long sheds, in some of which were exposed European articles, such as cutlery and drapery; in others, drugs or salt-fish, or fruit and confectionery; while at some open stalls the visitors were regaling themselves with coffee, boiled rice, hot meat, potatoes, fruit, and sweetmeats. We stopped at a large town on the coast, called Probolingo, where there was an excellent hotel. There was also a square in it, with a mosque on one side, the house of the Resident on another, a range of barracks on the third, and a good market-place, where I saw piles of magnificent melons, for which the neighbourhood is celebrated. It is a place of some trade; and we were told that there were in the storehouses coffee and sugar sufficient to load twenty large ships. Broad roads, bordered by fine trees, with native villages, and large European houses, surround the town.

As we continued our journey on the following day, we began to meet with coffee plantations, which are neatly fenced in, and consist of some twenty acres each. They are pleasant-looking spots, as the shrubs are planted in rows, with tall trees between each row to shelter them from the sun. Sometimes, too, we came upon a species of Banian tree, a noble, wide-spreading tree, with drooping branches, under which might be seen a waggon laden with paddy, and a group of people with their oxen resting by its side. I remarked that coffee was carried in large hampers on the backs of ponies. We used to lunch sometimes at the bamboo provision stalls, under the shade of tall trees near the kampongs, where we found hot tea and coffee, sweet potatoes, rice cakes, and a kind of cold rice pudding.

The Javanese delight in a sort of summer-house, which is called a pondap; it is built to the height of sixteen feet or so on stout pillars, with a raised floor, and covered with a thatch made of the leaves of the palm. It is open at the sides, except a railing of netting three feet high, and sometimes blinds of split cane are rolled up under the eaves, and can be let down to exclude the sun or rain.

I must describe a “passangerang,” or guest-house, at several of which we stopped for the night. It was a large bamboo-house, standing on a raised terrace of brick, and with a broad verandah running all round it. There was a centre hall to serve as the grand saloon, and several well-furnished bedrooms on either side. The view was very beautiful. The ground on every side undulated agreeably: on one side it sloped down to a shining lake, bordered by a thick belt of wood, with a silvery brook escaping from a narrow ravine, foaming and leaping into it; while beyond arose the stately cone of the burning mountain of the Lamongan, some four thousand feet in height, a wreath of white smoke curling from its summit, from its base a green slope stretched off to the right, whence, some twenty miles distant, shot up still more majestically the lofty cone of the Semiru, a peak higher than that of Teneriffe; then, again, another irregular ridge ran away to the north, among which is the volcano of the Bromo. On another side could be seen the sea gleaming in the far distant horizon, while over all the country near was a lovely variety of cultivated fields, and patches of wood, and slopes of the alang-alang, a long green grass with a very broad leaf, and here and there a native kampong half concealed by its groves of fruit-trees. Everything, both in form and colour, looked beautiful as it glittered in the hot sunshine, while a fresh breeze from the south tempered the heat, and reminded me of a summer day in England. A table was spread in the verandah with a snow white tablecloth, and all the conveniences of glass, plate, and cutlery, and covered with dishes of poultry, and meats, and rice, and curries, pilaus, and soups, all well cooked, with attendants doing their best to please us.

Little Maria was enchanted—she had seen nothing in her life before like it; and all the sickness and perils she had gone through were forgotten. Lieutenant Jeekel and I were much pleased also; and had I not had my important enterprise in view, I should have liked to have spent many days there. As we strolled out in the evening at dusk, we found two men following us with spears; and when we inquired the reason of their attendance, they said that they came to defend us from tigers. We laughed at this, but they assured us that tigers were very abundant, and that they often carried off men to eat them, and sometimes even came into the houses when hard pressed by hunger. No one will venture out at night without torches to keep them at a distance. We afterwards found that their fears were not exaggerated, for a man from a village close to us going out to work before daybreak was carried off by a tiger from between two companions, who in vain endeavoured to save him. After this we took care not to expose ourselves to the chance of forming a supper for a tiger. The next evening I was nearly stepping on a snake, the bite of which is said to be certain death. I mention these circumstances merely to show that, fertile as is the country and magnificent the scenery, it has its drawbacks. While we were in the high country, it rained generally from two till four o’clock, and then the weather became as fine as ever. It always rained in earnest, and never have I seen more downright heavy pours. The inhabitants of the mountains are far superior in stature and independence of manners to those of the plains. Their houses are, however, inferior in many respects; they are built of planks roughly split from trees with a wedge, while their posts are formed of the camarina equally roughly squared. The roof is composed of reeds or shingles. The interior consists of but one room, with a square fireplace of brick at one end, and seats round it; the bed-places of the family are on either side; and overhead are racks to hold spears and agricultural instruments, the whole blackened with the constant smoke, which has no other outlet besides the door and window. The houses of the peasantry on the plains are composed almost entirely of bamboo; the posts and beams of the stoutest pieces of that plant, and the walls of split bamboo woven into mats, the roof being covered with leaves of the hissah palm.

We were now approaching the end of our journey, and the widow began to be very nervous as to the reception she was likely to meet with from her relations. The lieutenant, especially, tried to keep up her spirits; and it appeared to me, whatever the arguments he used, that he succeeded very well.

I am afraid that, in my descriptions, I have not done full justice to the beauty of the scenery, the high state of cultivation of the country, the excessive politeness of the people—I might almost call it slavish, were not the natural impulses of the Javanese so kind—the luxurious provisions, the comfort of the passangerangs or guest-houses, the purity of the air, and the deliciousness of the climate of the hills. We did not encounter a beggar of any description, and we saw no people in a state of what could be called poverty; so, although the Dutch rule most despotically, this system apparently tends to secure the creature comforts of the lower orders. But, as I have already observed, it does no more—it regards these frail bodies, but totally neglects their immortal souls.

One day we turned off from the high road, and took a path apparently but little used, as it was a complete carpet of short green turf, which led us across a gently undulating champaign country; passing now through patches of beautiful forest, now through open rice-fields or small plains of alang-alang. Here and there was a rocky isolated hill crowned with clumps of noble trees, while sparkling brooks and rills seemed to cool the air, while they refreshed our sight, their murmuring sound reaching constantly our ears. Many of the rills were artificial, leading from one rice field to another. The industrious inhabitants were guiding their ploughs or otherwise in their fields, while here and there a grove of fruit-trees, with cocoa-nuts, areca palms, and clusters of bamboos rising among them, showed the situation of the villages. Nearly surrounding this beautiful country swept a semicircle of magnificent mountains of the most picturesque description, one out-topping the other, while in the far distance the stately Semiru raised his lofty cone into the blue sky.

As we had now arrived close to the residence of the widow’s relations, we thought it advisable to forward a letter, which the lieutenant undertook to write, giving an outline of what had occurred, and announcing our arrival. The letter was composed, but we were not quite satisfied with it; and at last our worthy friend volunteered to ride forward himself to prepare the way, suggesting that his rank, and his acquaintance with a large number of people, might have some little influence in softening matters. We in the meantime remained at the passangerang awaiting his return. Two hours passed away and he did not appear, and the widow began to be anxious; a third had elapsed, and no Lieutenant Jeekel was to be seen.

“My uncle and his family are away, or he may be dead, or he will not listen to our friend,” sighed the widow.

We were sitting in a sort of raised summer-house, in the shape of a tower, built of bamboo. From our elevated perch we commanded a view of the road.

“No, I feel that I am discarded for ever, and must be content to live on the charity of strangers,” continued the widow, soliloquising. “For myself I care not; but for you, my sweet child, it is a hard lot.”

“Do not vex yourself about me, my dear aunt,” answered little Maria. “But ah! see, who is that coming along the road?”

We all looked out of the balcony, and observed two horsemen, with long spears glittering in the sun, advancing slowly towards us. A little beyond them was a larger party, one of whom was evidently a chief with his officers, from the turbans on their heads, their blue cloth jackets, and rich shawls round their waists, with highly ornamented krisses stuck in them; the blue and red cloth over their saddles, and the silver trappings to their horses. Two Europeans were with them: one we soon recognised as the lieutenant; the other, a middle-aged, gentlemanly-looking man, was a stranger to me; but the widow, as she watched him, exclaimed—

“It is—yes, it must be my uncle!”

The Javanese seemed to pay him great respect. He threw himself from his horse, which one of them held, and with the lieutenant ascended the stairs. On entering the room he hurried up to the widow, and to her no little surprise gave her a warm embrace.

“Well, my dear niece, I am glad to hear from your friend here, that you placed reliance on the affection of your relatives,” he began, as he handed her to a chair in an affectionate manner. “Let the past be forgotten; and now let me ask you to make me known to the young gentleman who has acted so generously to you. Mr Seaworth, I understand.”

Whereupon I shook hands, and made a suitable answer; and then little Maria was introduced, and we were all in a few minutes on the best terms possible. I thought Mr Jeekel’s eye twinkled, but he said nothing; and I was somewhat surprised, after all the difficulties we expected to experience, at the facility with which the reconciliation had been accomplished. But the cause was soon explained.

“I conclude, my dear niece,” said her uncle to her on a sudden, “you have received due notice of the good fortune which has befallen you.”

“No!” answered the widow, surprised, as well she might. “I have been prepared only for misfortunes. What do you mean?”

“Allow me then to congratulate you sincerely,” he replied. “I have great satisfaction in being the first to announce to you that your great-uncle, M. Deikman, who died a year ago, has left you heiress to all his property, amounting to twenty thousand rupees a year; and you may at once take possession of it.”

I will not stop to describe the contentment of the widow at her change of fortune, the joy of little Maria, and the satisfaction of the lieutenant. I spent four days at the house of her uncle, who was very attentive to me; and I need scarcely say that, when the time for my departure arrived, I was very sorry to leave her with the prospect of never again seeing her; and still more so my young friend Maria. I am happy to say that prosperity did not appear to have made the widow forget the good resolutions she had formed in adversity. She insisted on repaying me the money I had spent on her account; and I had reason afterwards to know that she was not ungrateful. It was arranged that Lieutenant Jeekel was to accompany me, and that we were to travel on horseback, by which mode we should be able to diverge oftener from the high road, and to see more of the country than we had been able to do coming. Little Maria cried very much as I wished her good-bye.

“You are going away, and I shall never—never—see you again, my dear, dear Mr Seaworth!” she exclaimed, as she held my hands, and looked up affectionately into my face. “Now, promise me, if you succeed in finding your dear little Eva—and I am sure you will find her—that you will come back and show her to me. I so long to see her, and to love her, and to tell her how kind you have been to me. I will pray every night and morning that she may be restored to you, and that she may live to reward you for all your trouble in looking after her. You will promise then, my dear Mr Seaworth; I know you will.”

“Indeed, I should be very sorry if I thought I was not to see you again,” I replied, completely won by her artless manner. “If I possibly can—if I am so blessed as to find my sister—I will come and introduce her to you.”

With this answer the little girl was satisfied. At length we started. I had a very pleasant journey, and collected a great deal of information as to the manners and customs of the Javanese. We saw several tigers, and deer, and wild hogs, and monkeys innumerable, and snakes and other reptiles; but had no adventure worth recording, and reached Sourabaya in safety.

Chapter Nineteen.

We entered Sourabaya in the evening, when the streets were still crowded with the mixed population of the town, in their varied and picturesque dresses, each speaking their own language, or uttering the various cries of their respective trades. I directly rode to the hotel in the hopes of finding Fairburn there, as I was eager to learn how he was progressing with the schooner. He had not returned; and I was setting off to the docks when I met him coming in.

“How do you get on?” I exclaimed, as soon as I saw him. “Are we likely soon to be able to start?”

“We have gone ahead more rapidly than I expected,” he answered. “What by good wages and encouragement, and constant supervision, the carpenters and riggers have got on so well, that I expect she will be ready for sea in a few days. The more I see of the little craft, the more I like her; for she is a beauty, I can assure you, and will sail well too.”

“I am delighted to hear it, and thank you for all your exertions in my cause,” I answered. “I long to be fairly under weigh. But have you gained any more information about the Emu?”

“Nothing of importance,” he answered. “A Dutch merchantman came in here a few days ago, and she reports that some months since, on her outward voyage, she was chased by a strange brig, which showed no colours; but, by carrying all sail, she got away from her. If that was the Emu, it shows that she has taken regularly to piracy, and that we must be prepared to encounter her.”

To this I agreed; but the thought that my sister and Mrs Clayton were among wretches who were pursuing such a course made me feel very wretched. The next morning I accompanied Fairburn down to the vessel. I was indeed surprised with the appearance she presented. Indeed, she required little more than to get her sails bent and her stores on board to be ready for sea. She mounted four carronades, and one long brass gun amidships, besides numerous swivels on her bulwarks, to enable her to contend in every way with any piratical prahus we might encounter. Besides these, her arm-chests contained a good supply of muskets, pistols, and cutlasses.

“I have engaged also the best part of our crew,” said Fairburn. “They are all staunch fellows, or I am much mistaken. It is important that we should be well manned. There are eight Englishmen, four Dutchmen, two Americans, and six Javanese. The last are fine fellows, and, well treated, will labour hard; and if well led, and they can see that they may trust to their officers, they will prove as brave as any men in the world. See how they all go about their work. If I was a stranger to them, I should say they were the men to trust to. They have found out already that I chose all good men, and that there are no skulkers among them.”

We were standing on the quay at the time, and as he spoke he pointed to the schooner where all hands were actively employed in various avocations, setting up the rigging, bending sails, and hoisting in stores.

“And what sort or officers have you engaged?” I asked.

“Two; and both good. One is a Dutchman, and the other is English. I had some difficulty in arranging the papers, and in getting permission to carry arms but, thanks to the assistance of Mr Scott and the kindness of the Resident, the affair has been settled. I cannot however, go as master of the schooner.”

“You not master!” I exclaimed. “Who, then, is to be?”

“The Dutchman, M. Van Graoul. He is a very good fellow in spite of his name,” he answered, laughing. “The fact is, he is nominally captain, and is answerable for our good behaviour—that we will not turn pirates, or commit any other little irregularities. I am to have charge of the vessel, and he is to obey me in all things lawful; indeed, he is to act as my mate except on certain occasions, when we are to change places. The arrangement is perfectly understood between us, and is not at all unusual.”

I replied that I was satisfied if he was, and thought that the arrangement would not inconvenience him.

“You are aware, also, that you must sail under the Dutch flag,” he continued. “It is better known than the English in these seas, and so far that is an advantage; but I daresay you would rather, as I should when it comes to fighting, have our own glorious standard waving over our heads.”

I agreed with him there also; but I found that I was much indebted to the Dutch authorities, as so very strict is the government in all matters of the sort, that it was only in consequence of the peculiar circumstances of the case that I was allowed to fit out the vessel at all, many regulations being relaxed in my favour. I forgot to say that the schooner was called the Fraulein, which is the Dutch, or rather German, of young lady; and I thought the name pretty and appropriate. Behold me, then, the owner of the schooner Fraulein, Captain Van Graoul, just ready for sea, and as complete a little man-of-war as ever floated. I was going to call her a yacht; but she was fitted more for fighting than pleasure, except that there was one cabin which, with a confidence I scarcely had a right to, I had had prepared for Eva and Mrs Clayton.

Our papers were all in order, and we had cleared out regularly. I had taken leave of the Resident and other authorities, and thanked Mr Scott to the utmost of my power for his liberality and confidence in me; and I had wished all the other friends I had formed good-bye, except Lieutenant Jeekel, who told me he intended to come and see the last of me on board. I felt that I had at length commenced my enterprise; my hopes rose with the occasion. There was an elasticity in my spirits, a buoyancy in my step, which I had never before experienced, as I walked the deck of the Fraulein, as she lay in the roads just before getting under weigh.

“There is a loaded boat coming off, and I think I see Lieutenant Jeekel in her,” said Captain Van Graoul, who had been looking through his glass towards the shore.

He was right; in a short time my friends came alongside in a boat laden with provisions and fruits, and luxuries of every kind and description which the country could produce. While I was welcoming him on board, the things were being handed up on deck.

“Oh, you must not thank me for anything there,” he exclaimed, with a smile, as he saw me looking at what was going forward. “I have but performed a commission for a friend of ours, who charged me to see it executed, or not to venture into her presence again.”

“Oh, I understand,” I replied, laughing significantly. “Pray, whenever you are tempted back to her neighbourhood, express my gratitude, and assure her and Maria that I will not forget them, or the last mark of their kindness.”

I suspected that it would not be long before my message was delivered, if the lieutenant could get leave from his ship, which was then refitting. He gave me also a satisfactory piece of intelligence, to the effect, that as soon as his brig was ready for sea, she was to be sent to cruise in search of the Emu, should her piratical career not yet have terminated.

I was very unwilling to have to go so far out of my way as Batavia; for I felt certain that my search should be carried on among the wilder and less frequented islands lying to the east of Java, where the pirates would have little fear of being surprised. At the same time, I might obtain important information at Batavia; and I knew the necessity of beginning my search systematically.

Everybody on board was in high spirits, and they all having had the object of the cruise explained to them, seemed to enter into it with a zeal and alacrity which was highly gratifying to me. We had a complete little Babel, as far as a variety of tongues are concerned, in the Fraulein; but, thanks to Fairburn’s admirable arrangements, aided by Van Graoul, perfect harmony instead of discord was produced.

I have not yet described Van Graoul. He was a stout man with a placid, good-humoured expression of countenance, and was content, provided he could enjoy his well-loved pipe, and an occasional glass of schiedam, to let the world take its way without complaining. He wore light-blue trousers, with enormous side-pockets, into which his hands were always thrust; a nankeen jacket, and a wide-brimmed straw hat, with a bright yellow handkerchief round his neck. He was a very good seaman in most respects; and was so perfectly cool in danger, that it was difficult to believe he was aware of the state of affairs. He did not, however, make a good master, as he was subject to fits of absence, when he was apt to forget the object of his voyage. The junior mate was a young Englishman, of the name of Barlow, a very steady, trustworthy person. Then, there was a boatswain, a gunner, a carpenter, and other petty officers; and I must not forget to mention Hassan, the young Malay, and Kalong the Dyak, who considered themselves our immediate attendants, while Ungka was a favourite with all.

As it was impossible to say where the Emu might be, we were constantly on the look-out for any vessel answering her description. It was agreed that if we did fall in with her, we must endeavour to take her by surprise, or to capture her by boarding, as, were we to fire at her, our round shot might injure those we were in search of. We had a very short passage to Batavia, and anchored in the roadstead. The town being built on a swamp, and planted with trees, was entirely concealed from our view. I immediately went on shore, my boat being tracked up the river against a strong current.

I was struck by the immense number of alligators which infest the river. They are held sacred by the Javanese, who will not destroy them; and it is said that they treat their brown skins with equal respect, but have no compunction about eating a white man. They live upon the number of dead animals and offal which come floating down the river. They are useful as acting the part of scavengers to the stream they inhabit. The streets of Batavia run for the most part in a north or south direction, are kept in neat order, regularly watered, and planted with rows of trees in the Dutch style. Formerly canals intersected the streets in all directions, rendering the city the most pestilential place within the tropics; but by the orders of Sir Stamford Raffles, while the English had possession of the island, they were all filled up, except the Grand Canal and its tributaries. The city is still far from healthy, and no one who can help it remains there; the government officers and merchants all going out to their country houses in the afternoon. My stay in Batavia was so short, that I had not time to make many remarks about the place. In consequence of the recommendations I had received from Sourabaya, the Resident forwarded my views in every way, giving me passes to facilitate my search throughout all the Dutch settlements I might visit.

Fairburn and Van Graoul were in the meantime making inquiries among the masters of all the trading vessels in the harbour, whether they had seen or heard of a vessel which might prove to be the Emu. They, however, could only obtain rumours of her, and no one was met who had actually been attacked by her. For some time past it appeared that she had not even been heard of; and the opinion was, either that her career had by some means or other been brought to a close, or that she had altogether quitted those seas and gone to commit her depredations in another quarter of the globe. This last idea was the most distressing, because, if such was the case, I could not tell for what length of time my search might be prolonged. As, however, Timor was the last place she had been known to touch at, I determined to proceed there, and thence to steer a course as circumstances might direct.

We were once more at sea. It is very delightful to sail over the ocean when the breeze is fresh, and sufficiently strong to send the vessel skimming along over the water, and yet not sufficiently so to throw up waves on the surface. Many such days I remember, and many nights, when the moon, in tranquil majesty was traversing the pure dark-blue sky, her light shed in a broad stream of silver across the purple expanse on which the vessel floated, a mere dot it seemed in the infinity of space. Had I been free from anxiety, the life I spent on board the Fraulein would have been most delightful; but my mind was always dwelling on Eva, and thinking how she was situated; and my anxiety to rescue her prevented me from enjoying the present.

We had been two weeks at sea, having experienced chiefly calms and light winds, when one morning at daybreak, while on the right of the island of Lombok, the lofty cone of its volcano rising blue and distinct against the sky, a square-rigged vessel was descried in the north-east quarter. She was apparently standing on a bowline to the southward, so that, by continuing our course, we should just contrive to get near enough to speak her. There was considerable excitement on board, for we had not spoken any vessel since we were out. She might give us some information respecting the Emu; or it was just possible that she might be the Emu herself. We stood on till we made her to be a low black brig, with a somewhat rakish appearance. This answered the description of the Emu. We had now to consider how to approach the stranger without exciting her suspicions. We first hoisted the Dutch ensign, and out flew, in return from her peak, the stars and stripes of the United States.

“He is not afraid of showing his colours,” said Van Graoul, looking at the brig through his glass. “But ah! see there! He does not like our look. He has put his helm up, and away he goes before the wind.”

So it was. The stranger altered her course, and away she stood to the eastward, pretty briskly setting her studding-sails and royals; by which we calculated that she had a good many hands on board. This behaviour of the stranger increased our suspicions of her character; and we accordingly made all sail in chase. We were now to try the speed of the little Fraulein. The breeze freshened, and away she flew over the water; but the brig was much larger, and soon showed us that she had a fast pair of heels. Do all we could, indeed, we could only continue to hold our own with her. Sometimes we even fancied that she was distancing us, and then after an hour had passed, we did not appear to have sunk her hull in the water.

“Oh that we could but come up with her!” I exclaimed. “My sweet little Eva, we would soon liberate you from the power of these ruffians.”

Van Graoul had his eyes upon the brig, as he said quite calmly, as if he had been thinking over the matter, “Has it not struck you, Mr Seaworth, that yonder stranger may have as bad an opinion of us as we have of her; and that seeing a piccarooning little craft, no offence to the Fraulein, standing towards her, she thought the safest thing she could do would be to keep out of our way?”

This was one mode of accounting for the flight of the stranger; still I did not like the idea of giving up the chase. Van Graoul’s notion might be correct; but yet it was possible that she was, after all, the Emu. At last the sun went down; but the night was so clear that we could still see the chase, and most perseveringly we followed her. The morning dawned, and there she was just ahead of us; and so well defined did every spar and sail appear in the clear atmosphere, that I could scarce persuade myself that she was far beyond the range of our guns. She had, indeed, rather increased than diminished her distance from us. At the same rate, unless the breeze failed her, and favoured us, she must finally escape from us. Approaching the evening, some low wooded land appeared ahead, towards which she was steering.

“What can she intend to do now?” I asked of Fairburn.

“She intends to run between a number of low coral islands, which form the land you see ahead, and so expects to escape us,” he answered. “The navigation is very difficult, and very dangerous for a stranger; but Van Graoul knows them well, and if she goes in we can follow.”

“By all means, let us follow them,” I exclaimed. “Everything makes me think that must be the Emu.”

“I wish that I could be certain,” said Fairburn. “We have a longer cruise before us.”

I asked Van Graoul the name of the islets scattered about in a long line before us.

“They are called the Pater Nosters, because strangers are apt to say their Pater Nosters when they happen to find themselves among them in bad weather,” he answered.

The day was clear and the sea smooth; but I could suppose that in thick weather they must be very dangerous. The brig stood boldly on, with all sail set; and as we saw her, she seemed about to run directly on shore. Our glasses were continually fixed on her. One moment she was before us—the next she had disappeared. An exclamation of surprise escaped from many of the crew.

“Hello! where’s the stranger?” cried one.

“Why, if she don’t beat the Flying Dutchman!” exclaimed another.

“I thought no good of her when I saw her up-helm and run away from us as she did,” said a third, a Yankee, who was one of the oracles of the crew.

Van Graoul laughed. “We shall soon get a sight of her again,” he said; “she will get becalmed among the trees, or will find the wind baffling, when we, with our fore and aft sails shall have the advantage.”

The breeze still held, and my heart beat quick at the thoughts of what was going to occur. At last we approached the land, or rather the islands. They stretched away for miles before us on either side, for we appeared to be near the centre of the group. The highest were not more than five or six feet out of the water; but the greater number were only two or three feet, and some were scarcely as many inches above it, and it seemed extraordinary that the waves should not wash completely over them. That they did not do so, even in rough weather, was evident from the thick groves of cocoa-nut, palm, and other tropical trees, which grew on them, while a bright sand, on which were strewed numberless beautiful shells, fringed their borders.

Van Graoul now showed some of his good qualities. Hands were stationed at the bowsprit end, each fore-yard arm, and the mast-head, to keep a bright look-out for the coral ridges, which had not yet shown themselves above water, while he stood forward where he could be seen by the helmsman, ready to direct him in the devious course we were about to pursue. I had had too recent a lesson of the dangers of coral reefs not to feel anxious as I found myself again among them. Coral islands have always struck me as one of the most interesting curiosities of nature. A minute marine insect builds up from the bottom of the sea the solid foundation. The waves break the summit into sand. The birds of the air come and rest there, and bring seeds, which in time spring up and decay, till a soil is formed to give nourishment to more lofty trees, such as we now saw before us. We shot in between a narrow opening with the water of the deepest blue on either side. All hands were at their stations. Fairburn acted as quarter-master, ready to repeat our pilot’s signals. It was a nervous time: now we seemed rushing on against a bank of trees, and directly we turned to the right hand or to the left, through another opening, the termination of which was completely hidden from our sight; and had I not felt confidence in Van Graoul, I should have fancied that we were running into a blind passage, without another outlet. On looking out astern, I found that we had completely lost sight of the sea, and thus were on every side surrounded by trees and reefs. A stranger would, indeed, have found no little difficulty in getting out of the place, had he ever by any wonderful chance managed to get into it. Still on we flew.

“Now,” exclaimed Van Graoul triumphantly, “we shall see directly; and if I mistake not, we shall not be far astern of her.”

Soon after he spoke we shot past a thickly-wooded point, and emerged into open, lake-like expanse. I saw his countenance fall. The stranger was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Twenty.

Everybody on board experienced a feeling of blank disappointment, as in vain we looked in the hopes of seeing the royals of the brig appearing above the trees. Either Van Graoul had miscalculated her distance from us, or she had taken some other passage; or, as Dick Harper the Yankee seaman observed, she was in truth the Flying Dutchman. At all events it appeared that we had run into a most dangerous position, to very little purpose. Should the brig be the pirate, and still be concealed somewhere in the neighbourhood—if we brought up, she might at night attack us with her boats; and though we might beat them off, we might not escape loss, and at the same time be as far from our object as ever. We had no time for deliberation—our course must now be ahead, so we stood across the lake-like expanse I have spoken of, where as much caution as before was necessary; for it was full of reefs, and in another quarter of an hour we were again threading the labyrinth-like canals from which we had before emerged. Every instant I hoped to come upon the chase, but still as we sailed on she eluded us.

His attention was too much occupied to allow me to keep him in conversation and I saw he was as much vexed as I was at the escape of the stranger. Little Ungka seemed the most surprised of any one at finding himself among trees; but he showed no disposition to quit his friends on board the schooner, even for the sake of being lord of all he surveyed. For two hours we stood on; sometimes the channels between the islands widened, and here we crossed broad sounds, but did not attempt to go down any of them, as their entrances, Van Graoul said, were full of dangerous shoals. We glided on; and I began to think that we were never to be clear of this wooded labyrinth; for, curious and beautiful as it might be under other circumstances, I wanted once more to have a clear sight around me.

“Starboard!” cried Fairburn, as our pilot waved his hand on one side, and the head of the schooner deviated to the left.

“Port!”

“Port it is,” repeated the helmsman, and her head turned towards a channel to the right. The wind now came on her quarter, now on her beam, according to the turnings of the channels; and I was afraid, sometimes, that it would come ahead. It, however, never baffled us; and at length, at the end of a broader passage than usual, the unbroken line of the horizon appeared before us. The seamen welcomed it almost with a shout, for few like this sort of navigation. I proposed to Van Graoul that we should anchor before we emerged altogether from among the islands, so as to explore them more carefully in the boats, in case the brig should be still hid among them. Fairburn approved of my idea; and shortening sail immediately, we brought up in a little bay among the trees, by which the vessel was completely hid. Fairburn and the second mate, Barlow, volunteered for this service; and urged me so strongly to remain on board with Van Graoul that I consented.

Fairburn first pulled out to sea, so that he might take a look all round; but coming back, he reported that there was no appearance anywhere of a sail to the southward; so that, if the stranger had gone through the group, she must have passed out somewhere to the northward. While the boats were away we sent a hand to watch from the highest tree at the farthest point of land to the south, if any vessel made her appearance from among the islands. Hour after hour passed away, and the boats did not return. The sun went down, and darkness came on; and at last I began to grow anxious about them. Van Graoul lighted his pipe, and sat on the deck, puffing away with more energy than usual.

“There is no fear,” he remarked. “I did not expect them before morning; and if the brig is where I advised Fairburn to look for her, there is better chance of finding her in the dark than in the daylight without their being discovered.”

Of course I could not turn in. Van Graoul and I held each other in conversation, while we kept a bright look-out on every side. It was the morning watch, when I heard a hail—it seemed like the voice of a stranger; it came nearer; there was another hail, and to my great satisfaction Fairburn and Barlow pulled alongside. They had seen nothing of the brig; and we were all very much puzzled to know what had become of her. The next morning we weighed, and stood out to sea. Never was a brighter look-out kept for a prize than we kept for the reappearance of the stranger; but to little purpose, beyond convincing ourselves that there was no probability of her appearing. For two days we cruised in the neighbourhood of the islands, clear of the reefs, and at length once more stood on our course.

There was much discussion on board as to what the stranger was—where she had come from—where she was going—and why, if she was honest, she ran away from us. The general notion among the crew was that she was something strange and supernatural.

“If not the Flying Dutchman, which could scarcely be the case seeing the latitude we are in,” said Dick Harper with oracular authority, “she’s near akin to the chap, that you may depend on, for no other would have been for to go for to play us such a trick as he has been doing; and for that matter, messmates, look ye here—he may be the Dutchman himself; for if he can cruise about as they say he does, I don’t see no reason why he shouldn’t take it into his head just to come down into these parts to have a look at some of his kindred, instead of knocking eternally off and about the Cape, which no longer belongs to them, d’ye see. To my mind, it’s just as well we had nothing to do with the fellow; he’d have played us some scurvy trick, depend on’t.”

This most philosophical explanation seemed to satisfy the ship’s company; and as the officers had no better one to offer, except that the stranger had got into the open sea again by some passage unknown to them, they said nothing on the subject.

It served as a matter of discussion for a long time afterwards. We made but little progress, for the wind was light, and often it fell almost calm, while the weather became very hot and sultry.

One morning, when I came on deck, I found that we were lying becalmed. The sea was as smooth as glass, but it could not be called level; for ever and anon there came a slow rising swell, which made the little craft rock from side to side, and the sails flap with a loud irregular sound against the masts, as if they were angry at having nothing to do, and wished to remind the wind to fulfil its duty. The sun shone out of the sky, without a cloud to temper its heat, and its rays made one side of the ocean shine like molten gold. Every one was suffering more or less from the lassitude produced by excessive heat; the pitch was bubbling up from the seams of the deck; a strong, hot, burning smell pervaded the vessel; the chickens in the hencoops hung their heads and forgot to cackle; the ducks refused to quack, and sat with their bills open, gasping for breath; the pig lay down, as if about to yield up the ghost; and even Ungka, who generally revelled in a fine hot sun, and selected the warmest place on board, now looked out for a shady spot, and sat with his paws over his head to keep it cool. The bulkheads groaned, the booms creaked against the masts, every particle of grease being speedily absorbed; while, if the hand touched a piece of metal, it felt as if heated by the fire. Two of the youngsters of the crew were actually amusing themselves by frying a slice of meat on a bit of tin exposed to the sun. As one looked along the deck, one could see the heat-mist playing over every object on which the eye rested. If it is hot thus early in the day, what will it become by noon, we thought, unless a breeze spring up to cool us? However, no breeze did spring up, and hotter and hotter it grew, if possible, till Dick Harper declared we should all be roasted, and become a fat morsel for one of the big sea-serpents which were known to frequent those seas. We got an awning spread, and breakfasted on deck, for below it was insupportable; and though we none of us starved ourselves, we were unable to do the ample justice we generally did to the viands. Van Graoul lighted his pipe, and leaning back in his chair, watched the smoke, with calm composure, ascending in a perpendicular column above his nose. Fairburn kept his eye carefully ranging round the horizon, to look out for any signs of coming wind; for we could not but suspect that this calm was the forerunner of a hurricane, or a gale of wind of some sort. I tried to read; but I found that reading was impossible. It was even difficult to carry on a conversation with any degree of briskness. Hour after hour slowly passed away, and there was no change in the weather, when a sound struck our ears which suddenly aroused us all from our apathy.

“A gun!” exclaimed Fairburn; “and a heavy one too—”

“There’s another—and another,” we repeated in chorus.

“De pirates of Sooloo or Borneo attacking some merchant vessel,” observed Van Graoul.

“Can it be the Emu engaged with a man-of-war, by any possibility?” I asked, my thoughts always naturally recurring to her.

“There are too many guns, and the firing is too brisk for that,” remarked Fairburn. “More likely some Dutch men-of-war, or perhaps some of the Company’s cruisers engaged with a fleet of prahus.”

“Where do you make out the firing to come from?” I asked, rather puzzled myself to say from what direction the sounds proceeded.

“From the southward,” he answered. “Some of the sounds seem so loud, that if it were night, I should say we ought to see the flashes; but that arises, I expect, from the peculiar state of the atmosphere.”

“I wish we had a breeze, to be able to get up to see what it is all about,” I exclaimed.

“It is one great puzzle,” observed Van Graoul sagaciously, as he re-lit his pipe, and puffed away as before.

Again all was quiet for the space of an hour; and we, of course, fancied that the engagement had been concluded, and that we should have no chance of helping our friends. The general opinion was, that a large force of Malay pirates had been attacked by some European ships of war. While we were discussing the matter, we were again startled by a louder report than ever, followed by several others in rapid succession.

“Did you not fancy that you felt the vessel shake under our feet?” I asked; for, soon after the loudest report, I thought the schooner was lifted up and let down suddenly, in a very unusual way.

“Yes; if I did not know that we were in deep water, I should have thought she had struck on a shoal,” replied Van Graoul.

“Are you certain that we are in deep water?” asked Fairburn with emphasis. “We’ll see what the lead says.”

Van Graoul smiled. “I am not offended, Fairburn, though some might be; but you’ll find I’m right.”

“I hope so,” replied Fairburn; “but a current might be drifting us faster than we expected.” The lead was hove, deep water was found all round. “I cannot make it out,” exclaimed Fairburn.

“Nor I,” said Van Graoul, as he puffed away with his pipe. “Some ship blown up; or perhaps a score of prahus.”

Again the sound of firing was heard rolling away in the distance.

“It must be off Sourabaya, or Lombok, or perhaps as far away as Bali,” remarked Fairburn, listening attentively. “Sometimes I fancy it comes from the eastward, and may be away at Combobo, or Floris. Over a calm sea sounds travel a great distance.”

“I cannot help thinking that there must be some engagement on shore between the Dutch troops and the natives of some of those islands. They now and then are fond of making a disturbance,” said Barlow, the second mate.

“No, no; there was no chance of anything of the sort,” answered Van Graoul. “That firing, if firing it is, comes from the sea, I tell you.”

The evening was now approaching, and still the mystery was not solved. At distant intervals, we continued to hear the sound of firing; but when darkness came on, we could nowhere see the flashes of the guns, as we expected. A light breeze at length sprung up from the eastward; but it was still hot and oppressive, and it in no way refreshed us. Anxious to discover, if possible, the cause of the firing, we trimmed sails and stood to the southward; but with the light air there was blowing we made but little way. The night appeared very long. I turned in for a couple of hours, but the heat soon again drove me on deck. When daylight appeared, we were on the look-out, almost expecting to see some of the vessels which had been engaged the previous day; but as the sun arose there was nothing in sight but the deep blue silent sea on three sides, and to the south the lofty hills of a large island, and at one end the peaks of a mountain towering over the rest. There was, instead of the bright, pure, clear atmosphere which generally exists at that hour, a very peculiar lurid glare, which, as the sun rolled upwards in his course, increased in intensity, till the sky became of almost a copper hue. Fairburn had gone aloft with his glass, to satisfy himself more fully as to there being anything in sight from the point where the firing had proceeded. He now returned on deck.

“I cannot make it out,” he remarked. “After all, I am not so certain that it was firing we heard. Away to the southward, there is a dense black cloud which seems rising rapidly, as if it would cover all the sky.”

We looked in the direction he indicated; and there, even while he was speaking, we observed the approach of a cloud, or rather I should call it a dense mist, so completely without break of any sort did it occupy the whole horizon. It looked like an opaque mass of some substance, borne onward by some invisible power towards us. Van Graoul, whose equanimity nothing extraordinary could disturb, likened it to the wall of China painted black, and taking a cruise to the southward.

“Is there any wind in it, do you think?” asked Fairburn. “It does not seem to ruffle the surface.”

“No wind, I think,” said Van Graoul; “but better shorten sail; the canvas does no good.”

Such also was Fairburn’s opinion, and accordingly the schooner was made snug to meet the hurricane should it arrive.

The crew were clustering in groups on deck watching the strange appearance, and in suppressed voices asking each other what it could mean. The more nervous already began to give way to fear; and the bravest were not altogether free from apprehension that some awful catastrophe was about to occur. The Javanese declared that it portended great convulsions in their country, and perhaps the overthrow of the ruling powers. Some of the more credulous of the seamen began to connect it, in some way or other, with the sudden disappearance of the strange brig.

“I knowed it would be so,” muttered Dick Harper. “I never yet heard of any one coming across those fly-away, never-find-me sort of chaps we met t’other day, but what was sure to get into mischief afore long.”

These, and similar observations, according to the temper and the natural prejudices of the speakers, by degrees spread an undefined apprehension of evil among all the crew; and fellows who, I believe, would have faced any known danger, and struggled manfully with death to the last, were now full of fear, and ready to be startled at the sound of a gun, or even the flap of a sail. On came the dark mass, as it approached assuming a dusky red appearance, which much increased its terrors. In a short time it covered the whole sky, and a darkness deeper than night came on. There was only one clear space, just like a gleam of light, seen at the end of a cavern, and that was away to the eastward, whence the light wind then blowing came; and even that was growing narrower and narrower. The darkness increased; the hearts of all of us, I believe, sunk; the light in the east, our last ray of hope, which till now had tended somewhat to cheer our spirits, totally disappeared, and we all began to feel that death, in some horrible, undefined shape, might speedily be our lot. It was dark before, as dark as night, but still we might have made out a vessel at the distance of a quarter of a mile; now we could scarcely see the length of the schooner. We were, when the darkness began, to the best of our knowledge, some distance from any land, or reefs, or shoals, and we trusted that no current might be carrying us towards any dangers, for we were utterly unable to protect ourselves against them.

The vessel’s head was now put about, that we might stand off, the sail being reduced so as to leave sufficient only to give her steerage way, that, should any heavy wind overtake us, we might be prepared to receive it. Our light was utterly unavailing, for darker and darker still grew the atmosphere, till, without exaggeration, we were unable to see our hands held up before our faces; and it was through our voices alone that we were able to recognise each other.

“Is there a chance of any wind?” I asked of Fairburn, near whom I was standing. I thought how awful a storm would be in such darkness.

“It is possible, I think,” he replied. “At the same time, I fear no storm with this little craft.”

We were still in doubt as to the cause of the awful phenomenon which was taking place, when, as I happened to touch the companion hatch, I found that it was gritty, as if covered with dust, while our lips and eyes informed us that a shower of light subtle ashes was falling—the deck being soon covered with a thick coating of them.

“What do you now think causes the darkness?” demanded Fairburn of Van Graoul; for we were all three standing together round the companion hatch.

“One burning mountain. It is Tomboro, in Sumbawa; the land we saw in the morning away to the south,” he replied in his usual calm tone. “I thought so some time ago; but I said nothing, because I was not certain.”

“A burning mountain!” I exclaimed. “Could ashes have caused the intense darkness which hangs over us?”

“Oh yes; but we shall have something worse before long,” he observed coolly. “Ah, I thought so, here it comes.”

Even while he was speaking, a loud rushing noise was heard—the sea seemed to be bubbling and foaming up around us, and in an instant the schooner heeled over to her bulwarks, and appeared to be driving furiously onward over the water, as if she was about to go over never to rise again. Fairburn seized his speaking-trumpet, and shouted forth his orders to the crew. The helm was put up; the after-sail was taken off the vessel, and the jib shown for an instant.

“She pays off! she pays off!” was shouted by the crew, as her head was felt to turn away from the wind, and she once more rose on an even keel. Then on she flew, like a sea-bird before the furious blast, through the darkness.

“Where are we driving to?” we asked ourselves. “While we had abundance of sea-room we were safe. Now, who can say what will be our fate?”

Fairburn ordered a lamp for the binnacle; a sickly light was thrown on the compass. He rushed below. A glance at the chart showed that we were then driving towards the western end of Sumbawa. Van Graoul and I followed him.

“Can we weather it and get into Allass Straits?” I asked, as I pointed to the chart.

The Dutchman shook his head. “There are rocks and islands off there which we cannot see; we may slip through them by chance, but we must not reckon on it,” he answered.

We returned on deck. The wind blew more furiously than ever, the darkness also seemed increased. We stood prepared for our fate. We had done all that men could do. Then I remembered the last words of my kind guardian, “Never despair, for God is everywhere.” I repeated it to my companions. It gave us courage and confidence, for we felt that we were in His hands. From mouth to mouth it was passed with reverence along the decks; and even the rough seamen, unaccustomed to pray, felt its force and truth. On, on we drove, the water dashed and foamed around us, the wind howled through the rigging. For an instant there was a lull, then down again came the blast upon us. The compass told that it had again shifted, and was now blowing from the north. If it held so, it would shorten the time before the catastrophe must occur. Every moment the sea became more agitated, and the broken waves leaped up and washed over our decks, as if we were running through a troubled race.

“How far-off are we from the shore, think you?” I asked of Fairburn, in as calm a voice as I could command.

“Still some distance,” he replied vaguely. “The wind may shift before we reach it.”

I cannot hope to convey a distinct idea of the inky blackness of the atmosphere, the howling of the whirlwinds, and the roaring of the waves, as, utterly unable to help ourselves, we drove furiously onward. In a few hours, or in a few minutes even, where should we be? Again, before we could answer the question, the wind changed, with redoubled force it seemed. It came off the land, whirling us round before it. Its force seemed to drive back the waves to their proper level. On a sudden, without a moment’s warning, the topsail gave a flap against the mast, the schooner rocked to and fro in the yet troubled sea, and then all was still, and the schooner floated calmly, as in a sheltered harbour, on the water.

“This is wonderful. What is going to occur next?” I exclaimed.

“Perhaps the wind is just taking a rest,” observed Van Graoul.

We waited in expectation of again feeling the fury of the blast, and anxiously looked at the compass to see from what quarter it came. While our eyes were trying to pierce the darkness, as if we could discover the coming danger, a bright light burst on them from the south. Never was a spectacle of a like nature, more awful yet more magnificent, beheld. The darkness for an instant cleared away, and we saw, but a few miles distant it seemed, a lofty mountain. From its broad summit there burst forth three distinct columns of flame. They thus rose to an enormous height, and then, their summits uniting in one, they seemed to contend with each other, twisting and intertwining together, till their crests broke into a mass of fiery foam, and expanded over the heavens. Now and then a still larger quantity of flame would burst forth, and darting upwards for many thousand feet, would fall in burning streams to the earth. Other streams also burst forth and flowed down the sides of the mountain, till the whole side towards us seemed one mass of liquid fire.

Although we were some miles distant, the light from the burning mountain cast a lurid glare on the hull and rigging of the schooner; and as we looked at each other, our faces shone as if formed of some red-hot metal rather than of flesh, while the whole expanse of sea between us and the land seemed a mass of molten copper. An artist would have delighted to paint the wondering countenances of the seamen, some still full of doubts and fears; the various attitudes in which they stood transfixed; the many tints of their skins, from the dark hues of the Javanese and Malays, in their picturesque costume, to the fair colour of the Europeans, in the ordinary dress in which English and American seamen delight, now blended into one line.

All this time the loud reports continued to be heard; but knowing their cause, they no longer appeared to us like those of cannon. Almost as suddenly as the awful spectacle had been exhibited to our eyes, it was once more obscured by the dense masses of cinders, and even of stone, which filled the sky and fell around us.

The wind returned, as before, from the east; and, to avoid the fiery shower, we stood away to the northward. It was in vain to hope to escape it altogether. The stones which fell decreased in size, but the ashes came as thick as before, and the explosions continued at intervals. To what had at first appeared so terrific, we had now got accustomed, and the fears even of the most superstitious of the seamen subsided; but still the Javanese were not to be dissuaded from the belief that some wonderful change was to take place in the affairs of their country. We put an awning over the deck to shelter ourselves somewhat from the ashes; but the finer portion drove under it, and filled every crevice, while we kept the people constantly employed in shovelling them overboard. Thus hours passed on, till we began to think that we should never again see the bright light of the sun.

Chapter Twenty One.

For a whole night longer we lay exposed to the shower of ashes; and though we were standing away from their source, they in no perceptible way diminished in density. At length, at the hour the sun should appear once more in the east, a light gleamed forth, the ashes grew less dense, and daylight once more gladdened our eyes. On examining the ashes, they had the appearance of calcined pumice-stone, nearly of the colour of wood ashes. In many places on the deck they lay a foot thick. They were perfectly tasteless, and had no smell of sulphur, though there was a slight burnt odour from them. We now stood back towards Sumbawa, as, with the wind from the eastward, it was the only course we could steer. As we approached it, we saw right ahead a shoal several miles in length, with several black rocks on it.

Van Graoul was puzzled in the extreme. “I never heard of that shoal before,” he observed; and, on examining the chart, none was marked down.

The lead gave us no bottom where we then were. The shoal, we agreed, must have been thrown up by the earthquake. We stood on till we were within half a mile of it, and then Fairburn lowered a boat and went to examine it. He pulled on till the boat, instead of grounding as we expected, went into the midst of it. It proved to be a complete mass of pumice-stone floating on the sea, some inches in depth, with great numbers of trees and logs, which had the appearance of having been burnt and shivered by lightning. We passed several similar floating islands; and on one occasion got so completely surrounded by a mass of ashes, that we had no little difficulty in forcing our way through it, fearful every instant of encountering some log which might injure the vessel. At last the Tomboro mountain hove in sight. We passed it about six miles off. The summit was not visible, being enveloped in clouds of smoke and ashes. The sides were, in several places, still smoking, evidently from the lava which had flowed down them not yet having cooled; and one large stream was discernible from the smoke arising from it, and which had reached all the way from the summit to the sea. Beating along the coast, we entered a bay where there was good anchorage, and on going on shore we heard sad accounts of the ruin the irruption had caused. The whirlwind had destroyed whole villages, rooted up trees, and thrown the vessels and prahus at anchor in the harbour on the shore, aided by the sea, which rose at the same time; while the ashes had ruined the crops, and the stones, and rocks, and streams of lava had killed many thousands of the inhabitants. Afterwards I learned that the explosions had been heard at Sumatra, 970 miles from Tomboro, and that the ashes had fallen thickly near Macasa, 217 miles from the mountain. The unfortunate inhabitants of the island suffered afterwards greatly from famine, their yearly supply of food being totally lost.

The wind coming more from the northward, we shaped our course for Dilli, in Timor, on the chance of there hearing of the Emu. We kept a constant look-out night and day for her, but not a sail hove in sight. In five days we reached Dilli, which is a Portuguese settlement on the north-west coast of Timor. A Portuguese naval officer boarded us in the outer roads, and piloted us through a narrow channel to the inner roads. It is a wretched-looking place; and the houses, small, dirty, and ruinous, were scattered without any order or symmetry in all directions. Van Graoul, who could speak Portuguese, landed with me, as I wished to pay my respects to the Governor. On each side of the town were two half-ruinous forts, on which were mounted some old iron guns of small calibre. The sentinels were but a quarter clothed, and certainly not in uniform, for not two were alike. The only point in which most agreed, was in being destitute of shoes. Some had one shoe and a boot, others had sandals, and others wore wisps of straw wrapped round their feet, but the greater number stood on their bare soles. Many were without jackets, some had no trousers, a sort of kilt serving the purpose, made of every variety of material. Military hats or caps were a rarity. Some left their bare heads exposed to the sun; others covered them with handkerchiefs, straw hats, or mere turbans of straw; while the greatest number of their muskets had no locks, the only serviceable arms which all possessed being a long knife or dagger, stuck in a belt by their sides.

The Governor was taking his siesta when we arrived, and we had to walk up and down in the sun, in front of his dwelling, a miserable tumble-down cottage, for two hours, before any one ventured to arouse him. At length we were admitted into his presence. We found him sitting in a room without a matting; a few chairs and benches forming its only furniture. He was rubbing his eyes as we entered, as if not yet awake, and in a sleepy tone he inquired our business. What Van Graoul told him I do not know; but his manner instantly became very polite, and bowing towards me, he motioned me to be seated. Van Graoul, who acted as interpreter, said he would be happy to do anything I wished; that if the Emu came into the harbour, he should have the satisfaction of blowing her to pieces; that he had heard of her depredations, but that no Portuguese cruisers had met with her, or her fate would have been sealed; that he would supply me with cattle and provisions, or anything from his stores; and that if I happened to have a fancy to purchase any slaves, he should be happy to do a little business in that way also. I found afterwards that the Governor and all the government officers trafficked in slaves, and that some fitted out vessels to run to the Australian coasts, or to those of New Guinea, to pick up a supply for their market.

In addition to the slave trade, a commerce is carried on in wax and sandal-wood, which the natives are forced to deliver up at a small and almost nominal price. The Governor and his officials allow no one else but themselves to embark in trade, greatly to the disgust of the natives and Chinese, who expressed a strong wish to be freed from the yoke of such a people. This information was received from Van Graoul, who was a Dutchman, it must be remembered, and certainly prejudiced against the Portuguese. We parted, however, on excellent terms. I sent the Governor a box of cigars; and he in return sent us off some sheep and shaddocks.

We now steered for the Dutch settlement of Coupang, to the south of Timor. As we sailed along the coast, we observed a number of ridges of lofty mountains, some of which appeared to be a great distance in the interior. The country behind Coupang rises to the height of five hundred feet, the higher hills being covered with woods, the lower with cocoa-nut trees. On a cliff above the town is the fort of Concordia, and near it a brook, just deep enough to float small prahus for a few yards. East of it is the town, which consists of two principal streets, running parallel with the beach for about a quarter of a mile, with two small irregular streets crossing them. The houses near the sea are simply small shops, belonging to Chinese. Behind the town is an open space of grass, shaded by fine tamarind trees, with the Governor’s house on one side; and some roads run up thence to some good houses belonging to Europeans, and to some clusters of huts inhabited by Malays. While we were there, the stream was always occupied by people either bathing or washing their clothes. I remember also a valley full of cocoa-nut trees, bamboos, bananas, and tamarinds; but beyond, the country had somewhat of an arid appearance. The current coin of the country was of copper, called a doit, the value of one sixth of a penny. By my notes, I see that I entered a schoolhouse, where a very intelligent man was instructing a large number of Malay children in the Christian religion, and in useful knowledge, with, I understood, most satisfactory success. The native Timorese are a frizzle-haired race, who live in rude huts, roofed with palm-leaves, attend but little to agriculture, and are addicted to cutting off the heads of their enemies in battle, and carrying them away as trophies like the Dyaks of Borneo.

The Governor received me very politely; and, from the inquiries he enabled me to make, I felt very certain that the Emu had visited the place at the time described by the Chinese pedlar Chin Fi. What had afterwards become of her no one knew. There were rumours, however, that a suspicious sail had been seen in the neighbourhood of the Serwatty and Tenimber Islands, while others spoke of the Arru Islands, and the western coast of New Guinea. For want of better information to guide us, we resolved accordingly to cruise among them, and to prosecute our inquiries of the inhabitants. A large part of the population of the Serwatty and Tenimber Islands have, through the instrumentality of the Dutch missionaries, become Christians.

The first place we touched at was the island of Kessa, at an anchorage not far from the chief village, called Mama. As the people are much addicted to trade with all the neighbouring islands, I was in hopes that we might here possibly gain the information I required. We were much amused with the costume in which the people assembled to attend church the day we were there. Some wore old-fashioned coats with wide sleeves and broad skirts; others garments of the same description, but of a more modern cut; while the remainder were clad in long black kaligas, or loose coats, the usual dress of native Christians. The costume of those who were clad in the old-fashioned coats, was completed by short breeches, shoes with enormous buckles, and three-cornered hats. Many of the women wore old Dutch chintz gowns, or jackets, the costume of the remainder being the native sarong and kabya. The heads of the women were adorned with ornaments of gold and precious stones; but the men wore their long hair simply confined with a tortoise-shell comb. They appeared a very simple-minded, amiable people. I was much struck by the course of instruction adopted at the schools, where all the children under ten years of age assembled to learn the rudiments of Christianity, and reading and writing. Yet these people, we in England should call savages. Can we boast that the children of our poor are so well cared for?

We could here gain no intelligence of the Emu, so we again sailed. At another island we touched at, called Lette, we found one portion of the aborigines converted to Christianity; and the remainder, who were still heathens, serving them willingly as persons of a superior order. The people are tall and well formed, with light brown complexions, pointed noses, high foreheads, hair black, though rendered yellow by rubbing in a composition of lime. It is confined by a bamboo comb. The men wear no other clothing than a piece of cloth made from the bark of a tree wrapped round the waist. The women, in addition, wear a sort of kabya, or short gown, open in front. They worship a wooden idol in human shape, placed on a square heap of stones, under a large tree in the centre of the village. We were visited by a number of chiefs, who came in lightly constructed prahus, with high stems and sterns, and awnings of palm-leaves raised over them. One of their chiefs was clad after the fashion of the seventeenth century. He wore a large wig, a three-cornered hat, short breeches, with large knee-buckles, and a coat with wide sleeves, ruffles, and spacious skirts, while on his feet he had high shoes with heavy silver buckles. He was evidently perfectly satisfied that he was in the fashion. During a stroll I took into the interior, I observed a number of bees’ nests hanging from the branches of the high trees, some of which were more than two feet in circumference. The wax and honey are collected with very little difficulty; and the bees, when driven from their nests, generally build another on the same tree.

It will be impossible for me to mention a tenth part of the curious sights we saw, or the number of places we visited. For several weeks we were engaged in running from island to island, among the numerous groups which are to be found between Java and the coast of New Guinea. At length we reached the Arru Islands, and entered the port of Dobbo, which is a place of considerable trade with the neighbouring countries, and much frequented by the Bugis and Macassars of Celebes.

These islands export a considerable quantity of trepang, tortoise-shell, edible birds’ nests, and pearls. The trepang is a sort of sea-slug, which is dried and used by the Chinese to make soup. The edible birds’ nests are of a glutinous nature, and with but little taste, and are used for thickening soup. They are considered a great delicacy. The chief food of the people is the pith of the sago tree. The chief man among them is called Orang Kaya. Their prahus are seventy feet long; their greatest beam not being more than ten feet, and they sit very low on the water. The mass of the people are heathens; but some have been converted to Mahommedanism, and many to Christianity, the good effects of which are visible in their conduct.

I invited a number of the chiefs to come on board, and had a feast prepared for them, as Van Graoul considered that it would be the very best way to gain their friendship, and to obtain the information I required. We had a table spread on deck, and an awning stretched over it. Fairburn sat at one end, and I at the other; and Van Graoul was placed at the centre, to act as interpreter for us both. They ate prodigiously, and each man drank enough arrack to intoxicate any three Europeans, without appearing to feel the slightest ill effects from the spirit. All of us made speeches, which were, without doubt, very complimentary; and when words failed us we supplied their places with signs and gesticulations, which did infinitely better, as they were far more generally understood. At the conclusion of a toast I ordered the guns to be fired to give it due effect, when so surprised were our guests with the unexpected sound, that up they jumped as if electrified: some went overboard, not knowing what was to follow; others hid themselves under the table, and the rest tried to find their way below. They were, however, in no way offended, when they discovered that no one was hurt. The clothes of those who had been in the water were speedily dried, and perfect harmony was restored.

We lay here for some days, in order to refresh the crew, and to supply ourselves with wood, water, and fresh provisions. I will not say that I began to despair of falling in with the Emu; but I was much disappointed in not finding her. I had now been many months engaged in the search, and was still as far as ever, I supposed, from the success I wished for. We expected the last of our stores on board during the day, and should immediately have sailed, when one morning a vessel was observed in the offing, standing towards the island. We were curious to know what she could be, and were watching her approach. Van Graoul made her out to be a brig; and as she drew near, we saw that she was a small, low black vessel, with the American ensign flying at her peak. My heart beat with an extraordinary sensation of doubt and fear, as I saw her.

“Fairburn,” I exclaimed, touching his shoulder, “what do you think of that craft? Does she not answer the description of the Emu?”

“Indeed she does,” he answered; “but she may not be the Emu; and if she is, your friends may not be on board her.”

“We will speedily learn,” I exclaimed. “Let us get under weigh, and go out and meet her.”

“Wait a bit,” observed Van Graoul. “Her people do not know who we are. Let her come in and drop her anchor; and when her people go on shore to amuse themselves, then we will go on board and see who they have got below.”

I at once saw the wisdom of this advice, and acceded to it.

There was a fine breeze, and the stranger came boldly on with all sails set. We, being close under the shore, and our hull being hidden by a spit of land, could see her without being ourselves discovered. There were two harbours where we lay, an outer and an inner one; and we were in hopes that she would come into the inner one and be entrapped. To our great satisfaction, an Arrapara pilot went out to meet her; and we knew he would conduct her into the inner harbour. It was a beautiful sight watching her as she skimmed along the surface, looking larger and larger as she approached.

“What do you think of her now? She must be the Emu!” I exclaimed.

“She may be,” said Van Graoul; “but stop till we get her within range of our guns.”

She came quite close. With our glasses we could even distinguish the people on board. Some of our crew declared that she was the very brig which had so strangely escaped from us among the Pater Nosters. On she came under full sail. We were in hopes that she would come directly into the harbour, when just as she approached it her helm was put down, her yards braced up, her foresail backed to the mast; and while she lay to, a boat, which was lowered and manned, was seen to pull towards the shore.

“Ah, she does not like to come where she may meet honest people,” observed Van Graoul. “That looks suspicious.”

The boat was a large gig, pulled by six oars. She came in, we thought, to reconnoitre.

“Now, what do you think of seizing the boat, and holding the people as hostages till they deliver up the ladies?” exclaimed Fairburn. “If she is honest, we shall run the risk of being accused of committing an act of piracy; but if she is the Emu, our object may thus easily be obtained.”

“By all means; let us seize her. I would run every risk,” I answered.

“Yes; we will catch her, if we can,” answered Van Graoul.

Our boats were accordingly lowered and commanded. Fairburn commanded one, and Barlow another, and I took a third, with the intention of endeavouring to cut her off, and capture her without bloodshed. We lay in wait, eager for the word to shove off and go in chase. If we found that we were mistaken, there would be no harm done. The people in the boat would be a little astonished, and angry perhaps at being taken for pirates; but the importance of the object was worth the risk, and must serve as our excuse. We got a spring also on our cable, and every preparation was made to get under weigh in an instant, and to make sail in chase, should the brig appear to have taken the alarm. Van Graoul remained on board in command; and a hand was stationed aloft to watch the progress of the boat. Our intention was, not to seize her till the last moment before her people landed, or while half were in the boat and the others actually stepping on shore. On she came—those in her evidently either confident in their innocence, or unconscious of an enemy being near them. The hull of the schooner lay concealed from any one in the outer part of the harbour. Even were she seen, appearing to be quietly at anchor, with no one on her decks, she might, we hoped, fail to excite suspicion. As the boat advanced, we slipped round on the opposite side of the schooner to conceal ourselves from her sight. Her crew bent manfully to their oars. In a short time longer we hoped she would be in our power. The plan arranged was, that Fairburn and Barlow were to pull directly for her, while I was to proceed down towards the mouth of the harbour to intercept her, should she attempt to pull back before they reached her. At first, we hoped that her people would not suspect that we had any intention of interfering with them. She now had got so far up, that Van Graoul could see her from the deck; and he, with his glass in his hand, was the only person that appeared.

“She comes on bravely,” he exclaimed. “Pull away, my lads. Ah, you pull well! We shall soon know what you are made of.” He was silent for a moment. “Ah! she has ceased pulling!” he cried. “They are suspicious of something. Ah, they are pulling round! It is the Emu’s boat. Off they go again to the vessel. After her; and you may give way, my lads, in earnest.”

There was no necessity for another order; we shoved off in a moment, and the men bending to their oars, away we all three went in chase. At first, the stranger’s boat was pulling leisurely enough; but when we were discovered, her crew gave way with all their strength, as if their lives depended on it. This alone would have convinced us that the brig was the Emu; they probably suspecting the schooner to belong to the Dutch navy. As we dashed out, we now saw to our chagrin, that the pirate’s boat, for so I will call her, was ahead of us; that is, she was nearer towards the mouth of the harbour by the time we got into the fairway, while the brig, which had tacked, had now stood over to the opposite side to which we were. This gave her a great advantage. We cheered on our men, and they indeed gave way with a will. I never had felt so excited. My great object seemed near of attainment, should Eva and Mrs Clayton be on board the brig, and should we succeed in capturing the boat. Every nerve was strained to the utmost. I was influenced by the most powerful of feelings, and my crew zealously entered into them. The pirates were working for their liberties and their lives. The water flew hissing from the bows of the boat, and leaped in spray from the blades of our oars as they clove the surface.

“Give way, my lads! give way!” was the cry we all uttered. “Give way; we are gaining on them. Huzza! huzza!”

It was, however, a question whether we were really gaining on them. Our excitement made us fancy we were. We were armed all this time, it must be remembered; but we could not venture to fire on the boat, for although we had no doubt that the brig in the offing was the Emu, and that she belonged to her, we had not the proof the law requires. The moment Van Graoul saw the pirate’s boat turn tail, he slipped his cable, and, making sail, stood after us. We had thus two chances. If the boat got on board the brig before we could overtake her, we might still follow in the schooner with a prospect of success. The boat held her own. It became a matter of great doubt whether we should overtake her. An oar might break, or one of her crew might give in. If we could have fired, we should probably have stopped her, by wounding one or more people. As it was, we had our speed alone to depend on. “Give way! give way, my lads!” I heard Fairburn and Barlow shouting. “Huzza! we are gaining on them! huzza! huzza!”

Chapter Twenty Two.

The stranger brig seeing her boat pursued, tacked again and stood towards the shore. As she drew near the mouth of the harbour, she must also have observed the Fraulein running out after us; and this must have given her an idea of how matters were going on. The people in the boat, in the meantime, either from seeing help so near at hand, or from growing weary, relaxed their efforts, and we were now evidently coming up with her. There seemed, indeed, a good chance of our reaching her before she got alongside the brig. Had we before had any doubt of the character of the stranger, he soon left us none; for, seeing his boat hard pressed, by keeping away for an instant he brought his broadside to bear, and let fly four guns at us.

“Is that your game!” exclaimed Fairburn. “We know you then, my fine fellow.” Standing up for an instant, he levelled a musket at the boat, and fired. The shot struck her, but we could not see if any one was wounded; and the shot had the effect of exciting the people to fresh exertions.

They found that we were in earnest, and were not likely to be stopped in our object by fear of consequences. They once more drew ahead of us, and in three or four minutes we had the mortification of seeing them run alongside the brig, and leap on her deck, her way being scarcely stopped. The falls were hooked on, and the boat was hoisted up.

We darted on. “A few more strokes and we shall be on board!” I shouted to my men. Fairburn and Barlow in like planner urged on their people. The brig had not yet again quite fetched away. An ominous silence was kept on her decks. The heads only of those who had hoisted in the boat were seen, and they and her crew disappeared as soon as the work was done, and the yards were braced up. A solitary figure stood at the helm. He was almost motionless, except that his bands moved the spokes of the wheel, and his eyes were turned aloft looking at the sails as they filled with the breeze.

Fairburn had again loaded his musket. He had observed the helmsman. He lifted up his piece and fired. I expected to see the brig fly up into the wind; but when the smoke cleared away, there stood the silent helmsman at his post, in the same attitude as before, and apparently uninjured.

“Give way, my lads, and we shall be on board her!” we shouted. A few strokes more, and our wish would have been accomplished; but just as I on the starboard side, and Fairburn on the port, were hooking on to the main-chains, a strong puff of wind filled the sail, the boat-hooks dropped in the water, and the black brig shot away from between us, while I fancied that I heard a shout of derisive laughter issuing from her decks. I fully expected that she would have revenged herself by firing at us, but not another shot was discharged. Silently and calmly she glided on, like a spirit of evil on the water. The helmsman stood at his post; but as yet no one else had appeared. Every instant the breeze freshened, and she rapidly flew away from us.

We now turned our attention to the schooner, which Van Graoul was endeavouring to bring up to us; but although there was a strong wind outside the harbour, she as yet felt but little of it. This, of course, gave the Emu, if Emu she was, a great start. It was, indeed, trying to me to see the mysterious vessel once more elude my grasp, at the very moment when I hoped to learn the fate of those so dear to me.

“We will pull back into the harbour, so as to get on board where there is no wind, and not to stop her way when once she feels it,” cried Fairburn; and we acted on his judicious advice.

Shortly after we had hoisted in our boats, the Fraulein got clear of the harbour, and bending over to the breeze, which now with full force filled her sails, she flew like an arrow after the chase. The stranger had by this time got about two miles ahead; a distance, however, which, with the fast-sailing qualities of the Fraulein, might easily be passed over. It were vain to attempt a description of my feelings as I walked the deck, while in pursuit of the pirate.

“We must overtake her,” I exclaimed. “She cannot again escape us.”

“Don’t be too sure,” observed Van Graoul. “She has slipped away from us before, and may do so again.”

She was then standing on a bowline to the northward, away from the land. We did not fire, for our shot would not have reached her; and thus silently, but with eager haste, we pursued our course. All hands were on deck, watching her anxiously; the crew standing together in knots, and discussing the strangeness of her appearance. The greater number were assembled and Dick Harper, their favourite oracle. He shook his head very wisely when asked his opinion.

“Do you see, shipmates,” he observed, “she got away once from us when we thought we had hold of her; so there’s no reason why she shouldn’t slip out of our sight again. To my mind, there’s no depending on those sort of chaps.”

The answer was a careful one; and it was by making such that he had gained so much credit among his shipmates, for he was never proved to be wrong; and when he predicted what afterwards occurred, he always took care that the fact should be well-known on all sides.

My feelings, as I watched the stranger, were, of course, far more intense than those of my officers or crew; and so eagerly did I watch, that I fancied I could note every inch we gained or lost in the chase, as the wind alternately favoured one or the other of us. Of one thing I felt very certain, that since we had had a fair start we had materially gained upon her. Fairburn was of the same opinion.

Van Graoul only shook his head, and said, “Wait a bit; better never to be sure.”

Still on we flew—the water bubbling and hissing under the bows of the schooner as she clove her way through. Though the wind was strong, there was, at the same time, little sea. The two miles had now been decreased to one and a half, by Fairburn’s and my computation; and we hoped soon to be able to get a shot at the chase to bring down some of her spars.

“Yes,” said Van Graoul, when he heard us expressing that hope; “if we can bring down some of her spars, remember she can bring down some of ours, so that we are not the nearer on that account.”

The Dutchman took care that we should never become over sanguine in our expectations.

The steward brought me my dinner on deck. I ate it standing; for I was far too anxious to go below, or to remove my eyes from the chase.

The afternoon was drawing on; but we had still two hours or more of daylight, and we had reason to expect before that to come up with her at the rate we were then going.

“We are coming up with her hand over hand,” I heard Barlow observe to Fairburn.

“I think so too; but what do you make of that dark line away there to windward?” was the response. “I see that we must be quick about it.”

The remark drew my attention to the point indicated, and there I saw what looked like a long thin black cloud, hanging just above the water on the verge of the horizon.

Just at that moment Van Graoul went up to Fairburn. “I think we may have a chance of winging her, if we fire steadily,” he said.

“We’ll try it, at all events. But I hope that it will not calm the breeze,” said Fairburn, issuing orders to get the long gun ready.

The gun was pointed so as to clear the rigging. Fairburn himself looked along the sight, and the vessel being kept away, as it bore on the schooner, he fired.

The shot was well aimed. It certainly reached the brig, and must have gone beyond her; but whether she was struck or not we could not tell, for on she sailed as before. Again the gun was loaded. We expected that she would have returned the fire; but she appeared perfectly unconscious of our presence.

“Aim high, Fairburn; aim high,” I exclaimed with an agitated voice, thinking of those who might be on board. The gun was elevated accordingly, and the shot flew between the rigging of the brig, going through her fore-topsail, but doing apparently no further damage. As we had to keep away when we fired, we somewhat lost ground: so Van Graoul proposed that we should get somewhat nearer before we tried another shot; and to this Fairburn agreed.

Fairburn, it must be remembered, was the fighting captain. On we went, every instant gaining on the chase. We felt sure now of overtaking her, and prepared ourselves for the fierce contest which we knew must ensue before the pirates would yield. The arm-chests were opened, pistols were loaded and primed, muskets got ready, and cutlasses buckled on. Each man armed himself for the combat, and got ready in his own fashion.

So eager were we in our preparations, and in watching the chase, that we had paid but little attention to the dark low cloud I before spoke of. It now appeared much increased in depth, and rapidly advanced towards us.

“There is wind in that,” exclaimed Fairburn. “Stand by to clew up and haul down everything, my lads; but we must hold on as long as we can, and try and get another shot at the enemy before the squall catches us.”

Each man flew to his station at the halyards and clew-lines, while the crew of the long gun got ready to fire. There was now no time to spare. As fast as it could be loaded it was discharged. A loud huzza arose from the people. The main-topsail yard of the brig was shot away.

“Another such shot, and she will be ours,” I exclaimed.

Onward came the dark cloud. The pirates seemed to think it time to stop us; and, luffing up, they let fly their broadside at us. We returned it with a will. Just then down came the squall; the dark cloud appeared ahead; and the brig, seeming to rush into it, was speedily lost to sight, to the last moment firing and receiving our fire in return.

What became of her we could not tell; and with dread I contemplated what might be her fate. The squall struck us with terrific force. The gallant crew were staunch: while some let fly the halyards and tacks and sheets, others brailed up and hauled down the canvas; but the blast triumphed over all our strength and skill. Over went the schooner, till she lay helplessly on her beam-ends. It was a scene of confusion and horror difficult to describe; the stoutest trembled, and thought their last hour was come. I saw Fairburn rush to the mainmast—a glittering axe was in his hand.

“What! must we cut away our masts?” I exclaimed, feeling how helpless we should be left.

“There is no remedy for it, I fear,” he answered; and the axe hung gleaming in his hands.

“Hold! hold!” shouted Van Graoul. “There is a lull; up with the helm.”

The order was obeyed.

“She rights! she rights!” was the joyful exclamation from all hands.

Once again the schooner was on an even keel, and flying before the blast, through the thick obscurity which surrounded her. But where was the chase? No one could tell. The squall soon subsided; when it did so, we hauled our wind, but the thick mist continued, and although we might have been close to the stranger, we could not have seen her.

Dick Harper shook his head most sagaciously, and with no little inward satisfaction. “I knowed it would be so,” he said. “For how, do ye see, messmates, could it be otherwise?”

At length next morning, as the sun rose high in the sky, the mist cleared off; and with eagerness I hurried aloft to learn if the chase was anywhere to be seen. But as I looked round the horizon, the line where the sea and sky met was unbroken; not a sail was in sight, and, disappointed and dispirited, I returned on deck.

Chapter Twenty Three.

I find that I am getting on so slowly with my narrative, and have so many adventures to tell, that omitting a number of events of less interest to my readers, I must sketch rapidly the history of several months which passed after the last escape of the Emu.

In vain we searched for her for several days, but not a trace of her could we find; not a spar nor a plank to show that she had gone down when she disappeared from our sight in the squall. We were then, it must be remembered, in the neighbourhood of the Arru Islands. We cruised along the coast of New Guinea, off which we thought the Emu might be prowling. It was curious, that though we were out of sight of land, on several occasions a number of birds, towards the evening, came on board to roost. They appeared to be land birds. The colours of some were very beautiful, and in many we could trace a resemblance to our small ducks, magpies, and larks. We also encountered daily a vast number of a species of whale, which collected round the schooner, and watching her as if they thought her some strange fish. One day they had collected in more than usual numbers, and while I watched them swimming round and round the vessel, their huge backs now and then appearing above the water, I could not help thinking that they were holding a consultation together in contemplation of an attack on us. Sometimes they would swim directly at the vessel, and then diving under her, appear at the other side. I got my rifle, intending to have a shot at one of them; though I must own that I think it very wrong to kill animals without an object, when they can be of no use to any one, merely for the sake of trying one’s dexterity as a marksman on them.

“You had better not,” observed Van Graoul, when he saw what I was about to do. “They may take it ill, and revenge themselves.” I thought he was joking, as he was, in part, and so, loading my rifle, I fired at a huge fellow, whose back appeared at a little distance off. Whether the ball entered his skin or glanced off, I could not tell; for he sunk immediately, and I was preparing for another shot, when he, or one of his fellows, rose on the opposite side. There he remained, spouting for a minute or so, and then down he dived, and directly afterwards we felt a blow on the keel, which almost shook the masts out of the vessel, and sent some of the people sprawling on deck. The crew jumped about with dismay, thinking the schooner was sinking, and Ungka rushed to Hassan and hugged him round the neck, as if he was resolved to be drowned with him.

“I told you so,” said Van Graoul. “They are not fellows to be played with.”

No real damage was done; nor did the whales renew the attack. I suspect the fellow hurt his back too much to try the same trick again.

No tidings of the Emu were to be gained; and weary of looking for her in that direction, we stood to the westward, towards the island of Celebes, to the south of Ceram. We had had a fine breeze all the day; but as the evening drew on, it fell considerably; and when the sun sunk beneath the water, it became perfectly calm. The night was hot, and I remained long on deck in earnest conversation with Fairburn. He was endeavouring to console and encourage me; for I own that at times I almost began to despair of the success of my undertaking. There was a moon in the heavens in the early part of the night; but that also set, and I was thinking of turning in, when I observed a bright light in the sky to the westward, and on watching it attentively, it appeared as if it arose from some large fire close down to the water. Fairburn remarked it also.

“Can it be a burning mountain?” I asked; “or do you think the natives of any island thereabouts have been creating a blaze for their amusement?”

“There is no burning mountain or any island in that direction,” he answered. “See, it rises higher and higher, till the ruddy glare extends over the whole sky! It can be but from one cause.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“A ship on fire,” he replied. “I have witnessed such a sight before, and have no doubt about it.”

“Unhappy people!” I exclaimed; “we must try and help them.”

“I fear that with this calm we shall be unable to get near them in time to be of any use,” said Fairburn. “If a breeze were to spring up, we may save those who may take to their boats or secure themselves on rafts.”

For a long time we watched the burning vessel, for such we were persuaded was before us; and earnestly we prayed for a breeze to carry us to the rescue of our fellow-beings, whoever they might be. We calculated that the ship was about nine or ten miles off, so that, with a good wind, we might hope to get up to her in rather more than an hour. At length a breeze fanned our cheeks, our sails filled, and we began to move rapidly through the dark and silent sea. As we drew near the fire, we saw that we were not mistaken in our conjectures; for before us appeared a large brig, with her masts still standing, but flames were blazing up around them, running along the yards and burning the canvas and rigging, while the whole hull seemed a mass of fire, fore and aft. As we were looking, first one mast tottered, and was followed directly by the other, and, amid an outburst of sparks, they fell hissing into the sea. The flames then seemed to triumph still more furiously than before. We looked in vain for any boats, or planks, or rafts, on which any of the crew might be floating. The whole sea around was lighted up; but the flames shone alone on the dancing waves. We were yet some way off; we therefore sailed on with the intention of getting as close as we could without danger to ourselves, to render any aid in our power. We passed the time in discussing what the vessel could be, and by what means she could have caught fire.

“With the extraordinary carelessness seamen too often are guilty of, it is surprising that ships do not oftener catch fire than is the case,” said Fairburn. “Such is the fate of many of those which are never again heard of. Probably the destruction of this vessel arises from the same cause.”

“Is it not often the custom of pirates, after they have robbed a vessel, to set her on fire to avoid discovery?” I asked casually. I scarcely know why I put the question, except that my thoughts were naturally running on the Emu.

“Oh yes, it may be so,” said Van Graoul, who heard the observation; “but still I don’t think it.”

“What do you say? Suppose it is the Emu herself,” remarked Barlow thoughtlessly.

“Heaven forbid!” I ejaculated. “Remember who I fancy is on board.”

“Oh sir, I do not mean to say that I have any reason to suppose that yonder vessel is the Emu,” he replied, seeing the pain the idea gave me. “She looks a much larger craft, and higher out of the water.”

When we got close to the burning wreck, we hove-to to windward, and had our boats ready to lower in case we should perceive any living beings either on board or in the water. We soon saw, however, that on the deck of the brig there was not a spot on which a person could stand free from the raging flames. I also attentively examined her, as did Fairburn; and to my infinite relief we were persuaded that she was altogether a totally different vessel from the Emu, for she was much longer and higher out of the water,—indeed, a large merchantman; and from her build we judged her to be Spanish. As I was examining the vessel, I observed, through the flames which were surrounding them, that the boats were still hanging to the davits. The circumstance was extraordinary, and we could only account for it, by supposing that the fire had burst forth so suddenly that the crew had not time to lower them, or that some other means of escape had been afforded them. We had not long to consider the point, and to arrive at the conclusion, before the flames had completely consumed the deck and sides, rendered peculiarly combustible by the heat of the climate; and, after raging for a few minutes with renewed fury, the hull sunk gradually from our sight, and the fiery furnace was quenched by the waves as they leaped triumphantly over it. Though we had seen no living beings, we still could not but suppose that some of the passengers or crew must have escaped, and were at no great distance. I was very unwilling, therefore, to leave the spot till we had ascertained the fact; and I resolved accordingly to remain hove-to till the morning. We fired a gun at intervals to attract the attention of any of the people; but hour after hour passed away, and no answer was made. The sun at last arose. A few charred planks and spars were floating near us, showing that we had kept one position during the night; but we could see no boat or raft. Look-outs were sent aloft to scan the ocean around.

They had not been long at their posts, during which time the daylight had been increasing, before one hailed the deck to report a sail right away to windward.

“What is she, do you think?” asked Fairburn.

“A square-rigged craft; her topgallant sails just show above the water,” was the answer.

Directly after, the other look-out hailed, to say that he saw a speck, or some similar object, floating to leeward. Our glasses were turned towards it; and Fairburn, mounting to the crosstrees, reported that he saw a human figure hanging to it. Nothing else appearing, we instantly bore down to the spot. As we approached it, we observed that there indeed was a man attached to a hen-coop; but whether he was dead or alive it was difficult to say, as he did not move or make any sign. A boat was instantly lowered, and Fairburn jumping into it, the man was soon brought on board.

“He has still life in him, I think,” said Fairburn, as he placed him on deck; “but I suspect he has met with some foul usage. See what a gash he has got across the temple; and here is a bullet-hole through his arm, or I am much mistaken.”

I had not yet looked at the countenance of the wounded man. We got a mattress, and carefully carried him down into the cabin, where he was placed under the skylight on a sofa, so as to obtain sufficient air. I saw at once, by his appearance and dress, which was what any landsman might wear on board ship, that he was not a seaman; and I suspected, moreover, that he was a gentleman; not of course that, whatever his rank, we should have made any difference in our treatment of him. We had him stripped and wrapped in blankets, and then well rubbed; and we soon had the satisfaction of seeing the livid appearance of his skin wear off, and after several deep respirations, his features lost their sharp contraction, and his lips began to move, and he opened his eyes. He then looked steadfastly at me, and a smile of satisfaction played round his mouth, while he made a strong effort to speak. As he did so, I felt almost certain that I recognised the well-known countenance of my old school-fellow, John Prior. The idea had before flashed across my mind; but I had failed to see any likeness between my friend and the half-drowned stranger who was brought on board. I now, however, had little doubt on the subject.

“Prior, old fellow,” I exclaimed, “I know it is you. But don’t speak or agitate yourself; you shall tell me everything by and by when you get well, which you soon will, I know.”

I took his hand as I spoke, and by the warm pressure he gave me in return, I felt very certain that I was not mistaken. The discovery, as may be supposed, did not lessen my zeal in the recovery of the wounded man.

Van Graoul, who had a very fair knowledge of surgery, and a sufficient modesty not to attempt more than his skill would warrant, after a careful examination of the wounds, pronounced them not dangerous; and making up a dose from the medicine chest, Prior swallowed it, and soon afterwards had gained sufficient strength to speak and sit up. Van Graoul had charged me to let him say only a few words, to give me any information which may be on his mind, and then to urge him to go to rest. The first word he uttered was my name.

“It is all very strange, indeed,” he said. “But it is indeed a satisfaction to be with you, Seaworth, though I cannot tell how it has all occurred.”

I told him how we had been attracted to the spot by the burning vessel, and picked him out of the water, urging him not to say more than was necessary at the moment.

“Ah, now I remember,” he answered. “We were attacked by a pirate—a treacherous, cowardly pirate. They took us by surprise. We fought, however; but most of the crew were killed; some were carried off, I believe. I was knocked down below after being wounded, and supposed to be dead or dying. I was left to be burnt by the miscreants. I was only stunned, and soon recovering, I gained the deck just as they left it. The idea of being burned to death was too horrid to be endured. The boats were all destroyed, there was no time to make a raft; so, casting loose a hen-coop, I lowered it into the water, and lashed myself to it, trusting that Providence would find some means of preserving me; or, at all events, that I might thus enjoy a longer time to offer up my prayers to Heaven, and to prepare for death. It was an awful time, Seaworth; but I did not feel unhappy. I never possessed greater reliance in God’s mercy. I trusted that, if He did not think fit to preserve my life, He would, through the merits of our Saviour, lead me to a glorious immortality in the next. I had no fear, strange as it may seem, I assure you.”

“I should have said that of you, Prior, believe me,” I replied. “But I must not let you talk more now. I have one question first to ask before I impose silence. What sort of a craft was the vessel which attacked you?”

“A low black brig; and her crew seemed of all nations,” he replied.

“I thought so,” I exclaimed. “It was the Emu, and she it is which is still in sight.”

I instantly sent for Fairburn,—for he had left me with my friend alone,—and told him my suspicions. He had entertained the same opinion; and I found that, with all sail set, we were once wore again in chase of the mysterious craft which had so often escaped us.

Arranging Prior in a comfortable posture, I watched him till he fell asleep, his placid countenance, notwithstanding the dangers he had been in, showing a mind at rest and nerves unshaken. I found, on going on deck, that we had already risen the sails of the stranger above the horizon from the deck; and as we had the whole day before us, with a fair breeze, there was every probability of coming up with her. Should we overtake her, we had now, with Prior as a witness, stronger proofs than ever of her misdeeds. She had, however, so often escaped us, that I must own even I was not very sanguine of the result, and the crew, guided by the opinion of Dick Harper, were still less so. All the forenoon the chase continued. We were gaining on her certainly, but at the same time we were a long way from her; and early in the afternoon, the land appeared to the north-west, towards which she had altered her course.

When Van Graoul saw this, he shook his head. “So I did think,” he remarked. “That craft is not to be caught so easily. If what is said of her is true, there is a worse fate for her in store than we have prepared for her.”

Though the remark was made without reflection, I believe, I could not help thinking that there was much truth in it. Vengeance, far greater and more sure than the hand of man could inflict, would assuredly overtake the evil-doers.

The land we were approaching was of moderate height, thickly covered with trees, broken into headlands and promontories, and with numerous clusters of islands, and reefs, and rocks off it. Van Graoul knew it well, so that we boldly approached it. It became a question with us whether the pirates, seeing themselves so hard pressed, contemplated running the brig on shore, or whether they purposed taking up a position in one of the inlets of the coast, where they could defend themselves without risk of loss, should we attack them.

We, as before, outsailed them, proving that the Fraulein was the fastest vessel of the two; and yet no one on board but believed that the Emu would again escape us. She stood boldly in towards the shore, evidently well acquainted with it. We followed, with the lead going; there was, however, a good depth of water. When she had got within a quarter of a mile of the coast, she ran along it, and we kept after her. A headland, running a long way into the sea, appeared before us; she rounded it, and was concealed from our sight by the trees which covered it to the very edge of the water. We stood on, expecting again to see her, when we also had got round it. We had almost reached it, when, by standing too close in, we got becalmed, and for half an hour made but little progress. This we knew would, of course, give the Emu a great advantage. At last, however, the breeze again filled our sails, and we were able to get round the point. As we did so, we saw the brig a long way ahead, now standing somewhat off the land. We continued the chase, and quickly made up for the distance we had lost. This day was, however, far spent, and it was already growing dusk before we approached her. My heart beat quick with the expectation of what was to occur. When we got her within range of our long gun, we began to fire at her rigging, more effectually to prevent her escaping. To our surprise, instead of returning the fire, or standing away from us, she rounded to and backed her main-top-sail till we ran alongside.

“There is something odd here,” remarked Van Graoul; “I cannot make it out.”

“Nor I,” said Fairburn. “There is some treachery, I fear.”

“What brig is that?” I asked, through the speaking-trumpet.

“The Neversink, John Jenkins, master, from Boston, with a cargo of notions,” was the answer.

“Lower a boat, and come on board, then,” I hailed.

There was apparently some little demur; but soon a boat was lowered, and with four hands in her, and a man in the stern-sheets, she came alongside. The man, without hesitation, stepped on board, followed by three others. By the light of a lantern, held to show him the way, he seemed a decent, respectable sort of a person, dressed in the usual costume of a merchant skipper, with a swallow-tailed coat, and a straw hat.

“Well, I calculate I have made a mistake,” he exclaimed, squirting out a stream of tobacco juice, when he found himself confronted by Fairburn, Van Graoul, and me. “I thought I was on board a Dutch man-of-war schooner; but you won’t be hard upon a poor fellow, now, will you, gentleman? The cargo is all mine, and it’s worth but little to you; and if you take it, or anything happens to me, I shall leave my disconsolate wife and small family destitute—I shall indeed.” And Captain Jenkins began to cry and wring his hands.

“Why, pardon me if you don’t like the term, but I took you for pirates, gentlemen—pirates and robbers.”

“Dat is a good joke,” said Van Graoul; “why, we thought you were de same. And I am not quite certain that he is not,” he whispered in my ear.

He had, in the meantime, got a boat ready; and Barlow, with four hands, pulled on board the brig. While he was away, we kept Captain Jenkins in conversation, nor did he seem in any degree disconcerted at the departure of the boat, which he must have observed. When Barlow returned, he reported that the brig, though about the size and build of what we supposed the Emu to be, was, to all appearance, an honest merchantman, without anything suspicious about her. The captain said that he had come to trade with the natives in those parts; that he had just got out of harbour, and he had seen no vessel during the day till he had observed us rounding the point. His story was so plausible that we were compelled to believe him: and after he had taken a good supper with us, washed down by a bottle of wine, he returned on board, declaring that we were first-rate fellows, whether we were pirates or not. The next morning we commenced a strict scrutiny of the coast in search of the Emu; and for several days we followed it up, but in vain, and once more I was obliged to confess that I was as far from success as ever.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Resolved never to abandon the pursuit in which I was engaged, although so often disappointed at the very moment that I thought success secure, I continued cruising in every direction, among the numberless rich and beautiful islands of the Eastern Archipelago. My friend Prior was for a considerable time confined to the cabin. His wounds, and long immersion in the water, had caused him to suffer much, and during many days he appeared to be hovering between life and death. When he was sufficiently recovered to speak without risk, he told me that his father having lost the greater part of his fortune, he had resolved to enter on a mercantile career, in the hopes of redeeming it; with that object he had come out to the East, and having been sent, by the house in which he was engaged, to Manilla, he took his passage in a Spanish merchantman. One day they observed a dark low brig hovering near them; but her appearance did not cause much alarm, as she was small and seemed unarmed. The first watch was nearly over, and it had become almost calm, when they were startled by seeing a vessel with long sweeps gliding up towards them. Those on deck instantly flew to their arms to defend themselves; but before the watch below and the passengers in the cabin could be aroused from their sleep, or made aware of their danger, the brig was alongside. Her character was soon made known to them. A band of fierce pirates rushed on board, and with their cutlasses and pistols cut down and shot every one they met, whether armed or not. Prior, and some of the other passengers, and a few of the crew, fought till they were overpowered by numbers, and were all cut down and disabled. How he had escaped I already knew. He supposed that the pirates, after rifling the ship and murdering the crew, had set her on fire to escape detection, or, perhaps, from a mere wantonness in cruelty. He said that he was very certain that he should be able to recognise the leader and several of his followers. Prior was unchanged from what he had been as a boy,—wise beyond his years, yet full of life and spirits, and possessing a vast fund of information; he was a most delightful companion.

It now having become absolutely necessary to refit the schooner, as well as to refresh the crew, and to get fresh stores of provisions, we entered the harbour of Amboyna, the residence of the Dutch Governor of the Moluccas. Amboyna is an island to the south of Ceram, over the whole of which the Dutch maintain their sway. The island produces cloves and other spices in abundance; the climate is tolerably healthy, and there are a good many Dutch residents. The Governor treated me and my companions with the greatest attention, appearing most anxious to forward my views by every means in his power. The sago tree grows here to a large size, eighteen inches in diameter. The pith forms the chief food of the inhabitants; and it is calculated that one tree will subsist a family for a month or six weeks. The tree being felled is secured in a horizontal position, when an opening being cut in the upper surface, the pith is scooped out as required.

I never lost an opportunity of questioning people of all sorts, to learn the movements of the Emu; and from a Bugis trader belonging to Celebes, I heard that some time before, a vessel answering her description had been seen to the north of that island; and also, as some piracies had been committed in the neighbourhood of the Philippine Islands, I suspected that she had gone to cruise among the Spanish settlements in the northern part of the Archipelago.

On leaving Amboyna, we accordingly shaped our course in that direction. Some months had now passed away since Prior had been my companion. His presence supported me much; and whenever I began to despond, he raised my spirits and encouraged me to persevere. He reminded me that often when, from want of trust in Providence, we fancy ourselves furthest from the consummation of our just hopes, God has arranged, by some inscrutable means, to bring about their fulfilment.

“He has given you health, and strength, and courage, and means, to follow up the pursuit thus far,” Prior used to observe. “Why, then, fancy that success is never to occur.”

Although now recovered sufficiently to find his way to Manilla, he refused to quit me till I had succeeded in my enterprise. The last shore we had seen was that of Jilolo, after passing through the Molucca passage, when one forenoon, we not expecting to fall in with any land, the look-out hailed that an island was in sight on the starboard bow. As we drew near, we found that though small, it was of considerable elevation, and apparently surrounded with coral reefs. We were about to pass it at some distance, when Fairburn, who had been examining it with his glass, said that he saw something which looked like a flag flying at the highest point. It instantly occurred to us that it must be a signal of distress, made by some shipwrecked seamen, probably; and we therefore steered nearer to the island, to examine it more minutely.

We were now convinced that we were right in our conjectures, when, on getting close in, we saw that it was a piece of striped linen—a shirt, apparently—fastened to two spars lashed together, and stuck in a heap of stones. The rock, which seemed about a couple of miles in circumference, was surrounded by coral reefs, outside of which we hove the schooner to. A boat was then lowered, in which Prior, Fairburn and I, with a crew of four hands, pulled towards the shore.

We had some little difficulty in finding our way through the reefs; but a passage at last being discovered, we landed on a soft sandy beach. We met with a spring of fresh water, and there were cocoa-nut trees, and several other tropical fruits growing in the lower part of the island; but the summit of the hill was totally bare of vegetation. As yet we had seen no signs of inhabitants; but we were curious to discover what other traces they had left behind them besides the flag-staff, or to view their remains should death have overtaken them here.

We wandered round the base of the rock, which seemed the cone of some extinct volcano, before we could find the means of ascent, so steep and rugged were its sides. At last we found a winding pathway, evidently trodden by the foot of man, by which we could easily get to the top. We followed each other in single file, Fairburn leading, having our arms in our hands; for, though there was little chance of our requiring them on this occasion, we made a point of always being prepared in case of a surprise, so many having lost their lives among the treacherous natives of those regions from neglecting this precaution. The summit of the rock was broken into a number of separate peaks, there being very little even ground. The largest space was that on which the flag-staff was erected. To this spot the pathway led up, showing that it had been the most frequently visited by the occupants of the island. There were other less defined pathways leading in different directions about the hill. Prior called our attention to the fact that they were all very narrow; from which he argued that one person alone had formed them; and from the principal one being so much trod, that he had for a long time resided on the island.

A heap of stones had been raised up to a considerable height, into which the flag-staff had been fixed; they were all small, such as one man could lift, and were mostly broken off from the surrounding cliffs. The flag-staff was formed of a boat’s spreet and an oar lashed together. From the splintered butt-end of a spar, we judged that the flag-staff had been blown down, and broken off. By the way the piece of coloured cotton had been fastened together, it showed that great care had been taken to make it form as large a surface as possible. There was, however, nothing to prove how long a time had passed since the person who erected the flag-staff had gone away; and supposing that it might have been many weeks before, somewhat disappointed, we proposed to return on board the schooner. We were on the point of descending the rock, when Fairburn, who had been hunting about, picked up the fragment of a cocoa-nut.

“See!” he exclaimed, holding it up; “the fruit is perfectly fresh, and the shell cannot have been broken many hours; so, probably, there is some one still on the island.”

“Perhaps, sir, it is some savage; and he is hiding from us,” remarked one of the men.

“No, no,” said Fairburn; “a savage would not have planted that flag-staff.”

While we were still standing discussing the point, Fairburn had followed up one of the slightly-marked tracks across the rocks, of which I have spoken. He had got some way off, when for a minute he disappeared behind a point of rock. He then again came in sight, and beckoned us to follow him. We scrambled along over the broken rocks, till we reached the spot where we had last seen him; but he was gone. For an instant a feeling of dread came over me, for I fancied that he had fallen over a precipice, which appeared on one side. Just then I heard his voice, as if addressing another person. The amazement was great, when, turning the angle of the rock, I found myself in front of a shallow cavern, and saw him bending over the body of a man reclining on a bed of leaves in the further part of it. He beckoned me to enter. I did so, and approached the spot.

“Here is a poor fellow in the last stage of a violent fever,” he said. “He is very weak; but perhaps food and care may bring him round. He spoke to me just now rationally enough; but, see, he off again.”

The sick man looked like an Englishman or an American; and Fairburn said that he had spoken English perfectly. He was dressed in a jacket made of dark-blue silk, his shirt was of the finest linen, and he had a rich sash round his waist; but the cut of his shoes was that of an ordinary seaman. A fine plaited straw hat lay by his side; and his hair, which was thick and curling, was already considerably grizzled.

“He has been shipwrecked, and is probably the only survivor of the crew,” I remarked. “We must try and get him on board without delay.”

While I was making these remarks, it occurred to me that a draught of cold water might revive him; and remembering the spring we had passed, I set off to procure some in a bamboo drinking-cup we had in the boat. Meeting Prior, he turned back with me, and having observed some limes, he gathered some to squeeze into the water. We quickly returned, one of the men carrying a small breaker of water. On entering the cavern with the draught, I was glad to find that the sick man had again returned to consciousness. I put the cup to his lips, and as soon as he had tasted its contents, he drank them eagerly off, and then showed by signs that he wished for more. Prior had been engaged in squeezing more limes. He now approached nearer with them. I saw him start when he saw the stranger, and look earnestly at him; but he did not say a word, and kneeling down by his side, Prior gave him the refreshing draught he had prepared. It instantly had the effect of reviving the sick man, who looked up, and their eyes met. The latter, after staring with an amazed and inquiring look, let his head again drop, and appeared to be endeavouring to conceal his countenance with his hands, while Prior, taking me by the shoulder, led me out of the cavern. When we had got beyond hearing he stopped.

“Seaworth,” he said, “who do you think is the man who lies there, on the point of death it would appear? Prepare yourself to hear, for you cannot guess. He is no other than the leader of the pirates who attacked my ship—the person who wounded me—the man of whom you are in search—the captain of the Emu. I recognised him at once; for we fought hand to hand, and there are some countenances which are impressed in a few moments on the memory. He, I suspect, for the same reason remembered me; for I believe I pressed him hard, and had not one of his companions come to his assistance, I should have taken his life. I tell you this at once, that you may be prepared how to act. He may have it in his power to communicate important information; but if we are not cautious in our proceedings, he may refuse to say anything.”

I was so astonished at what I had heard, that I could scarcely collect my thoughts sufficiently to answer.

“What would you advise me to do?” I asked. “He may tell me of Eva but, alas! where can she be?”

“Trust that Providence has protected her,” he answered solemnly. “But go and speak to him calmly and soothingly. There is, I fear, but little time to lose ere he will be called to his account.”

Following Prior’s advice, I entered the cavern, and knelt down by the side of the sick man. He seemed resolved not to utter a word, and had returned no answers to the questions as to how he felt himself, which Fairburn, who was still ignorant as to who he was, was putting to him. It struck me that he might be more inclined to speak to one person alone; I therefore requested Fairburn to quit the cabin, and to prepare some more lime-juice and water. I then turned to the pirate.

“I have to beg you to listen to me,” I began, speaking in a calm, low voice. “In an extraordinary manner I have learned who you are; but though I believe you have inflicted the greatest injury on me, my religion has taught me to forgive my enemies. I therefore, from my heart, most sincerely, as far as I have the power, forgive you; nor will I in any way seek to revenge myself on you. I will now tell you who I am. My name is Mark Seaworth, and I am the brother of a little girl whom you have long had in your power. I therefore entreat you, as the best amends you can make me, to tell me where she is, and to afford me the means of recovering her and the lady who was with her.”

“I did not know such a feeling existed in this dark world,” he muttered, rather to himself than as if answering me. “He forgives me without exacting any promise. Alas! he knows not what he has to forgive.”

“I forgive you from my heart, as I hope for forgiveness for my transgressions, when I stand in the presence of God; and I will pray that He too will forgive you for yours, even though you had inflicted a thousand injuries on me.”

“This is very wonderful—very wonderful indeed,” muttered the sick man. “I never heard of such a thing.”

“It is the religion Christ came into the world to teach mankind,” I answered. “He sets us the example, by promising forgiveness to the greatest of sinners who believe in Him, and who put their faith in Him, even at the tenth hour, like the thief on the cross. He tells us also to pray for our enemies; then, surely, I am but following his commands when I forgive you. I would say more of these things to you—I would entreat you to believe in that merciful Saviour, and to pray to Him for forgiveness; but I am a brother; I earnestly long to discover my lost sister, and I must first beg you to tell me all you know of her.”

“Sir, you have strangely moved me,” said the pirate, in a hoarse voice, turning his countenance towards me. “I own that I am the man you suppose, the pirate, Richard Kidd, as great a wretch as one who, years ago, bore that name. You tell me that you forgive me; but if you knew the injury I have inflicted on you for years back, I doubt that you could do so.”

“For years back!” I answered, in astonishment. “I do not understand you; yet I say, whatever the injury, I am bound to forgive you, and with God’s assistance I do so. But my sister? Tell me of my sister.”

“Then, sir, you are such a Christian as I remember, when a boy, I was told men should be; but you are the first I ever met. You would learn what has become of the little girl, Eva Seaworth, as she was called. Alas! I cannot tell you. The only good action I ever in my life attempted has been frustrated. I had preserved your little sister from all injury, and intended to have restored her to her friends in safety, when I lost her.”

“Explain, explain,” I cried in a tone of agony. “Do not you know where she is?”

“Indeed I do not,” was the answer. It struck a chill into my heart; and a stranger coming in would have found it difficult to say which of the two was the dying man.

“Can you give me no clue—can you not conjecture where she is?” I at length asked.

“Indeed I cannot, sir,” he answered. “I have no reason to suppose her dead; but I am utterly unable to tell you where she now is.”

“What! my sweet little sister! you deserted her!—wretch!” I cried, scarcely knowing what I said, and wringing my hands with the bitterness of heart. The next moment I regretted the exclamation.

“You wrong me there,” said the pirate. “I deeply mourn for her loss, as you will understand shortly. But my time is short. I have resolved to give you some important information I possess respecting you; and as your companions may be useful, as witnesses of what I say, call them back. I will endeavour to make what little recompense I can for some of what I may look on as the smallest of my many crimes; and then I will get you to talk to me about that religion I have so long neglected. I must give you something of my history; for, strange as you may deem it, it is much mixed up with yours.”

“What!” I exclaimed, interrupting him, with astonishment, “your history mixed up with mine! Can you give an account of who I am?”

“Indeed I can, sir; and may put you in the way of regaining rights of which you have long been deprived. But hasten, summon your friends; you have no time, I feel, to lose.”

I rushed out, with my heart throbbing, and full of amazement, to call Prior and Fairburn. Before I returned, and before he could impart the information so important to me, the pirate might have breathed his last; yet my sad disappointment regarding the uncertainty of my sister’s fate prevented me feeling the satisfaction I should otherwise have experienced at thus being on the point of gaining the information I had all my life so eagerly desired. My friends speedily followed me, as much astonished as I was; and kneeling round the dying man, while Prior took out his tablet to make notes if required, we listened to the following strange story, which, with many interruptions, he narrated to us.

Chapter Twenty Five.

“I was born and bred in the State of New York. My father I never knew. My mother was kind and good; but she yielded to the dictates of her heart rather than to those of her judgment. She over-indulged me; she neglected to root out the bad seeds Satan is always striving to sow in the heart of man; and they grew up and flourished till they brought me to what I now am. I was of a roving, unsettled disposition. I required excitement. I believe that I might, with care, have been led into the right way, but that care was wanting. I was fond of excitement; when I could not obtain it in reality, I sought it in fiction, and therefore eagerly devoured all books which could satisfy my craving; but never did I look into one which would confer any real benefit upon me.

“The adventures of robbers and pirates delighted me most, and the history of a man, whose name I by chance bore, had a fatal influence on my destiny. I thought him a hero, and fancied it would be a grand thing to become like him.

“It did not occur to me, that the stories about him were mostly false; that the book was a fiction, dressed up to please the vicious palate of the uneducated public, and that the man himself was a miserable wretch, little better than a brute, who dared not think of the past or contemplate the future. What he was I am too well able to tell, from knowing what I myself now am. I was well educated; but my knowledge was ignorance. I soon grew weary of the trammels of home, and fancying that I should have greater licence afloat, with a vague notion that I would imitate some of the heroes of my imagination, I, without even wishing my mother farewell, ran away to sea. I had no difficulty in finding a ship; and if Satan himself had wished to choose one for me, he would not have fixed on a craft where I could more certainly have learned to follow his ways. The master set an example of wickedness, in which the crew willingly followed; and thus I grew up among the scenes of the grossest vice. It was not long before I engaged in transactions considered criminal by the laws. My companions and I succeeded so well without detection, that the rascally merchants, who had employed us, engaged us on several occasions for a similar object. At last our practices were suspected; and I was warned not to return to my native place. I accordingly took a berth on board a ship bound for India. Arrived there, I deserted, and joined an opium clipper. I soon got tired of that life, for there was some little danger at times, the excitement was but trifling, and the discipline was stricter than I liked. I got back, at length, to India, where there was much fighting going forward with the native princes; and European recruits being wanted, I enlisted, pretending I was an Englishman.

“I gained some credit for bravery, though, being discovered on a pillaging expedition, I narrowly escaped a severe punishment. I went by the name of ‘the sailor’ in the regiment to which I belonged; and having, while in liquor, described some of my adventures, my character was pretty well-known, not only to my comrades, but to some of my officers, as it appeared. It was not long before my conduct brought me into trouble. I escaped narrowly with my life, and was turned out of my regiment without a farthing in my pocket. I was wandering about the streets of Calcutta, considering what I should next do, when one evening, as it was growing dark, I observed a person watching me. He followed me to a secluded place, and when no one was in sight, he came up, and, addressing me by name, told me if I wanted a job which would put money in my pocket, to come to a certain house in two hours’ time, binding me by an oath not to mention the circumstance to any one. I went at the time agreed on, and was shown by a servant into a room, where, soon afterwards, I was joined by a young officer, whom I knew to be a gambler and a man of ruined fortune. I therefore guessed that he wanted me to perform some desperate piece of work or other for him. ‘Well, what is it you want of me?’ I asked, in rather a sulky mood, for somehow or other I did not like the gentleman; and, bad as I was, I felt rather degraded in being employed by him; but yet my fortunes were too low to allow me to be nice in what I undertook. He looked rather astonished at my manner; but recovering himself, he said, ‘I want you to manage a very delicate affair for me, Kidd; and if you do so, I intend to pay you well.’ ‘What do you call well?’ I asked calmly. ‘Why, I propose giving you two hundred pounds down, and fifty pounds a year for your life, if you remain faithful,’ he answered. ‘You must swear to me that you will not betray me, and that no threats or bribes shall move you.’ I took the oath he prescribed. He then said, ‘You must know that there are two children, now in the East, who are about to be sent home to their friends in England. Both their parents are dead, and they stand between my father and a large property. If they come of age, it will be theirs, and while they live he cannot enjoy it. Now, understand, I do not want you to murder the children; we must have nothing of that sort on our consciences; but you must manage to get hold of them, and bear them away where they shall be no more heard of. I leave you to form the plan, and to carry it out, only let me know the result. Will you undertake the work?’ I told him that I would. ‘Well, then,’ he continued, ‘the children are now in the Mauritius; their names are Marmaduke and Ellen Seaton. You will have time to reach them before they sail; and you must contrive to get a berth on board the ship they go by. It is whispered that you have contrived to cast away a ship or so, when you were well paid for it. Perhaps the same turn may serve you now.’

“The plan was soon arranged. The directions for finding out the children were given me, and, putting fifty pounds into my hands for my expenses, he told me to start off at once, and to come back to him when the matter was settled. I reached the Mauritius without difficulty, and found that the children, under charge of an Indian nurse, were to proceed by the Penguin, a small free-trader, touching there on her homeward voyage. In aid of my plan, the second mate had died, so I applied for and obtained the berth; besides which I fell in with two seamen who had been with me before, when a ship I sailed in was lost by my means. I opened my project to them, and they promised to assist me. The nurse was devotedly attached to the children and by nursing them, and being attentive to her, I soon won her confidence. I found, however, much more difficulty than I expected in my attempt to wreck the vessel. The captain was a good navigator, and very attentive to his duty, as was the first mate; so that when, during my watch on deck at night, I got the ship steered a wrong course, in the hopes of edging her in on the African coast, I was very soon detected. I laid the blame on the helmsman, one of my accomplices, who stoutly asserted that he had been steering a proper course. I again tried to effect my object; but the captain had, it appeared, a compass above his head, in his own cabin, and being awake, discovered the attempt.

“I made every plausible excuse I could think of, but I felt that I was suspected, and dared not venture to play the same trick again. I had, however, another resource, which, dangerous as it was, I determined to risk. You may well start with horror. It was nothing less than to set the ship on fire. I then intended with my comrades to carry off the nurse and children to the coast of Africa, and to dispose of them to some of the African chiefs a little way in the interior, where no white man was ever likely to fall in with them. One night, the wind being from the westward, I managed to set fire to a quantity of combustible matter among the cargo. I waited till the alarm was given, and then, hurrying to the Indian nurse and the children, told her that, if she would trust to me, I would save her. My men had been prepared, and instantly lowered a boat, in which she and her charges were placed with two of my accomplices. I had a chart, with a few nautical instruments, my money, and some provisions, all ready; having thrown a keg of water and a few biscuits into the boat, I hurried forward to my cabin to get them. The flames had burned much faster than I expected, and while I was in my cabin, just about to return aft to the boat, they had reached, it appeared, the magazine. Suddenly a dreadful noise was heard; I felt myself lifted off my feet, and then I lost all consciousness of what was occurring. At length I found myself clinging to a mass of floating wreck, and in almost total darkness. I could discover no boat near me. I hailed; but no one answered. Oh, the horrors of that night! It is impossible to picture them. A laughing fiend kept whispering in my ear that I had caused all this havoc, that I had destroyed the lives of so many of my fellow-creatures, and that I should not miss my reward. Daylight came, and I was alone on the wild waters. A shattered portion of the mainmast and main-top buoyed me up, and a bag of biscuits I had had on my arm still hung there. I ate mechanically. The sun came out with fiery heat and scorched my unprotected head, and I had no water to quench my burning thirst. Thus for three days I lay drifting, I knew not where, expecting every moment to be my last, and a prey to my own bitter recollections. Then conscience for a time usurped its sway; and I believe, had I fallen into good hands I might have repented; but it was not to be so. A vessel at length hove in sight. I had just strength left to wave my hand to show that I was alive. I was taken on board; not that feelings of compassion dwelt in the bosoms of her crew, but they saw my white skin, and thought that I might be useful in navigating their evil-employed craft, for fever had thinned their numbers. She was a slaver, and had some four hundred human beings groaning in chains beneath her confined decks.

“I speedily recovered, and assuming a bold, independent manner, I soon gained considerable influence over the crew, who were composed of Spaniards, Portuguese, Mulattoes, and desperadoes from every country in Europe. My companions found me so useful that they would not part with me, so I sailed in the vessel for the next voyage. She was a large brig, well armed. Slaving alone was too tame for us. If we fell in with a merchantman, we plundered her; and instead of going on the coast for slaves, we lay in wait for the smaller vessels returning home, when we used to take the slaves out of them, sometimes paying them in goods, and sometimes, if we were not afraid of detection, refusing them any recompense, and threatening to sink them if they dared to complain. For two years I remained in the slave brig without being able to leave her. I had no dislike to the work, and our gains were very large; but I was anxious to get back to India to secure the reward which had been promised me. It may seem strange that I should be eager after a sum which was paltry, compared to what I was now making; but I did not like to lose what I considered my right, gained, too, with so much risk and crime.

“Fortune did not always favour us. We were captured by an English ship of war; and clear evidence of our guilt being brought forward, I, with several of the officers and crew, was sentenced to be hung at Sierra Leone. The sum of my iniquities was not yet full. Two of my companions, confined with me, formed a plan for escaping; and, as my knowledge of English would be useful, they invited me to join them.

“We succeeded; and after going through incredible hardships and dangers, in travelling down the coast, under which one of our number sunk, the survivor and I got on board a slaver, and reached the Brazils. I was here very nearly recognised by the master of a Brazilian craft we had plundered; so, with my Spanish comrade, I worked my way to India. When I arrived, I made inquiries for the officer who had employed me, and was to pay me my reward. He was dead; and I found that I had lost the fruits of my crime.

“The children, I felt convinced, had been lost in the burning ship; and with the proof of her destruction, I contemplated going to England, and claiming the price agreed on for this work from the officer’s father, who, I doubted not, was enjoying the fortune which should have been theirs. Each time, however, that I attempted to go, I was prevented; once I had actually got part of the way, when I was wrecked at the Cape of Good Hope; and all the time I had my misgivings about going. First, that I might be recognised by those who knew me as a pirate; and then, after all, that the old gentleman would refuse to acknowledge my claims. A poor rogue, I knew, would have but little chance with a rich one. He had not tempted me to commit the crime, and might probably defy scrutiny. I speak of myself as poor; for, not withstanding all the sums I had possessed, not a dollar remained. Ill-gotten wealth speedily disappears, and leaves only a curse behind. Years passed away, when, at the port of Macao, in China, I took a berth as first mate on board the American brig Emu, trading in the Indian Seas.

“A lady, who was reputed to have great wealth with her, and a little girl, whom I supposed to be her child, came on board as passengers to Singapore. Two of the crew were my former comrades. I sounded the rest, and found that they had no scruples about joining me in any project I might propose. The prospect of possessing the lady’s dollars was too tempting to be resisted. The master, we feared, would not join us. To make sure, he was shot, and thrown overboard; and I took the command. I have perpetrated so many crimes, that I can speak of murder as of a common occurrence.”

“But what became of my sister and Mrs Clayton?” I exclaimed as the pirate had got thus far in his narrative.

“I took them from the first under my charge,” he answered. “I treated the lady with care; because I hoped that if I were captured, she might intercede for me, and assist in preserving my life. It was not for some time that I discovered who the little girl was. I had won her confidence; for in her presence I always felt myself a better man, and more than once I had resolved to repent, and obeying my mother’s earnest prayers, to return home to lead a virtuous life; but my evil passions had got too strong a hold of me, and my good resolutions were speedily broken.

“One day little Eva told me that she had been picked up in a boat at sea; and she afterwards showed me a gold chain and locket which had been found round her neck. I remembered it perfectly; and when she told me that she had a brother, and I considered that the initials of the names were the same, I had not the slightest doubt that I had discovered the children who were supposed to have been lost at sea. It at once occurred to me that I might turn the circumstance to my own advantage; and I resolved to return to England, and to put her in the way of regaining her rights. I knew that there was a great risk, but the romance and adventure pleased me; and when I told her that I had the means of serving you and her, she vowed that she would never consent to see me punished for anything that had occurred, and that she was certain that you also, and Sir Charles Plowden, would protect me.

“When I proposed to go to England, my crew would not hear of it. They had been disappointed in their share of Mrs Clayton’s property; and they declared that they must have the ship full of booty before they would go into harbour, and that if I would not consent I should share the fate of the master.

“We were tolerably successful, and for a long time no ship of war appeared inclined to molest us; at length your schooner appeared, and on two or three occasions nearly came up with us. I should have fought you, and might have beaten you off; but when, after some time, I learned who you were, which information I gained by going in disguise to some of the Dutch settlements where you had touched, I was anxious to avoid you. I had a notion that if I attempted further to injure you, the attempt would recoil on my own head. During this time your young sister was tolerably contented on board. I did my best to amuse her, for I truly was fond of the child, and she little knew how bad we were.

“Mrs Clayton, however, suffered much, and her health and strength soon gave way. She prayed me to set her and Eva on shore; but I dared not do so, lest they might betray me; and I had my own reasons, which I have told you, for keeping the little girl with me. At last the poor lady sunk beneath her sorrows. Even my fierce crew pitied her; and, when too late, they would have set her on shore. She died, and we buried her at sea. I thought I should have lost the poor little girl also, her grief was so great. I did my best to comfort her, and she somewhat recovered her spirits.

“There is an uninhabited island in these seas, not far from this, where we used to go to take in wood and water, and to refit the vessel when necessary. Some months ago we went there, and having safely moored the schooner in a snug harbour, carried some of her guns on shore, with the intention, on the following day, of conveying all her stores, for the purpose of heaving her down to give her a thorough overhaul. We erected tents and huts, and all the crew went to live on shore. Eva remained on board, to be more out of harm’s way; for on such occasions they were apt to get drunk, and quarrel, and sometimes to discharge their fire-arms at each other. Our movements, it appeared, had been watched by the scouts of a pirate fleet of Malays. While the greater part of the people were sleeping on shore, not suspecting danger, a number of armed prahus pulled into the harbour, and, undiscovered, they got alongside the brig. Before any alarm was given, most of the fellows who remained on board were krissed, and the lighter and most valuable portion of our cargo was carried off. Two or three of our men managed to jump overboard and to swim on shore, unperceived by the Malays. Fortunately, we had our boats with us, and instantly manning them, we pulled off to the brig. We had everything to fight for; for if we lost her, we were undone. We succeeded in surprising our enemies before they had time to cut the cables, or to set her on fire. Some we cut down, others we drove back to their vessels, and others into the water. So fierce was our attack, that they must have fancied that we mustered many more men than we actually did; and casting off their prahus, they swept them out of the harbour. Not a living being was found on board; the bodies of the men were still there, but your little sister, my good angel, was gone. I almost went mad when I made the discovery. I hoped, at first, that she might have concealed herself in the vessel, but I searched for her in vain. Nothing that could have occurred could have so moved me. I vowed that I would search for her in every direction, and would kill every Malay I met till I found her. After this I grew worse than ever, and more fierce and cruel. Even my own people were afraid of me.

“We had lost so many men, that it was necessary to be careful till we had recruited ourselves. We at last attacked a large Spanish brig. Some of her crew volunteered to join us; the rest shared the fate of many of our victims. We set her on fire and left her. We found an immense booty on board her; and it was necessary to repair to our island to share it. The people quarrelled with me about the division. I was also anxious to cruise among the Sooloo Islands, and to visit other places to which I thought little Eva might have been carried. To this they were opposed, instigated by the new hands. I grew furious, and blew out the brains of one of the ringleaders. It silenced them for the moment; but that night I found myself bound hand and foot, and that the brig was under weigh. After being at sea about a week, I was landed on this rock. I had no means of judging whereabouts it was. I was put on shore at night, and the brig made sail again at night. They left me neither arms, ammunition, nor food. At first I thought I should die; but I found ample means of existence, and I resolved to live to be revenged on those who had thus ill-used me. I felt all the time like a caged hyena, and used to walk about the island, thinking how I could escape. With some spars washed on shore I made the flag-staff you saw; but I could take no other measures, for I had no tools to construct a boat or even a raft. At last fever overtook me, and reduced me to the condition in which I now am.

“Such is a short outline of my history; but I have more to say to you. Some papers, to prove the claims of the children, kept in a tin case, were entrusted to the faithful nurse, who had charge of them. I got these papers from her, and they were in my pocket when I set the ship on fire, and I have ever since preserved them, thinking they might be of some use to me. I now return them, as they are of great importance to you.”

The dying pirate ceased his strange narrative. Prior and Fairburn at once got him to give the names and addresses of people, and several dates, and other particulars, which were afterwards of the greatest importance to me. I was so overcome and astonished at what I had heard, that I should have neglected to have done so. I eagerly received the case, for I longed to learn who I was, which I supposed the papers in it would inform me; but my desire to attend to the dying man would not then allow me to look at them.

He might have done me much injury, but he had been kind to Eva; and on that account I almost forgot that he was a pirate, and looked upon him as a friend. Had he been even my enemy, at that moment I would not have deserted him. The tin case I entrusted to Prior, and begged him to give it me when we returned on board; and I then sat myself down by the side of the pirate. He intimated that he could talk, and listen to me better alone.

“I shall not keep you long, sir,” he observed. “As the sun sets, my spirit too will take its flight. Alas, to what region must it be bound! Oh, who would commit sin, if they remembered what anguish they were preparing for themselves at their last moments!”

Thinking that some medicine might be of use to him, I proposed carrying him on board but he entreated to be left where he was.

“I am not afraid that you would betray me,” he said, with a ghastly smile; “I wish that the gibbet could make atonement for my sins, or that the gold I have robbed could buy masses for my soul, as the cunning priests of Rome tell their dupes it would do, but it is of no use. I shall not live to see another day; and if I can be saved, it must be through the unspeakable mercy of the great Saviour of whom you are telling me.”

Still believing that he might live longer than he supposed, I begged my friends to return on board, as it wanted still two hours to sunset, and to bring some food and medicine, while I remained with the unhappy man. As there could be no risk in my being left alone, from the island being uninhabited, they yielded to my request, and immediately set off down the hill to rejoin the boat.

It was a lovely evening. The cavern wherein I sat, by the side of the dying pirate, looked towards the west. Above our head and round us were the dark rocks; below, a mass of the rich and varied foliage of the tropics, between which was seen a strip of yellow sand and a line of coral reefs; and beyond, the calm blue sea, on which the sun was shining in full radiance from the unclouded sky. At a little distance off was my little schooner, with her sails idly flapping against the masts, now lying perfectly becalmed. There I sat, and humbly strove to show the dying pirate the way to seek forgiveness of his God.

Chapter Twenty Six.

As I sat in the cavern by the side of the dying pirate, his voice grew fainter and fainter, and his strength was evidently ebbing fast away. I observed that while he was speaking, his hand grasped a letter, well worn and crumpled.

“Ah that I had followed her advice, that I had listened to her entreaties, I should not have been brought to this pass!” he muttered to himself.

The letter was from his mother. For many years he had preserved it, and at his last moments it was not forgotten. I promised to write to her, and to tell her that he had died repentant. It is not, I hope, presumptuous in me to suppose, that it might have been owing to his kindness to Eva, to his one redeeming virtue, that he was allowed thus to die with one who could speak to him on matters of religion; or, perchance, a mother’s earnest prayers might have been heard at the throne of grace. So earnestly was I talking, that I did not observe the change which had come over the heavens. Suddenly, to my surprise and horror, the pirate sat bolt upright—his hair stood on end—his eyeballs rolled terrifically—his hand pointed towards the ocean.

“I knew it! I knew it! They come! they come!” he exclaimed, in a hollow voice, trembling with fear. “Such as I could not die like other men. Oh! mercy! mercy!”

Dark rolling clouds in fantastic forms came rushing over the sky. His voice was drowned in the loud roar of the tempest as it swept over the rocks. One shriek of agony alone was heard joining with the wailing of the fierce blast, and the wretched being by my side fell back upon his rude couch a livid corpse.

It was long ere I could erase from my memory the agonised expression of his countenance, as I beheld it when I attempted to draw the lids over his starting eyeballs. The storm was as furious as it was sudden. Thunder in rattling peals rolled through the sky; vivid lightning darted from the clouds; and rain in deluges came down, and drove me for shelter to the farthermost corner of the cavern. I could just distinguish my schooner through the sheet of water which was falling before me. The squall struck her; she heeled over to it, and for an instant I feared she would never have risen again but answering her helm she paid off, and away she flew before the gale. When I looked again, she had run far out of sight, under bare poles. My position was very disagreeable; but as there were food and water in the island, it might have been much worse. My chief concern was for Prior, Fairburn, and the boat’s crew. There had been plenty of time for them to get on board; but I questioned whether they had remained there, or endeavoured to return on shore before the gale came on. It suddenly occurred to me that they might have made the attempt, and that the boat might have been wrecked. No sooner did I think this, than, in spite of the rain, I started up and rushed down the rock towards the place where we had landed. I looked around on every side. There was no sign of the boat; but the wild waves were lashing the rocks with relentless fury, throwing up masses of foam to the topmost branches of the loftiest trees. To satisfy myself more thoroughly, I walked completely round the island; no boat, nor even a fragment, was to be seen; and at length I endeavoured to find the path to the cavern. I had some difficulty in discovering it, as it was now growing rapidly dark, the obscurity being increased by the dark masses of cloud floating in the sky. I fortunately found some plantains, which I plucked, as also a cocoa-nut; and with these in my hand I retraced my way back to the cavern. I would have selected any place to rest in rather than the one where the dead pirate lay; but I knew of no other where I could obtain shelter, and I did not like to turn the body out to be exposed to the tempest. He had collected a store of wood, and as I had my rifle with me, I easily kindled a fire. I was anxious to have a fire to dry my clothes, which were thoroughly drenched by the rain and exposure to the spray. This operation being performed, I began to feel the pangs of hunger; but as I had had but little practical experience of cookery, I was rather puzzled to know how to dress my plantains. I tried one under the ashes, but I burnt it to a cinder, and was obliged to stay my appetite by munching a piece of cocoa-nut, while I was making a fresh attempt.

I had a knife in my pocket, and by means of it I formed a toasting-fork out of a thin branch of a shrub, with which I more carefully roasted another plantain, very much to my satisfaction. It would doubtless have been better dressed in a more scientific way; but I was too hungry to be particular. The cocoa-nut served me as dessert; and the spring and some limes afforded me a most delicious and cooling draught. When my hunger was appeased, the strangeness of the scene, and the recollection of my own somewhat critical position, presented themselves to me with greater force than before. Unless, however, some accident had happened to the schooner, I felt very sure that she would return as soon as possible to my rescue.

The present, therefore, most oppressed me. I had no superstition; but yet I was not altogether free from a natural repugnance to being left with the dead pirate during the darkness of the night, while the storm was raging so furiously around. To sleep, I found, was impossible; so I sat up by the side of my fire, husbanding the wood with the greatest care, lest it should not last me till morning. Now and then a blast more furious than ordinary would come and almost sweep the fire out of the cavern.

In the intervals of the rain, while the lightning illuminated the dark abyss below my feet, I looked out to see if a glimpse could be caught of the schooner, as I pictured her trying to beat up to my rescue; but had I considered, I should have known that it would have been impossible for her so to do.

I had thrown a cloak I found over the body of the pirate, which I had drawn to the side of the cavern farthest from me; and as the flames cast their fitful light on it, I fancied that I saw the limbs moving. I watched—I was certain that they moved again.

“Can it be possible that he is not dead?” I thought. “Perhaps he is in a swoon, brought on by agitation and excessive weakness.” Taking a brand from the fire, I approached the body, and lifted the cloak from his face. The features remained fixed and rigid as before. The stamp of death was there. My fancy had deceived me. Replacing the cloak, I returned to my seat by the fire. Never has a night appeared so long. At last my fuel was almost exhausted, and my watch told me that it wanted some time to sunrise. The storm had in no degree abated. I had scraped the leaves together, which had formed the pirate’s bed, and I kept adding a few at a time to the fire. Whether the smoke they caused had any effect on me, I know not; but by degrees forgetfulness stole over me, and I sunk into a sound slumber. When I awoke, the storm had passed away, and the sun was shining brightly on the blue waters beneath me. Arousing myself completely, I offered up my morning prayers to Heaven, and then hurried out to take a survey around the island, in the hopes of discovering the Fraulein in the distance. I first looked to the south. She was not to be seen. I then climbed to the highest point, where the flag-staff was placed, when what was my surprise and no little dismay to see below me a fleet of prahus, which, from their size and the appearance of those on board them, I knew must belong to one of the neighbouring piratical communities! The cause of their presence was explained, when I observed that several of them had been driven on shore on the weather side of the island, the remainder having taken shelter to leeward of it. The wind which had blown the Fraulein off the coast, had, to my misfortune, blown them on it. I consoled myself with the hope that they might soon take their departure, and that I should have simply to undergo the inconvenience of lying hid in the cavern, and was about to hurry away from my conspicuous situation, when, to my dismay, I saw, from the gestures of some of those on the shore below, that I was perceived. Still I thought that I might reach the cavern before any of them could get up the hill, and that, should they possibly not take much trouble in searching for me, I might still escape discovery. I therefore hurriedly descended to it, and sat myself down in the most retired part to wait events. My rifle was by my side. I loaded it, and considered whether I should try and defend the post, should they appear to be hostile. I seldom missed my aim; and I felt that I could keep a number at bay, if I posted myself at the angle of the rock, where I could command a pathway, up which not more than one person at a time could proceed.

There was, however, unfortunately no spot whence I could watch them to judge of their disposition without being perceived. I therefore must be the aggressor against people who might not desire to injure me. At all events, I must sacrifice a good many lives, and should probably be overpowered in the end. Of course I could have no scruple about defending my life or my liberty; but I could not tell that the strangers wished to deprive me of either one or the other. While I was still undecided, I heard the voices of the Malays, shouting to each other as they climbed the hill in search of me.

As I had so easily discovered the cavern, so probably would they. “Come,” I thought, “I will not be taken like a rat in a hole, crouching up here in the corner. They will think that I am afraid and despise me. That must not be.” So, starting with my rifle carefully loaded, I went to the angle, whence I could observe them. As I stood listening, I judged by the sound of their voices that they were drawing near, and had probably already discovered the pathway to my place of concealment. Stepping out, therefore, with my rifle grasped in my left hand, ready to fire if necessary, I presented myself full in front of them. There were some twenty or thirty fellows; and savage-looking warriors they appeared, with head-dresses of feathers, and skins of wild animals on their shoulders, while they held their krisses in their hands ready to strike. I saw, from their active movements as they sprang up the rocks, that I should not have the slightest chance with them if we came to blows, and yet they did not seem like people with whom there was much chance of keeping on peaceable terms, if one happened to be the weakest party. I fortunately had a white handkerchief in my pocket; and on the instant I thought I would try what effect exhibiting a flag of truce would have. As soon as they saw the rifle, they stopped and held a consultation, evidently well knowing its powers of mischief. Probably they supposed that there might be several others behind it ready to pick them off as they advanced. When, however, they saw me holding out the handkerchief in my right hand, they suspected that I was not inclined for war, and their confidence immediately returning, they once more advanced towards me. I again presented my rifle and they halted. Their leader suspected that he should have a bullet sent through him, so he kept back the rest, who, not anticipating such a reception for themselves, were more induced to push on.

My readers will believe that I had good reason for my apprehensions, when I describe the fierce group winding up the pathway and scattered about the more distant rocks before me, where they had climbed when the front ranks came to a halt. Some I judged by their dress and features to be Malays; others were evidently Dyaks, or some of the native tribes of Borneo. The leader was a Malay apparently. He had on his head a turban of gay-coloured cloth, richly embroidered, twisted round a helmet of ancient form; his breast was guarded by a coat of plate armour, and the scabbard of his sword hung to a gold band across his shoulders. On his back he wore a scarlet coat, while a shawl, also embroidered, was fastened loosely round his waist, below which again appeared a sort of kilt, and loose trousers. His sword was ready in one hand and a spear in the other, so that he promised to be a formidable opponent at close quarters. But behind him came another, whose appearance was far more terrific, and whom I guessed was of the Dyak race, probably a chief among them.

Strange as it may seem, I was well able to observe him. On his head he wore a sort of crown or cap, of large size, made of monkey’s skins, trimmed with feathers, and surmounted by two very long feathers of the Argus pheasant, hanging out on either side. From each of his ears were pendant two large rings of tin or lead, which weighed the lobes almost down to his shoulders, while the upper part of the ear had a tiger’s tooth passed through it. He had on a long jacket of scarlet cloth, trimmed with yellow, and thickly padded to serve as armour; and a cloak of tiger’s skin thrown over his shoulders, with the head of the animal hanging behind. A thick cloth girded his loins, and hung down before and behind like the tail of a coat, while into it was stuck his parang or broad-pointed sword. A spear was grasped in his left arm, which bore a long shield made of hard wood, and curved round, barely of width to cover the body at once; and in his right was his sumpitan or tube to blow out poisoned arrows, one of which he had ready to discharge at me, his followers imitating his very disagreeable example. His legs and feet were entirely bare. The handle of his sword, as also his quiver, were profusely ornamented with tufts of hair, which added to the wildness of his general appearance; indeed, altogether my assailants were as savage a band of warriors as a single man would wish to encounter.

As yet they were too far-off to send their arrows at me: at the same time, there was little chance of my rifle missing one of them; but then, had I fired, before I could again have loaded, the rest would have rushed on, and cut me down. I therefore, as my only resource, resolved to try what would be the effect of showing confidence in them. Accordingly I placed my rifle against the rock, and waving my handkerchief, advanced towards them. I own that my heart was beating tolerably quickly all the time, but I tried to look as brave as a lion. When they saw that I had laid aside my weapon, for which I had reason to suspect they thought me a great simpleton, their own courage returned, and then rushing forward, I was soon surrounded by their motley band, each man amusing himself, very much to his satisfaction though very little to mine, by thrusting the point of his sword or spear-head at me, to try whether I could bear the prick without flinching. As it would not now have done to have shown any signs of fear, I took no notice of their insults, and looked around with an air as unconcerned as I could assume.

I fear that I did not act my part sufficiently well to command their respect, for the chief seized my handkerchief, and putting it into his belt, proved that he had no respect for flags of truce; another got hold of my rifle, and, on examining the lock, pulled the trigger, and very nearly shot one of his companions. One then took off my jacket, and one appropriated my hat, not withstanding my significant entreaties to be allowed to retain it; indeed, I soon found that I had little chance of being treated with any ceremony.

Some had gone into the cavern, where they discovered the dead body of the pirate. Immediately they stripped it of its clothes, and hurled it over the precipice, to become a prey to the fowls of the air; so that I was unable, as I wished, to have bestowed burial on one who, miscreant as he might have been called, had, at all events, been the protector of my little sister.

When, on further examination, they found nothing else to carry off, they dragged me down to the shore, off which several of their prahus were lying at anchor. The rest of the people were busily engaged in collecting everything that was valuable from the wrecks of those which had been driven on shore; and I very soon found that, though they might spare my life, I was to be treated, not only as a prisoner, but as a slave; for a fellow having collected a load, without ceremony placed it on my back, and, giving me a poke with his spear, made a sign to me to carry it to a canoe floating close to the beach. The rest laughed, and seemed to think it a good joke. I tried hard to keep up my temper and courage; so, as soon as I had deposited the load in the canoe, I came back, and assiduously began to collect another, which in like manner I carried to the canoe. When, however, I had collected a third, rather heavier than the rest, seeing a fellow passing me without one, I very quietly placed it on his back, and giving him a shove, pointed to the canoe, as his countryman had done when he put the load on me. This seemed to tickle the fancies of the rest, and they all laughed immoderately, except the one on whom I had played the trick, and he immediately threw the burden down. On this I pretended to fancy that he was too weak to carry it, and making signs as if I commiserated him, I took it up and bore it off to the boat. By this sort of behaviour I believe that I gained considerably the good opinion of my captors, if I did not by it save my life. Had I been weak or obstinate, they might have killed me, as of no use to them; but from my willingness to work, they judged that I should make a useful slave, and valued me accordingly. Having collected all they wanted from the wrecks, and laid in a store of fruit and water, they began to go on board the prahus. I resolved to make an attempt to preserve my liberty, and putting out my hand, tried to shake hands with them and to bid them farewell, as if I expected to remain on the island. Alas! I speedily discovered that they had no intention to let me off. I endeavoured to explain that I had friends who would return and look for me, and would be grievously disappointed at not finding me. They probably did not understand my explanations; at all events they totally disregarded them, and the spears which were pointed at me convinced me that I had no resource but to step into the canoe towards which I was thus unpleasantly conducted.

We were soon on board one of the prahus, which, I learned, belonged to the chief who had captured me, and I was given to understand that I was his especial property. My rifle was given to the leader of the expedition, as a more valuable perquisite. I am not quite certain whether my jacket or I ranked next in consideration. I suspect that we were considered of about equal value. The prahu on which I was on board differed but little from those which composed the fleet by which it had been my chance before to be captured. The chief cabin extended farther forward, and was less substantially built; and the whole vessel was longer, and much more decorated with paint and carving. I was placed under the fighting deck among a quantity of booty, of which I found they had been pillaging some of the neighbouring islands. Fortunately there were plenty of slaves to work the oars, so that I was saved from a task which would have knocked me up completely. The wind being contrary, the oars were got out, and we pulled away to the northward. At first we proceeded at a moderate speed, but I then observed some little commotion on board, and the officers went round with thongs in their hands to urge the slaves to fresh exertions. As we cleared the island, and I managed to creep up so as to get a look astern, I discovered the cause. In the far distance was my own little craft, the Fraulein, beating up under all sail towards the island. I was certain it was she, and it was a satisfaction to know that she had escaped shipwreck in the gale; but it was indeed doubly tantalising to me to see my friends so near and unable to help me. What a change had a few short hours wrought in my circumstances! Yesterday I was on board my own vessel, with every one anxious to serve me; now I was a slave, surrounded by savages, who, without provocation, might any moment put an end to my existence. I remembered, however, the advice I have so often repeated. I resolved to keep up my spirits, and to make every exertion to escape, trusting that He who had hitherto been my Guardian would think fit still to preserve me. I watched the Fraulein anxiously; she had not yet reached the island to discover that I was no longer on it.

We had almost sunk the island when I saw her topgallant-sails come abreast of it. For some time they remained stationary, and then I saw her evidently standing after us. She pursued us under all sail, but we were pulling into the wind’s eye, and had the advantage of her. At length the shades of evening shut her out from my view.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Overcome with fatigue, wretched as I was, I fell fast asleep, surrounded by my savage companions, and was allowed to remain undisturbed all the night. When the morning dawned, we were running under sail, with the northern coast of Celebes on our larboard hand. I looked out for my dear little Fraulein, in the anxious hope that she might be following; but, alas! she was nowhere in sight; and with a sinking heart I felt that I was about to be carried into hopeless slavery. I did not doubt that my friends would search for me everywhere; but if I was transported into the interior of the country, I knew too well how almost impossible it would be for them to discover me.

The high land of the northern coast of Celebes remained in sight for some days, as we pursued our course to the westward; but the pirate fleet did not attempt to make any descent on it; indeed, their prahus had already as much cargo on board as they could well carry. One day we stood close in, and I observed ranges of lofty blue mountains, with rocks and precipices, and waterfalls, and groves of trees, and green fields, forming altogether a most enchanting and tempting prospect. We, however, stood off again; and whatever was the intention of the pirates, either to rob or to obtain water, it was frustrated. The inhabitants of Celebes are called Bugis. They are very enterprising and industrious, and are the chief traders in the Archipelago. They are said not to be altogether averse to a little piracy, when they can commit it without fear of opposition or detection. They are, at all events, far more civilised than any of the surrounding people, and they are in proportion deceitful and treacherous. As Celebes belongs to the Dutch, and they have a settlement on the north-eastern point, that of Mindanao, I was in hopes that some Dutch ship of war might encounter the fleet and rescue me from the hands of my captors; but day after day passed away, and no such good fortune, as I should then have called it, befell me. I had reason, afterwards, to be thankful for all that occurred to me. But I must not anticipate. Losing sight of the coast of Celebes, we crossed the Straits of Malacca, and sighted the lower shores of Borneo. The land was low and thickly fringed with mangrove trees of large growth but behind their dark foliage I observed blue mountain ranges rising in the distance, which gave the scenery a more inviting appearance. We soon entered the mouth of a broad river, up which we sailed in martial array—tom-toms beating, pipes sounding, men shouting and brandishing their weapons, and flags waving. I was at first doubtful whether they were preparing for war, or celebrating their victories on their return home. I found, at last, that all this noise and fuss was their mode of rejoicing and congratulating themselves on their success. At first I was inclined to think their custom very barbarous and ridiculous, till I remembered that we in England do precisely the same thing in our own way, only, as we are a more powerful people, we make more noise at a victory. We fire off much bigger guns, and more of them; we wave a greater number of larger flags; we light up our houses, which are much higher, with lamps; and our mob, who are more numerous, shout with hoarser voices. Indeed, when I came minutely to compare the habits and customs of barbarous people with ours, I found that there was a much greater similarity than I was at first inclined to suspect.

As we sailed on, the scenery much improved. Fine green fields, or meadow land, formed the banks, varied with gently sloping hills and knolls, or more rugged elevations, covered to their summits with the richest and most varied foliage. We passed two or three places where I observed the ruins of huts and stockades, and also that the fruit-trees were cut down. On these occasions the warriors flourished their swords more vehemently than ever, and seemed to threaten some invisible enemy, when I thought it advisable to keep out of their way, lest they should take me for a real one, and hew me to pieces. Higher up, considerable patches of cultivated ground appeared, and, scattered thickly along the banks, were to be seen the picturesque cottages, or rather huts, of the inhabitants. I afterwards learned that they were of the Sagai race—a tribe of the Dyaks—some of whom manned the prahu on which I was. As we proceeded, canoes assembled from each village to greet us, and others were seen coming down the river in large numbers for the same complimentary object. I was now placed on the most conspicuous part of the fighting deck, either as a trophy of war, or an object of curiosity to the assembled multitude, I could not tell which; but I was not flattered by the distinction, which was at all events excessively disagreeable.

At length we reached a town of some size, surrounded by a stockade, with a fort, mounting a number of old guns on one side. The town, I found, was inhabited chiefly by Malays, who live on friendly terms with the Sagais. The houses, unlike those of the Dyaks of the north coast, were built of one storey on the ground, chiefly of bamboo, neatly thatched and floored. The fleet having anchored before the town, and fired a salute, the admiral and his chief officers landed with me in their train, and marched towards the palace of the sultan, as the ruler of each petty state is called. We had not advanced far, when the victorious leader was met by a procession, with the prime minister in state, coming to do him honour. First marched a Malay, with a staff and a large flag waving above his head; then came two spearmen with their shields; and next the minister, another man holding above his head a canopy of state, a huge flat-topped umbrella, of scarlet silk, fringed with gold. Next followed a band of musicians, two with drums, and two with pipes; and last, a large body of spearmen, all habited in scarlet cloth.

The minister wore a silk handkerchief wound round his head, the end sticking out at the top, a silk vest, a richly embroidered coat, broad trousers with a deep fringe, and a handsome shawl round his waist, into which was stuck his sword and kriss, the end of which made his coat stick out very much behind. Such, indeed is the general dress of the Malays in those regions. After saluting the admiral, he turned round, and heading our line of march, we proceeded to the palace.

We found the sultan seated on his throne in a large room of bamboo, open on three sides, that behind him having a scarlet cloth curtain hanging before it. We all drew up in front of the throne, and a great many speeches were made by those present, very complimentary, I doubt not, to each other, and very much the contrary to their enemies; and then I was brought forward and examined, and turned round and round, till they were tired of looking at me. As they were aware that I did not understand a word of their language, or they of mine, they did not ask me any questions, which saved me a great deal of trouble. I was at last sent back to my original captor, whose property I evidently was. He kept me for three days in the town, where I was visited by an immense number of the inhabitants, who evidently considered me a curiosity, just as we in England would look on a Dyak if we had him to exhibit. He did not understand the art of a showman, so he did not attempt to make anything by me; but now, considering that it was time for me to commence gaining my own livelihood, and bringing him some profit into the bargain, he intimated to me that I was to accompany him into the interior on the following day. My master’s name was Kaka, and he was, I believe, considered a great warrior and a first-rate navigator; at least, I know the Malay admiral put great confidence in him.

Early in the morning we set out, Kaka and some friends being on horseback, while I was compelled to trudge forward on foot, with a bundle, moreover, on my back. The scenery as we advanced was very beautiful, and the luxuriance and variety of the vegetation most magnificent. I was surprised at the immense number of cultivated trees, shrubs, and plants which surrounded the native villages. There were large groves of broad-leaved plantains and graceful cocoa-nut trees, the slender tapering betel-nut palm and elegant palmyras; while the showy-looking papaw, and here and there a rhambutan tree, or a dark-leaved guava, contrasted with the golden fruit of the shaddock, and the delicious mangustan and the curious-tasted durian were to be found in numbers among them.

I observed extensive groves of bamboo at the back of some of the houses, and pine-apple plantations luxuriating in the dark damp shady nooks. Then there are large fields of the most vivid hues; the bird’s-eye pepper and tumeric are found growing like common weeds; while the piper betel, the leaf of which is chewed with ripe or green pieces of the areca-nut, is a most graceful plant, especially when loaded with its long spikes of fruit. Sometimes it runs like a creeper along the ground, and at others it climbs the stems of the palmyra and areca palms in little patches, which are carefully guarded by rough paling. Great attention is paid to the irritation of these spots, to insure a good flavour in the leaves.

The cultivation of these various productions of the earth was certainly very rude; but wherever I went I observed a greater approach to the arts of civilisation than I expected, but more especially I was struck with the immense resources of the country, the extreme fertility which Providence has so bountifully bestowed on it, and the great reciprocal advantages which the inhabitants would reap by a free commercial intercourse with civilised countries.

When I became better acquainted with the people, I felt convinced that, notwithstanding their many barbarous and cruel customs, they possessed dispositions which, if properly cultivated by the introduction of the true spirit and tenets of Christianity, and a firm and judicious government, would form them into prosperous and happy communities. They appeared to me, when I saw them unexcited by war, to be of a very mild character, and most anxious to act rightly and honestly, according to their notions, towards each other. Of course, I judged them by their own standard of right and wrong, as I conceive the only fair way to form a just estimate of the character of a people is to calculate the advantages they possess. Alas! I fear that, were the behaviour of Englishmen thus to be judged, their characters would often sink very very much below the standard at which, in our conceit, we are too proud of rating them.

We travelled on for several days into the interior. I tried to keep up my spirits and an appearance of indifference, as I knew that thus I should have a much better chance of being well treated by the natives, than if I had appeared sick or out of humour. I trudged on, singing when I could manage to screw my voice up to the proper pitch, sometimes chewing a piece of cocoa-nut, and at others whittling away, as the Americans call it, at a stick, which I had cut from the forest. I tried hard to make some of the inferior Sagais carry my load, by placing it on their shoulders; but, though they took the trick in good part, the man to whom I had given it passed it on to another, and very soon it was returned to me. Most of them, indeed, had loads of their own to carry. At last we arrived at the chief’s residence. It was a neatly built cottage of bamboo, thatched with palm-leaves, and surrounded by a number of smaller cottages, the habitations of his relations and followers, the whole encircled by a palisade and trenches to serve as a fortification. I was at once introduced to the chief’s wife, and made to understand that I was to obey her orders. She wore a large loose garment of native cloth, called a sarong, wrapped round her waist and descending some way down her legs, but not sufficiently long to impede her walking. She was really very good-looking, though rather stout; but her beauty was not increased by the enormous rings of tin which she carried in her ears. She seemed good-natured, and I determined to do my best to please her. She first set me to light the fire. To produce ignition, in the first place, she gave me a stick with a pointed end, which she showed me how to insert into a hole in a board, which led to a groove in the lower side, and by turning the stick round rapidly between the palms, the flame burst forth. She next gave me a quantity of rice or padi to pound for family consumption; and then putting a basket into my hand, made of straw so closely woven that it held water, she intimated that it was to get her from a rivulet a supply of that necessary article.

I was next employed in collecting the fruit of a species of bassia, or what I should call a butter tree. This she boiled down, and then poured the liquid into bamboo cases. When it had cooled it was taken out, and was of the colour and consistence of cheese. The larger quantity was intended for exportation; but she also, taking some strips of cotton, dipped them into the mass, and produced some apologies for candles. The flame was not bright; but the vegetable tallow has the advantage of remaining concrete, or hard, under the greatest tropical heat, white that produced from animal fat becomes too soft for the purpose. When she had no household work to give me, I was sent out with a number of other slaves, both black and brown, to cut wood for firing or building purposes, and to collect aromatic barks, such as the clove bark and the cinnamon. I never refused to perform any work she gave me, and went about it with so cheerful a countenance that I gained her approbation and confidence. I own that all the time my heart was very heavy, and that I was endeavouring to discover some means by which I might have a chance of escaping. At the great distance I was from the coast, I knew that to escape would be very difficult; but I notwithstanding resolved never to despair. Others had been rescued from equally hopeless situations; why should not I? though I could not see the means by which it was to be accomplished. My place of captivity was in the neighbourhood of a fine river, abounding with fish; and after a little time I was sent out to assist my master and his companions in catching them. Sometimes we used the root of a shrub found in the forests, which, being steeped in water, the juice was poured into the pools where the fish lay. This completely stupefied them, and made them float to the surface, where the natives dexterously transfixed them with their spears. They have, however, another and a very amusing way of catching them in the stream, which I think might be imitated to advantage in England. A number of model ducks are made of light wood, to imitate the real bird, and to their feet hangs a line with a hook and some tempting baits. These were set floating in the current, and watched at a little distance by a man in a canoe. Sometimes the ducks would swim tail first, contrary to the practice of all live ducks; but the fish, I supposed, did not observe the eccentricity, for they bit just as readily at the bait below. As soon as the fisherman perceived that a duck began to bob and dive, he paddled forward and secured the living prize beneath. I soon grew expert at this sort of fishing, which was very amusing; and as I set to work to manufacture the ducks, I sometimes had five or six dozen floating around me, and it was very exciting pulling here and there, when, by their movements, I saw they had made a capture.

Near the village, on the banks of the stream, were several podado trees, which are of a light-green foliage, and extremely elegant. They are the abode of fire-flies; and at night it was most beautiful to watch the thousands of those brilliant insects flitting about among their branches. Sometimes I have seen both banks of the river completely lit up as if by a display of fireworks.

I was rapidly gaining a knowledge of the language of my captors, which I diligently studied for the purpose of aiding my escape, and I thus was able to gain a great deal more about the people than I could otherwise have done. I have already slightly described their dress. It varied very much, each man seeming to follow his own taste. Some wore enormously large helmets of skins stretched out on canes, and ornamented with a variety of feathers; and when they wore skin cloaks, the head of the animal usually hung down behind, and had a very grotesque appearance. They wear corselets of leather, stuffed, and some large pearl-oyster shells, to serve as armour. Their sumpitans are most exactly bored, and look like Turkish tobacco-pipes. The inner end of the sumpit, or arrow, is run through a piece of pith fitting exactly to the tube, so that there is little friction as they are blown out of the tube by the mouth. The barb is dipped in a mixture, of which the chief ingredient is the sap of the upas tree; and, to increase its virulence, lime-juice is sometimes added. The poison, by its exposure to the air, loses its noxious qualities.

By-the-bye, I discovered that the deadly qualities of the upas tree are very much exaggerated. I climbed into the branches of one, and drank water from a stream passing near its roots, without suffering the slightest inconvenience; at the same time, perhaps, under some circumstances, it may be more hurtful.

The chief articles exported by my captors were bees’ wax and camphor, honey, vegetable tallow, areca-nuts, trepang dawma, sharks’ fins, tortoise-shell, edible birds’ nests, and pearls. These are only a very small portion of the articles they might export under other circumstances.

The edible bird’s nests are formed by a species of swallow, which builds them in the caves on the coast. They adhere in numbers to the rocks, very like watch-pockets to the head of a bed. They are either white, or red, or black, and are formed chiefly of agal-agal a marine cellular plant. The Chinese lanterns are made of netted thread, smeared over with the gum produced by boiling down this same plant, which, when dry, forms a firm pellucid and elastic substitute for horn.

The collecting of these nests, from the positions they occupy, is as dangerous as the samphire-gathering described by Shakespeare. I must return to my description of the people. The members of each tribe are usually divided into their fighting men, those who manufacture arms, and those who cultivate the ground and make ornaments for the women. Although addicted to warfare, they still cultivate the ground; they treat their women better than do most savages, always the mark of a superior grade in civilisation; they do not torture prisoners as do the North American Indians, although they cut off the heads of those they kill.

They believe in one God, and fancy that heaven is situated at the top of Kina Balow, their highest mountain, and that the pass is defended by a savage dog. It is curious that the North American Indians and the Greeks of old had a similar notion.

In their warfare they are as fierce and remorseless as the Red Indian, and, without the fair warning which he gives to his enemies, they attack them in the dead of night, and slay all they meet. I heard of a race of people who inhabited the woods in the interior, who go about entirely without clothing; they sleep under the overhanging branches of trees, make a fire to keep off the wild beasts and snakes, and, cover themselves with a piece of bark. When the children can take care of themselves, they quit their parents to pursue the same course. The Dyaks hunt them, and shoot their children in the trees with sumpits as they would monkeys. I had heard of these wild people; and one day in the woods, with another slave, we observed what I was convinced was one of them, standing before me with a huge stick in his hands; but instead of being without clothing, he had a well-made coat of skin on his shoulders. We were both unarmed; and as my companion instantly ran away, I was afraid that he might retaliate on me the injuries he had so often received. He looked at me fiercely for a minute, and then brandishing his stick, advanced towards me. I saw that I was not likely to escape by running, and fully expected to have my brains knocked out. Luckily a branch of a tree lay near me; I seized it, and rushed towards my antagonist. To my surprise he instantly threw down his stick, and began to climb a tree near him. I was now the assailant; and as my courage increased, his oozed out, and he climbed from branch to branch in an endeavour to make his escape. On nearer examination, what I took to be a coat was his natural skin; and I discovered that instead of a wild man, an enormous ourang-outang was before me. As I had no wish to molest him, I began to retreat; but as I did so, he came down from his tree and followed me. On this I turned again, when he instantly stopped, and as I advanced he began to climb.

I suspected, from this manoeuvre, that he intended me some treachery, and, coming to an open space, I set off and ran as hard as I could. He followed for some distance, when, growing tired of walking, he gave up the chase, and returned to his wood. I suspect that the wild people spoken of are no other than baboons. I advanced further in the good graces of my mistress by taking notice of her children, and by making them swings, and a variety of toys suited to their tastes, so that she was induced to indulge me more than the other slaves. I, however, still had to toil hard, and my master was as severe as at first. One day I had gone with a number of other slaves to collect cinnamon in a direction I had not before visited, when, as I was passing a cottage on my return homeward, I heard the sounds of a female voice singing a low and soft melody. The notes thrilled through my heart. They were not the sounds of a native woman’s voice. I let my load drop at the risk of feeling my master’s lash on my back, that I might stop and listen. How eagerly did I drink in these notes! I heard the words, too; yes—I could not be mistaken—they were English. Oh, what sensations did they create! I had an indistinct notion that I had heard them before in the days of my infancy. It was a gentle, plaintive air. Now I should never forget it. I longed to see who was the singer; but she was concealed inside the cottage, and I feared to enter; I dared not even delay longer to listen, for the lash of my master was about to descend on my shoulders. What wild fancies rushed into my brain! “Can it be Eva? Can she be so near me? I dare not think it,” I kept repeating to myself, as I was urged on with my load. All night long I lay awake, that sweet voice sounding in my ear, while I meditated how I could discover the mystery.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Several days passed away, and my constant and numerous occupations prevented me from returning to the neighbourhood of the cottage from whence the strains of music I had heard proceeded. Every effort I made was prevented. Alas! I felt too truly that I was a slave. Those who have once tasted the bitterness of slavery will know how to compassionate their fellow-creatures, whatever the hue of their skin, reduced to a like condition. Surely the heart of the white and black man is the same: yet such is the fate of thousands and thousands of human beings, not only of the sons of Africa, but of the inhabitants of these magnificent islands I am describing. To what nobler purpose could the power and influence of Great Britain be turned, than by putting a stop to such atrocities, and by bringing the blessings of Christianity and civilisation among a people so capable of benefiting by them?

But to return to my history. The natives of Borneo have a very just conception of the rights of property; they look upon certain lands and fruit-trees, or on other trees and shrubs useful to them, as also on their lakes and rivers for fishing purposes, as belonging to certain tribes or individuals; and any aggression thereon is the cause of quarrels and warfare. I had heard the people talking of an expedition some of them had made into the territory of a distant tribe, when they had cut down some cocoa-nut and palm-trees, and committed other mischief; but they spoke of their enemies as a weak and pusillanimous race, who were unable or unwilling to retaliate, and I thought no more of the matter. When sent into the woods to gather bark or gums, or the heads of the cabbage-palm, or to catch fish on the river or neighbouring lake, I used to be interested by the vast number of birds and insects—the beauty of the plumage of the one, and the brilliancy of the tints of the other.

I must not omit to mention the cabbage-palm. This tree is surrounded, at each girdle of growth, by a cincture of sharp thorns, which are more numerous and needle-shaped as we approach the leaves. The head contains, like all other palms, a soft spike, about the hardness of the core of the cabbage. This, when boiled, resembles the asparagus, or kale, and, uncooked, it makes an excellent salad. The interior of the tree is full of useless pithy matter. It is therefore split into four or more parts, the softer portion being cut away, and leaving only the outer rind of older wood, which is necessarily hard. These narrow, slightly-curved slabs form the principal flooring of the houses in Borneo, as well as the posts and rafters. In England it is constantly used for umbrella-sticks. The most interesting birds were the pigeons, with feathers of the richest metallic hues. The plaintive cooings of their notes as they issued from the solitude of the sombre woods, were mournful but soothing to my ear. Their air is full of softness, and their eyes of gentleness; the very turn of the neck and the carriage of the head are full of grace; every motion is elegant, and their forms of the most beautiful proportions. A kingfisher of considerable size, and splendid colouring, frequents the banks of the streams. A grey heron perches on the lower boughs of the trees, and fishes in the ponds. A small-winged woodpecker, and a large red-headed species, climb up and down the trees in sequestered places, and a thrush with a yellow beak and black head utters a sweet note among the bamboo groves and thickets; while owls, falcons, eagles and other birds of prey abound.

I was one day sent to fish in a lake in the direction of the cottage whence the music had proceeded which had so agitated me. Into the lake ran a clear rivulet, which passed, I thought likely, near the cottage. I was in a small canoe by myself, and, fortunately finding the fish abounding near the mouth of the rivulet, I separated myself from my companions, and, observing that I was not watched, I pulled a little way up it. My progress was soon stopped; but trees concealing me from view, I hauled up the canoe on the bank, and jumped on shore.

I listened to discover if any one was near; but no sound reaching my ear, I crept cautiously along the banks of the stream, looking between the trees for any sign of a habitation. After going some way, I came to a field of maize, and soon after, at the end of a forest glade, I beheld a cottage. I could not tell if it was the one for which I was in search, but I hoped it might be; and concealing myself among the bushes and behind the trunks of trees, I advanced towards it. I had got a very little way, however, before a female figure appeared from behind the cottage, with a basket on her head. She stopped an instant, as if to discover if any one was near, and then she came quickly along towards the very spot where I lay concealed. Oh, how my heart beat with emotion! Her quick and elastic step told me she was young,—as would her slight and small figure. Her dress, I saw, was not that of a native woman; for though her head was bare, a loose vest covered her neck and shoulders, and a gown came down to her feet. Soon, too, I saw that her skin was fair; that her hair, which hung in rich luxuriance over her shoulders, was light, and that her eyes were blue; and as she drew still nearer, I knew her features. I could not be mistaken in them; for although grown from infancy almost to womanhood, still they were those of my own sweet dear little sister Eva.

I was afraid of frightening her if I appeared suddenly, and still more so should any one be observing her; so I waited, my heart throbbing all the time, till she had reached the stream and filled her bucket with water. She then sat down on the bank, and seemed to be meditating over her sad fate. Then she began to sing the same plaintive air I had before heard. I echoed it, and repeated the words, increasing them in distinctness. At first she seemed to think that her imagination had been deceiving her; then she started up and advanced rapidly, with outstretched arms and eager look, towards where I lay concealed. I could no longer contain myself, but sprang up and rushed towards her. She instantly stopped, and uttering a faint cry, was about to fly from me—

“Eva, my own Eva! it is your brother Mark.”

She instantly recognised my voice, and flying forward she threw herself into my arms, and sobbed as if her heart would break. I held her thus without being able to utter a word.

“Mark, my brother Mark! I can scarcely believe this; and yet my heart told me all along that you would come and search for me; that you would not believe that I was dead; that you would never rest till you found me;—and I have not been deceived.”

“Indeed I would not, Eva, for we are all in all to each other,” I replied.

There was a sheltered nook, where no one at a distance off could see us. I led her there, and we sat down; and, our hands clasped together, I told her all that I had done to discover her.

“And you see, Eva,” I added, “what I at first thought the greatest misfortune that could have happened to me, has proved the blessing I could most have desired, as it has enabled me at last to discover you.”

“But we are slaves,” said Eva, sighing deeply.

“Yes, dear Eva; but we are together,” I answered in a cheerful voice. “Together, too, we will escape. I am certain of it. I know not how it will be accomplished; but I have no doubt about the matter. I was certain I should discover you; and you see I have done so in a way I little expected.”

“You are in spirits, Mark, at having discovered me, and so I ought to be also,” she replied; “but do you know that I cannot shake off the feeling that some heavy calamity is about to happen, even greater than has yet befallen?”

“Do not let such an idea oppress you,” I answered. “God never lets us foresee the future, though we may predict what is likely to happen, by close observation of past and present events. You have been exposed to so many dangers and horrors, that it is not surprising that your spirits should be low.”

“Indeed I have,” said Eva. “Not long ago a large war party came back, bringing with them thirty human heads, which they carried round the village with the most terrific shouts, and then, after baking them, hung them up in their head-house; when, for a whole month afterwards, they attended nightly singing and shouting at them. I have been every day expecting their enemies to retaliate; but they have not done so, and I hope have forgiven the outrage.”

“Such scenes were sufficient, indeed, to make you low-spirited,” I said; “but I want to know all about yourself—all your adventures, and how you came here.”

On this, she rapidly ran over all that had occurred to her from the time she went on board the Emu. She told me, that when off the coast of Borneo, the master had been shot by some of the crew and thrown overboard, and that Kidd was then elected captain; that the brig entered a river in Borneo, where the people were very nearly cut off by the natives; but that they escaped and proceeded southward, when they commenced attacking vessels of all sorts indiscriminately.

At first they only plundered them of the lighter and more valuable portion of their cargoes, but at length the crews were frequently murdered, and the vessels sunk or burned. Mrs Clayton had, from the first, discovered the sort of persons into whose hands she had fallen; and it so preyed on her spirits that she sank rapidly under it. The crew had been disappointed at the amount of the dollars she had brought on board; and had it not been for Kidd, who told them that they could realise much more by her ransom some time or other, they would have treated her with but little ceremony. Sometimes they received volunteers out of the vessels they destroyed. Among those whose lives were spared was a young lad from Java, and he was kept to serve them in the cabin. He was very honest and faithful; and Mrs Clayton had employed him to try and sell a few jewels she had secreted, to bribe some of the crew to assist in her escape. They took the bribe, but she remained a prisoner. Kidd had shown some interest in Eva from the first, and this much increased on his observing a locket which she wore round her neck. She had never been deprived of it. He did not tell her the reason of this, but promised her that he would do so some day. He was ever afterwards very kind in his manner. When he looked fierce or unhappy, she used to sing to him and calm his spirits, till she not only lost all dread of him, but began to like and to compassionate him. He was always very wretched, and sometimes she used to hear him shriek out at night in his cabin, as if someone were murdering him; and she never saw him smile or laugh. Poor Mrs Clayton grew worse and worse; and when she died, she thought her heart would break, and she almost wished to die also. Her misery decreased, though she was very melancholy. Kidd did his utmost to arouse her, and promised her that she should some day have her rights, and go on shore, and live in a fine house, with plenty of people to attend on her, and a carriage to to move about in. Soon after this the schooner appeared, and was taken for a Dutch man-of-war, and the pirates thus found it necessary to be more cautious in their proceedings. When chased for the first time, they had run for the Pater Nosters, because they were a group with which Kidd was well acquainted; and immediately on entering, they had hauled in through a very intricate channel to the north, where, by warping rapidly on, they had got sufficiently onward to be concealed by the trees from our view. On the second occasion, chance, aided by skill, had helped them. They had been just outside the strongest part of the squall, and by shortening sail in time, they were able to make it again, and to get away before we had recovered from it. On the third time, they had run into a deep but narrow inlet, surrounded by high rocks and overhanging trees, where they lay concealed while we passed, or, had we attempted to enter, they might have thrown down fragments of the cliff from above, and crushed us. At last they were compelled to go into harbour, both to refit and to divide their booty. Here, while off their guard and carousing on shore, the brig was attacked, and she was seized. The assailants were Illanons from Sooloo, the boldest pirates of the Archipelago. She thought she should have died through fear when they rushed into the cabin. They carried her off with other booty; but as she was so small, and did not look able to do much work, they sold her to her present master for three cakes of vegetable tallow. She had got so accustomed to the life on board the brig, and had been so kindly treated by Kidd, that, though anxious to return to her friends and civilised life, she had learned to regard him with confidence, and almost with affection, and would gladly have returned. She was always kept below during all their attacks on vessels, so that she was not witness to the atrocities they committed. Her present master was an old chief, who had given up fighting, and she was employed to attend on his wife, who was much younger. The work she had to perform was not very hard, nor did it appear to injure her health; but still she was a slave, and as such she was treated; and till she saw me she was very miserable, unable even to form a conjecture of her future fate, and hopeless of escape. Such was her narrative. Much of it I had before heard from the pirate. She was much grieved when I told her of his death; but I assured her that his punishment had been great, and that I believed his repentance had been sincere. At length we remembered that it was time to separate.

We agreed to meet, if possible, at the same spot on the following day; and as it was the fishing season, I should have a good excuse for pulling across the lake. At last I was obliged to urge her to return; and after watching her till she reached the cottage, I hurried down the stream to the spot where I had left my canoe. I launched it, and paddled back to the part of the lake where I had quitted my companions. They had disappeared, and, by the lowness of the sun, I guessed that they must have returned home. It was a lovely evening, and the scene was one of the most perfect quiet and repose. The water of the lake was as smooth as glass, and over it sported thousands of the most brilliant-tinted dragon-flies, while birds of the brightest hues flitted in and out among the trees. In some spots were to be seen padi fields, looking beautifully green, and extensive bamboo groves, above which appeared the towering palm and plantain. There were also the cocoa-nut, the betel, the sago, and the gno or gomati: these are the four most useful palms to the natives. The pith of the sago furnishes food; and when that is extracted, the outer part serves for the floors of cottages. The leaf of the sago palm is also the best for roofing. From the gno is extracted fibre for manufacturing rope, and the toddy which forms their common beverage.

Scarcely had I left the canoe than it became dark. I took the precaution to mark the way I advanced, that I might at all events retrace my steps to sleep in the canoe. I was obliged to advance cautiously, and to consider every step I took, so as not to lose the pathway. I had marked the direction by the stars, as I left the canoe, and they assisted to guide me. I at length sat down to rest, believing myself some way from the village. I believe that I must have fallen asleep,—but how long I slept I know not,—when I was aroused by the most unearthly shrieks and yells imaginable. I was on a rising ground. I looked around to discover whence it could come, when I saw bright flames bursting forth close below me from some buildings which I recognised as the village or kampong to which I belonged. Among the burning cottages were some hundreds of warriors in their wildest war costume, their skin dresses, the bright-coloured feathers waving in their head dress, adding to the ferocity of their savage features, as with their short swords in their hands, shining with the light of the flames, they were cutting and hewing to pieces every person whom the fire drove from the shelter of their walls. A complete panic seemed to have seized the inhabitants—little or no resistance was offered—scarcely a warrior drew his sword in defence of his family. The fierce assailants seized their victims by the hair, and, with a stroke of their sharp parangs, added a fresh head to the horrid trophies of their prowess. Men, women, and children were indiscriminately slaughtered. My master and his whole family were destroyed. The bitterest revenge, not plunder, was the object of the assailants. Those who had lately been boasting of their own unprovoked attack on these very enemies, were now justly the sufferers. When the warriors had finished their work of blood, they hurried on to other villages, which bodies of their tribe had already attacked.

Prompted by a wish to save some who might have escaped death, I ran down into the village, but not a human being did I find alive. As I passed among the burning huts, their light fell on the blade of a sword. I seized it, feeling it might be useful, and stuck it in my girdle. Anxious to discover in which direction the warriors had gone, I returned to the hill. Flames rising up in every direction marked their progress. A horror came over me; for I observed that the fires were advancing in the direction where Eva lived. I marked the point on the lake where I had left the canoe, and then dashed down the hill towards it. I appeared to know the way by instinct. I had no fear of losing it. I rushed on, and finding the canoe, leaped into it. Just then shrieks and cries reached my ears coming across the tranquil water of the lake. I seized the paddles, and urged on the canoe faster than I had ever before made her go. A supernatural strength seemed to be given me. A village near the lake was already attacked. The flames cast their ruddy hue on the water. The dismayed population were offering but little or no opposition; and what could be expected of the aged inhabitants of the cottage where Eva lived?

I reached the mouth of the stream, and leaped on shore. As hurrying on, careless of concealment, I looked up a glade of the forest, my heart sunk with horror; for at that instant a bright flame burst from the roof of the cottage. The savages had already discovered it; nor was it to be exempt from their vengeance.

“Alas!” I exclaimed. “Why, when once I found you did I ever leave you, my sweet sister?”

I rushed on. Again I heard the savage warriors’ dreadful whoops and yells, as they went about their work of destruction. The flames now burnt fiercely forth from the cottage, and by their light I saw a party of savages in front of the building, flourishing their swords over a kneeling group; while, at a little distance, an old man with grey hairs—he seemed also a warrior by his dress—was struggling desperately with an overwhelming body of assailants. He had already wounded several; but had evidently himself received many deep gashes in return, for I could see the blood dropping round him on the ground. Just then a cut disabled his sword arm, and with savage yells they threw themselves on him, and in an instant his head was fastened to their leader’s girdle.

I could not help seeing this scene as I hurried on; but it was the group close to the cottage which attracted all my attention. The figure nearest to me was my sister Eva. A savage held her by her long hair, and with his sword lifted above her head, seemed but to wait the issue of the combat with the old chief to sever it from the body. I flew forward. My agonising fear was, that when he saw me coming he would complete his barbarous intention before he attempted to defend himself. I dared not shriek out; indeed my voice refused my feelings utterance. He was still gazing on the old warrior’s gallant resistance, and did not observe my approach. Eva had prepared herself for death. She opened her eyes and beheld me. At that moment a blow from my weapon sent the sword of the Dyak into the air, while a wound on his left arm made him release his grasp, and springing up she threw herself into my arms.

“Eva, dearest, I am come to die with you,” I whispered, holding her light form in my left arm, while with my sword I kept them at bay, as I saw the infuriated savages with brandished weapons close around us.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

I fully believed that our last moments had arrived, and it was, I felt, a satisfaction to die with Eva; yet I endeavoured to retreat to prolong our lives, if I could not preserve them. My strength was fast failing me; the weapons of the savages were flashing in my eyes; every instant I expected to be disabled by a wound. I am convinced my dauntless bravery somewhat awed these wild natives, for, with that young girl to protect, no sensation of fear entered my bosom. At last they seemed ashamed at allowing one man, a mere stripling too, so to daunt them, and with loud yells and shrieks they threw themselves on me.

At that instant, when every hope of life had fallen, another warrior, he seemed, uttering still more unearthly cries than his companions, and dressed in a still more fantastic manner, rushed into the circle. At his appearance the rest drew back, and, as he stepped into the ring, I thought he was about to perform the part of executioner. Instead, however, of cutting off my head, after addressing a few words in the Dyak language to his savage followers, to my intense astonishment he exclaimed, in unmistakable English:

“It’s all right, my fine fellow; neither you nor that little girl shall have a hair of your heads hurt while I have got a finger to wag in your defence.”

On hearing these words, Eva lifted up her head, and crying out, “He is an Englishman! he is an Englishman! Oh! Mark, you are saved!” burst into tears.

“Don’t be crying so, my dear young lady,” said the pretended chief. “I promise you that both he and you are safe enough for the present; my pretty boys here won’t hurt any of those whom I say are my friends.”

“Indeed, sir, whoever you are, I am most grateful for your succour,” I observed. “You have saved this dear young girl’s life as well as my own.”

“Oh, but Mark came just in time to save mine,” interrupted Eva.

“Mark! Is that your name? I had a friend once of that name, but you are not a bit like him,” exclaimed the stranger.

“The name I have always borne is that of Mark Seaworth,” I answered, remembering that I had good reason to suppose that it was not my real one.

“Mark Seaworth! The very same; I ought to have known you at once; and I am delighted to find you, old fellow. I am, by Jerico, Seaworth!” exclaimed the stranger, grasping me by the arm, and wringing it till he almost dislocated my shoulder in the warmth of his feelings.

“I also am indeed delighted to meet an old friend,” I returned; “but, for the life of me, in your present costume I cannot recall your features.”

“Ah! I quite forgot; this rather uncommon rig for an English gentleman must somewhat have puzzled you,” he answered, laughing. “Well, then, you remember Blount, at old Liston’s. I am the same, I can assure you, Seaworth; rather transmogrified as to my outward man, I own.” The voice and turn of expression instantly recalled my old friend Walter Blount to my recollection, and I returned his grasp with as hearty a shake as he had given me.

We had, however, as he observed, very little time for explanations, as it was necessary to beat a retreat before the allies of the tribe his friends had attacked were aroused and able to follow them. The warriors were now collecting from all parts, their work of vengeance being accomplished; and under the escort of Blount, who assisted me in supporting Eva, we proceeded towards the north in company with the advanced body. As we skirted the borders of the lake we found a canoe sufficiently large to contain three persons. As it would save Eva much fatigue, I proposed to Blount to take it and to pull to the end of the lake, where we might again place ourselves under the escort of the warriors. As we were paddling swiftly along, he gave me a brief outline of his history, after I had told him how I came to be in the position in which I was.

“You know, Seaworth, I was always a very wild fellow, and you used to get me out of numbers of scrapes,” he begun. “Well, at last I became tired of school, and I did nothing but bother my friends to send me to sea. I used to write round to every friend and relation I possessed, once a fortnight at least—to the more influential ones oftener; till, either to save their pockets the expense of postage, or because they saw that my heart was set on the life, they all met and consulted together, and agreed that I should be sent on board an Indiaman, where I should be more likely to make a fortune than in the Royal Navy, and should have no occasion to repeat the trick I had played them when I wanted my promotion. So I was fitted out with the proper number of shirts and socks, and sent on board the Hooghly.

“I made two voyages, but did not find life in an Indiaman anything like what I expected; so I left her, and hearing of a brig which had a roving commission to go wherever there was any trade to be done, I offered to join her. I especially liked the notion of the excitement and variety, and, as she was short of hands, my services were accepted on condition that I shipped as junior mate. I found that I had more work and less pay than any one on board; but I learned seamanship and practised navigation, which was considered an equivalent for my services.

“We touched at a great many places in these seas, disposing of some of our cargo, and collecting the produce of the country in return, when we managed to run the brig on a shoal off this coast, which was not correctly laid down on our chart. There was a very heavy sea, and the vessel struck violently, so that it was the opinion of most onboard that she would go to pieces. The master, who was of this opinion, and others, took to the boats, but were swamped, as I was afraid they would be. I stuck to the wreck, as, knowing her to be thoroughly built, I had an idea that she would stick together.

“I was in the after part of the vessel, but the rest of the people who remained were forward, and the sea, making a clean breach over the wreck, swept them all away. I with difficulty held on; and when the sea went down, and the morning returned, I discovered that I was the only person left alive. I found some cold meat and biscuits and plenty of spirits in the cabin, and a keg of water jammed into the companion hatch, so there was little fear of my starving for some time to come. When the sun rose, I saw the land a few miles off, and in the afternoon of the same day perceived a number of canoes coming off to the wreck. I knew that the people hereabouts do not make much ceremony about cutting off a fellow’s head; so, determining that they should not have mine without plenty of trouble, I bound all the handkerchiefs I could find round my throat, till I appeared to have no more neck than a whale. As I was hunting about the cabin, I came upon the captain’s medicine chest. I knew the properties and effects of some of the drugs, and besides them was a little book in the drawers to help me.

“‘Come,’ said I to myself, ‘savages are apt to treat medical men with rather more respect than often do civilised people. I will pretend to be a doctor, and they will probably not attempt to hurt me.’

“As a precaution, I put on all the coats I could find, and buttoned them over to serve as armour, and stuck a brace of pistols in my pockets, to shoot a couple of them if they came to close quarters. However, when the canoes first came up, the savages, seeing me on board walking the deck with as much dignity as the officer of the watch, began blowing their sumpits at me till I was stuck all over like a porcupine. Luckily none hit my face, and seeing me take the matter so unconcernedly, they ceased blowing, to discover what I was made of. I thereon pulled out the arrows, and going to the side of the vessel, with a polite bow presented them to my assailants, at the same time, by significant gestures, inviting them on board. My conduct seemed to tickle their fancy amazingly; and when they climbed up the sides, instead of showing any fear, or attempting to resist them, I appeared delighted to see them, and in a minute we were perfectly good friends. I now led some of them into the cabin, and gave them everything which first came to hand, knowing very well that they would take it if I did not; besides, as I could scarcely consider the things my own, I could afford to be generous. With my aid, they soon loaded the canoes so full that they could carry no more; and then jumping into the principal one, which seemed to belong to a chief, I sat myself down beside him, and began talking away as if I was an old friend, and delighted to see him. By the by, he could not understand a word I said: but I made up for the want of meaning in the sounds by a profusion of signs. I found that they belonged to a tribe inhabiting a spot at the head of a long river, and that they were just about to return thither. I now tried to make them comprehend that if any of them were ill, I could cure them by means of a box which I carried under my arm. They, of course, thought that it was filled with charms, but had not the less respect for me on that account. I was delighted with the beauty of the scenery we passed going up the river, and the well-selected site of their village. When we arrived there, they gave me a house to myself, and would have allowed me to choose a wife had I been so disposed; but I declined the honour. I at once set to work to gain the good opinion of the ladies, and for this object divided my somewhat cumbrous neckcloth among them, while I doctored them and their children on every opportunity. My coats I divided among the men, except one suit which I kept for myself. I thought that I should still more ingratiate myself with them, if I dressed as they did; and as I was always somewhat of a dandy, I went to the extreme of Dyak fashion, except in the matter of putting those big rings in my ears, and chewing betel-nut; in fact I now take the lead in dress, and am looked upon as the very pink of perfection. I have learned their language, and adapted myself to their ways; but I have begun to get rather tired of this sort of life, and have been lately considering how I can best take my departure, and in what direction I shall steer my course.”

“I hope that you will accompany us my dear fellow, and return again to civilised life,” I observed. “But how could you encourage those people in the savage work in which they were engaged?”

“I am not surprised at the question, Seaworth,” he replied, gravely; “but you must not think so ill of me as to suppose that I encouraged them in murdering their countrymen. In the first place, you must understand that they had been previously attacked by this tribe, who carried off a number of heads, burnt their cottages, and cut down their fruit-trees. They believe retaliation to be justifiable,—so do civilised nations; and I knew that it would be hopeless to preach forbearance to them: so I accompanied them to doctor up any who were hurt, and to try and save the lives of their prisoners.”

“I am sure that we ought not to find fault with Mr Blount, for he saved our lives, at all events,” interposed Eva.

I agreed with her, and assured Blount, that under the circumstances he had described, he might, I thought, even have assisted his friends in punishing their enemies, not in a revengeful spirit, but as the only means of preventing a similar attack, and for preserving peace. We had now arrived at the end of the lake; and landing, we left the canoe to its fate. The war party had not arrived, and with some anxiety we waited for them, fearing that they might have gone by some other route; for Blount asserted that they had not yet passed that way. The moon had just risen in the sky, and was shedding a silvery light across the lake, by which we were enabled to see to the other extremity. We watched, fearing that some of the warriors of the enemy might have collected and set out in pursuit, and Blount began to regret having parted from his friends. My young sister was sadly worn and fatigued by the terror she had undergone, and was unable to proceed on foot; so Blount and I employed our time in manufacturing a sort of litter, on which she might be carried on the journey. She seemed much grieved at the death of the old chief and his wife, who had treated her kindly, and won her easily-gained affections. Blount and I were just completing our work when Eva called to us. She was seated on a rock close to the lake.

“I have been listening, and I am certain I hear the splash of paddles on the water,” she said; “and see, are not these some black spots just under the moonbeams at the other end of the lake?”

We, too, were soon certainly convinced that she was right. “I see how matters stand,” said Blount; “a war party have collected and embarked, to cross the lake and lie in ambush for my friends on their retreat. They have been so quick about it that there can only be a few of them, but they would do some mischief. It is fortunate that we came across the water. We must now try to find our friends to give them warning.”

I agreed with him; and placing Eva on the litter to carry her between us, in spite of her assurance that she could walk very well, we were about to set forward, when Blount recollected that the canoe would betray us. It had fortunately not drifted away from the shore; so hauling it up, we hid it among the bushes, and trusted that our pursuers would not land at that very spot. We proceeded in a direction so as to intersect the line of march of the Dyaks, Blount carefully listening for their approach.

“We must not go farther,” he observed, “or they may pass us;” so we put down our light burden, and sat down by her side. The moonbeams here and there struggled through the thick foliage of the trees, but in most places it was very dark; and we could only depend on our sense of hearing, though the moon enabled us to steer our course. Near us was an open glade, and, for a minute perhaps, neither had been looking towards it, when by chance turning our heads, it appeared as if by magic filled with human beings. The moon lighted up the spot, and her beams fell on their savage features, their fantastic dresses of skins and feathers, or gaily-coloured clothes, and the bloody trophies which so many bore at their waists, as they crept onward with the stealthy step habitual to them on such expeditions. Eva trembled, for she could not tell whether they were friends or foes; but Blount recognised them, and jumping up, presented himself before them. They seemed delighted to meet him. They told him that they had fallen in with another village of their enemies, and that they had stopped to destroy it. Short work as they had made of it, the delay would have cost them dear, had we not observed the enemy crossing the lake, and been able to give them notice of the circumstance. The party were led, it appeared, by a young chief over whom Blount had some influence, and, to prevent further bloodshed, he strongly advised him not to molest the ambush, but to turn off on one side to avoid them. This advice was not palatable to the young warrior, and he insisted on his right to kill those who had come to kill him. We proceeded, therefore, in the original direction. Several of the Dyaks at once volunteered to carry Eva on her litter, and Blount and I walked by her side as her bodyguard. I observed that considerable precautions were taken in the advance. The main body kept in close order, while an advanced guard was sent forward to feel the way, and skirmishers were thrown out on either side to guard the flanks from attack. Scouts also were sent ahead, stealthily picking their way amongst the most sheltered paths, in order to discover the ambush. We had not proceeded far, when two of the scouts came in, and reported that a body of the enemy lay in ambush among some rocks at the entrance of a ravine leading up from the lake. On hearing this, the young chief divided his force into three bodies. He was to lead one to the hill above the ambush; a second was to proceed over the hills on the opposite side of the ravine, to get ahead of the enemy; while a third was to block up the entrance, so as to prevent their escape in that direction. Eva accompanied the second body, which I thought was less likely to be engaged. The dispositions were quickly made, and we had scarcely descended again into the ravine after evading the ambush, than the loud war-shrieks, disturbing the calm serenity of the night, told us that the work of death was going on. A few unfortunate wretches fled up the ravine, and were immediately killed by our party, while the main body and those at the entrance of the ravine destroyed the rest; so that of the whole ambush, who, intending to surprise us, were themselves surprised, not one escaped. Indeed, the tribe itself was very nearly annihilated by that night foray. There was no time to cut down the fruit-trees, or to destroy the fields of maize and rice, as is usually done on like occasions. We marched on all night and some part of the morning before a halt was called, so unwilling were the Dyaks to stop till they were out of the reach of the allies of those they had attacked. At last they lay down to sleep in the shade of some wide-spreading trees. I observed that each man remained with his sword in one hand and his sumpitan, with a dart in it, ready to discharge, in the other; and every now and then one of them would lift up his head and look about him, so accustomed are they to be on the watch, and so uncertain when they may be attacked.

In the afternoon we again resumed our march. At sunset we again halted for repose; but as soon as the moon arose, we were once more on foot. Each man was provided with a number of short spears, which Blount informed me, were for the purpose of sticking into the ground behind them when hotly pursued, so that their enemies get checked, and often severely wounded. The only food provided for the army was a sticky sort of rice, boiled in bamboos, each person carrying sufficient for himself in a small basket at his back. No fires were lighted, lest their light might betray our position to any lurking enemies. So rapidly did we march, and so little sleep or rest did any of us enjoy, that I was almost knocked up; and Eva would have been unable to proceed, had she not been borne on a litter. I ought to have said that each warrior who had killed one or more of the enemy, carried their heads hung by a line round his neck, keeping it there even at night while he slept, and caressing it in the most affectionate manner. Poor little Eva! It was a sad sight for her; and I kept her as much out of the way of the heroes of the party as I could. Some of them had three or four heads dangling round their necks, as they walked onward with proud steps, exulting in their prowess. They felt certain, too, of gaining the smiles of the most lovely damsels of their tribe; for the Dyak women are great admirers of bravery.

At length we arrived at the village of the conquerors, when, as they had no muskets to fire or cannons to discharge, they set up the most terrific yells I ever heard, to announce their arrival and victory. The shouts were answered by the people of the village, who rushed out to meet them and welcome them with every demonstration of joy. Blount instantly set to work to have a cottage prepared for Eva and me. A very neat one was provided, situated on a sloping bank above a running stream, and backed by a grove of palm-trees. It was built partly of the wood of the Nibong palm, and partly of bamboo, and was thatched with palm-leaves. It was indeed a very light and pretty structure, and perfectly clean. The furniture consisted simply of a quantity of beautifully-made mats, to answer the purpose of tables and chairs, carpets, beds, and bedding, while gourds of many sizes, and pieces of bamboo, supplied us with our cooking and mess utensils. Eva surveyed our abode with unfeigned delight.

“We might be perfectly happy here, I am sure, all the days of our lives,” she exclaimed. “Don’t you think so, my dear Mark?”

“Indeed, Eva, I do not,” I answered. “We are glad at length to be at rest; but we should very soon get tired of the companionship of savages, and I have a notion that man is not born to vegetate; he should be up and doing. It is a question every man should ask himself constantly: What have I done lately to benefit my fellow-creatures? Have I played my part as an educated intellectual man in advancing the moral and social condition of my less-favoured fellow-men? or have I merely considered how I can best amuse myself, without a thought for their welfare? O Eva, I used, even as a boy, to be so disgusted when in England, and also in India, I saw men so capable of better things, employing their time in shooting, fishing, and hunting, or in the most frivolous pursuits, worthy only of uneducated savages, who must so occupy themselves to live, and all the time not in the slightest degree aware that they were actually sinning—that they were hiding their talents—that they were useless beings—that they might better not have been born.”

“Oh, but then, my dear Mark, we may do a great deal of good here, I am sure,” exclaimed Eva, interrupting me. “We may civilise these fierce savages—we may teach them Christianity—we may show them how much happier they may be by living peaceably, than by going to war, and cutting off each other’s heads.”

“Ah, Eva, that indeed would be a noble occupation,” I answered, enthusiastically. “And worthy of all honour would be the man who would devote himself to so great and glorious a cause.”

Chapter Thirty.

When we arrived at the village, I observed that the warriors did not bring in the heads with them, but deposited them at some little distance outside the stockade. The truth was, I found, that the entrance of such trophies was considered far too important to take place without the observance of due ceremony. A temporary shed had been erected for them, under which they were hung up and carefully watched by a party of young men, habited in their finest costume.

The next morning there was a loud beating of gongs in the kampong, or village, and shouting and shrieking from the whole population, as the warriors were seen approaching, each carrying his bloody trophy before him, and dancing and singing at the same time. As they entered the kampong, they were met by the women, who crowded round the heads, and put ciri and betel-nut in the gaping mouths. In this way they were carried round from house to house, and then hung up in a large open shed to dry for several days. Here the heads were watched by young boys of from six to ten years old, who, for the whole time the process of drying occupied—from seven to ten days—were never allowed to step out of the hall, or neglect their sacred trust. This was the commencement of their initiation in the endurance of hardships, that they also might become warriors. Night after night the men used to meet in front of the hall, dancing and singing, and beating their gongs. They used to address their heads, taunting them, telling them that they were their slaves, and that they must send the rest of their tribe to be treated in the same manner. These very men, however, savage as they were, treated us with great kindness, and seemed anxious to do all they could to please us. Blount spent the greater part of every day with us, and gave me much information about the country. I told him that I was very anxious to obtain tidings of my schooner, and the friends on board her, and equally so to get away.

“So, my dear fellow, am I,” he answered, making a long face; “but the truth is, my friends here are so fond of us they will not let us go. I have tried on several occasions to escape; but they always gave me a strong hint to stop.”

“How was that?” I asked.

“Why, they shut me up, and would not let me out till I promised to be good.”

“Then you really think we are prisoners here!” I exclaimed.

“Indeed I do,” he answered. “I did not mention it before, because there is a good deal in the fancy of the thing. When you thought that you were waiting for a vessel to carry you off, you were content; now that you discover that you are likely to be detained by force, you grow indignant.”

“It will never do to remain here,” I said. “We must forthwith find some means of escaping.”

“I have been considering the same subject very seriously, I can assure you,” said Blount in a cheerful voice. “In the meantime let us make ourselves as comfortable as we can—I always do; I never heard of any man gaining anything by fretting.”

My friend’s reasoning was so sound that I could not but agree with him. We found the chiefs and the people very civil, and the women seemed very much inclined to be kind to Eva.

“Come,” said Blount, one evening as we sat talking in the cottage; “there is to be a dance at the house of the chief in honour of the victory. It is worth seeing, and will amuse you and your sister, if she is prepared for a little shrieking and brandishing of swords.”

We both agreed, and following him, walked to the house of the chief, at the farther end of the kampong. We entered a large room, with seats arranged round it, and lighted up with dama torches. We had places reserved near the chief; and the room soon began to fill, till it was crowded with eager spectators. There were musicians ready, who played on the tom-tom, or drum, and the gong, which they beat either slow or fast, according to the measure of the dance.

The people were dressed, it must be remembered, in their gayest costume—in scarlet jackets, in coats of shell armour, with cloaks of skin, and caps of feathers, or turbans of gay-coloured native cloth, their spears being in their hands, and their swords, with ornamented handles, by their sides. The dancers, however, outshone them all in the gayness of their costume.

The first dance performed was called the Mancha, or sword dance. Two swords were placed on a mat in the centre of the room. The music began to play very slowly, and two men advanced from opposite sides in time, now bending the body, now turning round to watch and listen, now lifting one leg, now the other, then the arms, in grotesque but not ungraceful attitudes. One then moved to the right, the other to the left, and thus they moved round and round the room, till at last they approached, and each seized a sword. As they did so, the music began to play a brisker measure; the warriors passed and repassed each other, now cutting, now crossing swords, retiring and advancing, one kneeling as though to defend himself from the assaults of his adversary, at times stealthily waiting for an advantage, and quickly availing himself of it.

The measure throughout was admirably kept, and the frequent turns were simultaneously made by both dancers, accompanied by the same eccentric gestures. At each successful pass, the screams of delight uttered by the spectators, and their shouts of applause, rang through the room, exciting the performers to fresh exertions; the noise increased by the loud clang of the musical instruments, as the musicians, excited by the scene, beat time with great vehemence.

At length, wearied out, the first two dancers retired, and were succeeded by a single man, with a spear poised high above his head. He, as had the others, stepped forward slowly, turning round and round, now advancing, now retiring, now brandishing it furiously, now pretending to hurl his weapon at his enemies. This dance is called the Talambong.

The next set of dancers used shields in addition to their swords, and went through very similar movements. These dances, I understood, are very similar to those performed by the South Sea Islanders, and I suspect that they differ but little from those practised in the present day in the Shetland Islands and Norway, at the other side of the globe.

Although we were obliged to consider ourselves as prisoners, we were not treated as slaves; indeed the chief sent a little black girl from the coast of New Guinea, to attend on Eva. The child proved not only useful, but a source of great interest to her. She had been captured at a very early age, with her mother, and a brother and sister, by the piratical prahus of a neighbouring tribe; and those to whose share she fell, sold her to her present owner for some bees’ wax and a few bundles of rattans. Her figure was short, and her features very flat; but she was so intelligent and lively that she was a general favourite. We called her “Little Nutmeg,” the name she bore sounding exactly like that word; and she answered at once to it. Eva used to try and teach her English; and the child was so anxious to learn the language, that she rapidly gained a knowledge of it.

The people among whom we found ourselves, although they spent much of their time in amusing themselves, when necessary were very industrious. They cultivated a considerable quantity of rice, which not only formed their chief support, but which they were enabled to export. The rice is very white, and of excellent flavour. They first clear a spot of the jungle, and irrigate it well; and as soon as they consider its primitive richness is exhausted, they commence on fresh ground. Their mode of grinding the rice clear of the husk is simple. The trunk of a tree is sawn through, and two circular pieces of wood are selected, fitting to each other; the upper portion is hollow, the lower solid; small notches are cut where those two pieces fit, and handles are attached to the upper part, which being filled with padi, and kept turning round, the husk is detached, and escapes by the notches. The Dyaks understand thoroughly the manufacture of iron. The forge is composed of the hollow trunks of two trees, placed side by side; the fire is of charcoal; the pipes of the bellows are of bamboo, led through a clay bank; and the bellows are two pistons, with suckers made of cock’s feathers, and which a man pumps from the top of a tree. We found no want of provisions in the country; and wild hogs especially abounded. There were a few cattle, and plenty of fowls. I could not understand why the natives were so anxious to detain us, till Blount explained, that they valued us, because they fancied that we should be able to counsel them in time of peace how to become rich, and to assist them in time of war.

“The fact is,” he added, laughing, “when I interposed, and saved your life and your sister’s, I was obliged to say all I could in your favour; so I told my friends that you were a very wonderful personage, and that you knew more than a whole army of wise men: if they kept you, they would be certain to conquer all their enemies; but if they killed you, that your friends would be certain to come and revenge your death.”

“An honour truly I am glad to have avoided,” I answered. “As I, however, have entered into no engagement to devote to them my services, I shall feel myself at liberty to escape as soon as I can.”

“So, indeed, shall I,” he said. “We are, however, a long way from the coast; and unless we can persuade our hosts to aid our departure, our escape will be almost impossible.”

“Such wonderful things have happened to us, that I shall never despair,” observed Eva, whose spirits were returning rapidly, as she recovered from the effects of her terror and fatigue.

I need scarcely say that this was the subject on which we most frequently conversed, but still we could strike out no plan which promised any prospect of success. I proposed appealing to the chief, and promising to make him handsome presents, if he would get us all conveyed to Singapore, or put on board the Fraulein; but when Blount spoke to him on the subject, he replied most politely, that our society was far more valuable than any present we could make him. Partly to amuse myself, and partly to throw my captors off their guard, I used to practise the various accomplishments I had learned when I was a slave. The pleasantest was that of fishing from a canoe, by both spearing the fish, and catching them with the wooden ducks. If I could make an excuse to take Eva and Blount with me, we might be able to pull down the river, and get a long start, before we were suspected and pursued. Two months thus passed away; and had our stay been voluntary, I should have been far from unhappy, as I had a sister and an old friend as companions. The climate was delightful, and the natural productions most interesting, and the scenery beautiful, while I had a comfortable house as a residence, and a sufficiency of wholesome food.

The tribe were not satisfied with their late victory, and soon again prepared for another war excursion, insisting that Blount and I should accompany them. Hoping to find some means of escaping, we did not refuse; and nearly five hundred men were collected from the neighbouring kampongs, to form the invading army. All were clothed in their most terror-inspiring attire, with as great a proportion of feathers and skins as could be mustered. Their arms consisted of sumpitans, spears and swords, daggers, with shields and padded jackets for their defensive armour, while each man carried his provisions in a basket on his back. This time they proposed attacking a tribe some way to the north, with whom they had a long-standing quarrel.

Eva was very unhappy at the thought of our departure; but there appeared to be no help for it, though never did two more reluctant heroes set out on a warlike expedition than did Blount and I. We had proceeded two days’ journey, when, on the afternoon, as we were marching alongside the chief, at the head of his forces, through a wood, our ears were saluted with the sound of a bird singing on our left. The chief instantly called a halt, and I observed a little red-breasted bird hopping merrily from branch to branch.

“Ah, that is the papow!” exclaimed Blount. “They think it a sacred bird, and that its appearing on the left hand is a signal for them not to proceed to-day. Had it appeared on the right, they would have thought the omen good, and have proceeded; and when it sings in front, they fancy the enemy is near, and that it summons them to certain victory.”

While we were encamped at night, I remember hearing the short note of an insect like a cricket, coming, apparently, from the south. The next morning, at daybreak, every man was on foot; and, with dejected countenances, they commenced their homeward march. I found from Blount that the insect which gave forth the note was called the Kunding, and the omen was considered of such ill augury, that the expedition was given up entirely, not a little to our satisfaction.

Eva was much surprised at seeing our return, and very much delighted, for she had expected to have been left alone for many days, dreading the dangers to which we might be exposed, and with only Little Nutmeg as her companion, and an occasional visit from the women of the kampong, I judged, from the circumstance I have mentioned, that the people were very superstitious; indeed I have invariably found that the smaller the knowledge of religion possessed by a people, the greater and more absurd is their superstition. These people, after they have sown a field with grain, should any dead animal be found on it, will not use the crop. If anything has been stolen, in order to discover the thief, they make up a little ciri, and turning to the quarter they suspect, they throw it forward, and call out for an insect they believe will inform them. If the insect respond from that direction, the theft is charged to the tribe so pointed out; but if it does not answer, they try another quarter. I did not hear that marriages are ever forced as they are in civilised countries; but, on the contrary, the young people are left to choose those they like best. Generally the lady will not accept a lover till he has brought her the head of a man as a proof of his bravery. If the young would-be husband cannot get the head of an enemy, he is sometimes tempted, if he is very much in love, to kill the first person of any tribe not his own whom he meets, which is, of course, considered so high a compliment to the lady, that she rarely after that refuses him. The man then makes presents to the parents of the bride, and gives a feast to his tribe, which lasts several days. A curious ceremony is observed on these occasions. A mixture is made of saffron, a little gold dust, and fowl’s blood, which is smeared over the chest, forehead, and hands. The gentleman and lady each must take a fowl, and passing it seven times across the chest, kill it. A small string of beads being attached to the right wrist of either party, the ceremony is complete. They believe that there is a good spirit called Tupa, who resides in the clouds; but they do not pray or sacrifice to him. They bury their dead with various articles he possesses, such as his spear, clothes, rice ciri betel, and the first head he gained in his youth. Some tribes burn their dead with their valuables. I must observe that the customs of the various tribes differ considerably. They believe that the spirits of the dead go to Labyan, a region under the earth, but not a place of punishment. From the accounts I have given, it will be seen that the aboriginal inhabitants of Borneo are a very singular people; and I hope that my readers will make themselves further acquainted with their habits and customs.

I now continue my history. As Eva had nothing to do, and no books to amuse her, she found the time, when I was absent, hang very heavily on her hands. The village was situated at the source of a river, which was navigable, for canoes, a very short distance from it. Near the river was a forest where I used to spend much of my time with Blount in search of game. He had an old fowling-piece which he had saved from the wreck, and he was able to purchase gunpowder from the Bugi traders who came to the mouth of the river. I was one day in the forest, Blount being at some distance from me, when I was startled by hearing a rustling in the leaves near me. I turned, holding a spear I always carried ready for defence, besides a thick club, expecting to see some wild animal. The leaves parted, and sure enough there appeared the face of a monkey grinning among them.

“What are you prying here for, old gentleman?” I exclaimed, expecting to see him run away; but instead of that, what was my surprise to find that he sat observing me with the greatest gravity and attention, his body still hidden by the leaves!

As soon as I spoke, he began to chatter in return, and springing out of his cover, he ran and jumped towards me. He was a little dark fellow, without a tail, just like Ungka. I could scarcely believe that I was awake, when the monkey, springing forward, jumped up into my arms, and threw his round my neck. I could not be mistaken, wonderful as it seemed,—it was no other than Ungka himself. How he had come there was a question I could not get answered; for though he chattered a great deal with delight, I could gain no information from him. I was in hopes, however, that his presence betokened that other more communicative friends were not far-off. I hunted about in every direction with Ungka by my side, but no traces of any one could I find; and Blount coming up soon afterwards, and several natives appearing, prevented me from pursuing the search.

Ungka, intelligent as he looked, did nothing to assist me, and at last I was obliged to return home, carrying him, as he insisted on it, in my arms. The people were very much astonished to see a monkey so speedily tamed; but Blount accounted for the circumstance, by telling them that I knew the language of monkeys in all its dialects; and if they wished it, that I would teach them. Eva was highly pleased at seeing Ungka, and he seemed to fancy she was little Maria Van Deck, for he instantly ran up to her, and they very soon became great friends. We were all in high spirits, for we could not account for the appearance of Ungka in any other way than by supposing that the Fraulein was on the coast, and that he had by some means escaped from her. How he had got so far into the country was a mystery, for I could scarcely suppose that the animal’s instinct would have enabled him to find me out.

At our evening meal, he sat himself down by my side with the greatest gravity, as he used to do on board the schooner, and appeared to be perfectly at home, eating whatever was given him. His manners had become so refined from associating with gentlemen, that he never attempted to seize anything till it was offered him, though he cast a wistful eye at some nuts and fruit, and seemed much pleased when they were placed before him. His appearance, of course, gave us ample subject for conversation, and he every now and then would look up with a glance of the most extraordinary intelligence, and would chatter away for some minutes without cessation, till Eva declared that she could not help fancying he was giving us a full explanation of all we wanted to know. Little Nutmeg stood by, her large white eyes rolling round with astonishment, and of course entirely believing that the story Blount had told of my understanding the monkey’s language was perfectly true. She accordingly reported through the village that the monkey and I had been carrying on a most animated conversation for the whole evening; and I do not know which gained most credit,—he for being able to speak, or I for understanding him. Some of the natives came in to hear him; and as he happened at the time to have perched himself on the top of a roll of matting, as we were all lying down, I was the most elevated of the party, and Eva declared that it looked as if he was some pigmy chief, holding a divan, and that we were his attendants and counsellors. He most certainly seemed fully to feel his importance. When our guests had retired, he jumped down from his throne, and coiled himself away to sleep in a basket, which stood in the corner of the room. Eva and her little attendant retired into an inner chamber devoted to her use, and Blount and I continued talking over the subject which most occupied her thoughts. We should have talked on, without arriving at any just conclusion, till the return of daylight, had we not been startled by hearing the bamboo window-shutter forced open, and by seeing a head protruding itself into the room, followed by a pair of shoulders and a body.

Chapter Thirty One.

Blount and I were, as may be supposed, not a little astonished at the apparition which appeared at the window, and we both instinctively seized the implements nearest at hand, to defend ourselves, should he have come with any hostile intent. Just then the torch, which burned in the centre of the room, flared up, and, as much to my satisfaction as to my surprise, I recognised the features of Kalong the Dyak. He had on but scanty clothing, and he looked travel-worn and weary. Before speaking, he carefully closed the shutters, and then, rushing forward, he took my hand and covered it with kisses. Though Blount was a stranger to him, seeing that he was a white man, he was not alarmed.

“Kalong, is it you, indeed!” I exclaimed. “How, my friend, have you been able to discover me?”

“It is a long story, Massa; and to tell the truth, I cannot say much till I have eaten something; for we have had a weary journey, and have for many days past been looking about for you. It was necessary to be cautious; for, had we been discovered, we should certainly have lost our heads.”

“When you speak of we, Kalong, do you mean yourself and Ungka?” I asked.

“Oh no, Massa; I mean Hassan also. He is near, but watching the canoe; and when I have eaten, I must take some food to him. You and the other massa must then follow for, we have no time to lose.”

“What do you mean by no time to lose?” I again asked.

“Oh Massa, give me some food, and then I will tell you all!” cried the poor fellow.

I saw that he was famishing, so I restrained my curiosity till I had placed some rice and pork and Indian corn bread before him. When he had eaten a good meal, and stowed away a quantity more in a basket he carried at his back he signified that he was prepared to give me the information I required. I nodded my head, and he spoke to the following effect:—

“You know, Massa, when squall come on, schooner almost capsize, then drive a long way to leeward; next morning come back to the rock, and when not find Massa there, sail after the prahus. At night lose sight of them; look everywhere; no find them; then come back to the rock. There I and Hassan look at the wrecks on the shore; and Ungka, too, Massa; and we know, from build and many things scattered about, where they come from; so we go and tell Massa Fairburn that we go and look for you. He say we get killed, lose him head. We say we no mind that, we find you, or we no come back. He then say he go with ship’s company and big guns, and fight, and make people give you up. We say, No good. People cut off your head if they see the big guns, and then what good look for you? We say, No, no; let schooner not come near the coast; but we go in some other vessel, and no say what we come for. We at last go on shore in Celebes—that is, Hassan, Ungka, and I; wait some time, then find a Bugis trader going to Borneo; so we no tell what we want, but go on board. We sometimes say that Ungka very wise monkey; the son of sultan of the monkeys; and that we go about with him to show him the world. This make many people think we great men, so they no cut off our heads to hang round him necks. We go from kampong to kampong to find Massa, but no see him. At last we hear that one tribe, long way off, come to a kampong near Gunnung Taboor, and carry away many people, and that one white man among them. Then we learn when him come, and what him like, and we say, That is Massa. Then we know where to find Massa if him head still on shoulders; so we walk long way, and we take canoe at one river, and we pull up river every night, and in day we go to sleep, till we come here. Then we see Massa in wood, and Ungka run away and jump in him arms. So we say, All right now; Massa alive and well; we get back to schooner some day, and be very jolly. But, Massa, me have one more thing to say. When we at Gunnung Taboor, we hear that the people there very angry at the people here do so much harm, and they say, We go there some night, and cut off all him heads; so we make all haste, lest they cut off Massa’s head too. Now, Massa, we go back to poor Hassan; him very hungry; and Massa, be ready to start to-morrow night.”

I fear that I have ill succeeded in giving an idea of Kalong’s mode of expressing himself. In an artless way he exhibited his affection for me, and described the dangers and hardships he and Hassan had endured to discover me. Having described where the canoe was to be found, and arranged that as soon as the inhabitants of the kampong had gone to sleep on the following evening, we should start, he took his departure. Once more I was full of hope, for I felt that though many difficulties were to be encountered, our deliverance was at hand. Eva had been awakened by the sound of the stranger’s voice, and we communicated the joyful intelligence to her; and, as may be supposed, she was but little inclined again to go to sleep, so she came in and joined our council-board. Blount was anxious to warn the people of the intended attack, and so was I; for although they had kept us prisoners, they had treated us with humanity and kindness in other respects. Our difficulty was to do so without betraying our friends, till at last Blount suggested that the people might be made to suppose that our knowledge was derived from Ungka, who would, of course, in consequence, gain immense credit among them. It was settled, therefore, that on the following morning the people should be called together, and informed of the danger threatening them.

“Now come, it is time to try and take some sleep, for we shall get but little rest to-morrow night,” I exclaimed as I arose, and opening the window-shutters, looked out on the calm night-scene before me. The air was hushed; the only sounds were the rippling of the stream over its rocky bed below the cottage, and the chirrup of some insects in the neighbouring wood. The stars shone brightly forth from the intense blue sky, their light just glancing on the mimic waves of the rivulet, while the tall trees and wild rocks on either side were thrown into the darkest shade.

Scarcely had I spoken, when the silence was interrupted by wild shrieks and cries. We all full well knew the meaning of those sounds. The ruthless enemy had surprised the village, and burning to avenge their late defeat, would spare no one they encountered.

“We must fly!” I exclaimed.

“I am prepared,” said Eva calmly, though her cheek grew pale at the recollection of the dreadful scenes she had before witnessed.

To collect some provisions in baskets was the work of a minute. We aroused Ungka, who seemed perfectly to comprehend the state of the case, and perched himself on my left shoulder, while, supporting Eva on my right arm, I sallied forth, followed by Blount, who took charge of Little Nutmeg. Our great fear was lest the enemy should have surrounded the village, in which case our retreat would have been cut off. The stream I have spoken of ran down to the river, and we now followed a path which led along its banks. Not a moment was to be lost. The wild shouts of the enemy seemed to come nearer every instant; but as yet we did not hear them in front of us. Eva behaved with great courage; she did not tremble, or even utter an exclamation of fear, but exerted all her strength to proceed. For an instant I looked back. Part of the village was already on fire, but the enemy had not yet reached our cottage. My fear was, that when they did so, we should be pursued. At length, by the turnings of the stream, we lost sight of it, and the noise of the dreadful tumult sounded fainter in our ears. Still we pushed on without stopping; we had to force our way through a thick wood, and then to cross a broad open space, where I was much afraid, should the enemy be watching for us, of being seen; but there was no help for it, so we dashed on. Fortunately both Blount and I had so frequently wandered in that direction, that we had a tolerably correct idea of the way we were to go; but still we found a great difference between passing through a wood in broad daylight, and traversing it in darkness. Our chief guide was a star which we could see through the tops of the trees, and which Blount had fixed on as we were setting out. We found it of much service when we lost the sound of the stream, by which we otherwise directed our course. The cries of the enemy were in our rear; we rushed across the open space. I looked anxiously over my shoulder. I saw no one, and we in safety reached the shelter of the wood. At length the broader channel of the river appeared below us. Our next difficulty was to find the canoe; but we judged that Hassan and Kalong, hearing the tumult in the village, and well knowing its cause, would be on the watch for us. We had got thus far, when the sound of voices, as if from people in pursuit, met our ears. My hope was that they could not tell the exact way we had taken. We all drew close together, in the shade of some thick trees, where we were perfectly concealed, while Blount offered to go out by himself to search for the canoe.

He was on the point of leaving our cover, when we heard the sound of footsteps approaching, and directly afterwards we saw the figure of a man cautiously making his way among the trees. He might be an enemy, the precursor of others; but our fears on that score were soon set at rest by finding Ungka leap off my shoulder, and, running towards him, jump into his arms.

“Ah! Massa not far-off,” said a voice, which I recognised as that of Hassan the Malay. We soon made ourselves known to him, to his great delight. He told us that the canoe was close at hand, but that Kalong had become alarmed at hearing the signal of the attack, and, at the risk of his life, had gone back to look for us. Grateful as I was to the faithful creature, the delay was very vexatious. Of course, however, we had no remedy but to wait for him. In the meantime we launched the canoe, and placed Eva and Nutmeg in the centre, with our provisions. Ungka jumped in after them. Blount and I were to use the two middle paddles, Hassan was to steer, and Kalong was to use the bow paddle. The rest got in, and I held on the painter, to be in readiness to shove off the moment he returned.

Several minutes thus passed, during which time our ears were assailed by the dreadful sounds of the conflict. They grew louder and louder, as if the pursued and the pursuing were approaching us. I began at length to fear that Kalong, in his anxiety to serve me, had ventured too far, and had been cut off by the enemy. Every moment was increasing our risk of discovery. The time might have been so advantageously employed in paddling down the river, and, for Eva’s sake, I was doubly anxious to be off. I was almost despairing of his return, when the long feathery leaves of the shrubs near me were pushed aside, and, breathing with haste, Kalong appeared. In an instant he perceived how matters stood, and, making a sign to me to take my seat in the canoe, he stepped in after me, and, seizing a paddle, shoved her head off from the bank. He then began to ply it most energetically, and Blount and I followed his example, while Hassan steered her down the stream.

There had been no time to lose, for the scouts of a number of people on the bank showed that he had been hotly pursued. He did not stop to explain what had happened; and for half an hour or more we paddled on in perfect silence, keeping always in the centre of the stream. By degrees the shrieks and cries of the combatants grew fainter on our ears, till they ceased altogether.

Kalong then for a moment ceased paddling, and drew a deep breath, which seemed much to relieve his heart. He then explained briefly, that he had gone up to our cottage, and that, finding it already sacked, and seeing nothing of us, he was about to return, when he was seen, and pursued by the attacking party. He dashed on, and was just in time to reach the canoe and escape them.

“And now, Massa, pull away again, or some of them black fellows follow and kill us,” he exclaimed, suiting the action to the word. All night long we paddled on, and to such good purpose, that we entirely distanced any enemies who might have been following us. Whenever a village appeared; we crossed over to the other side of the stream, and as the night was dark, and we kept perfect silence, we were unobserved. Sometimes, for miles together, there were no signs of human habitations, the dark forest clothing either bank of the stream, so that we were able to converse without fear of betraying ourselves.

Hassan then told us that he hoped we might reach the sea in two days, by paddling on during all the hours of darkness, and remaining concealed while it was light.

“And what do you propose doing when we get to the sea?” I asked.

“Then, Massa,” said Kalong, “we will pull away from the land, and trust to Providence, you sometime tell me about—we fall in with the schooner, or some other craft—or we go over to coast of Celebes. No good to trust to people about here. As Massa say, if we do all we can, Providence do all the rest.”

Kalong, I found, had not forgotten the instruction I had attempted to bestow on him while on board the Fraulein.

Blount and I agreed, that although the canoe was small, we had seen many, less fit for the work, living in a very heavy sea, when properly handled, and that it would be better to risk the passage to Celebes than to trust to the tender mercies of the Malays or Dyaks of the coast.

Dawn beginning to appear, we ran the canoe into a small bay, completely shut in by trees, where, by a little management, we might remain concealed without fear of discovery.

Having secured the canoe, we cut down a quantity of boughs, which we fastened round her, so that a person passing quite close would not have suspected that several human beings lay hid behind them, though we, looking through the branches, enjoyed a view across and down the stream for some distance. We had, as I said, brought a supply of provisions. These we husbanded carefully; and Kalong said that he hoped to be able to get some cocoa-nuts and other fruit from some of the gardens we might pass at night. I did not like the idea of robbing the poor people, but we had no means of paying for the fruit; and, under the circumstances, we were justified in taking it. Having made our arrangements, we lay down to sleep, one at a time remaining on foot to keep watch, with the rifle loaded ready for use. The after part of the canoe was appropriated to Eva and her attendant. Blount and I stretched ourselves in the bow; while Hassan, Kalong, and Ungka climbed up into a neighbouring tree, by the leaves of which they were perfectly concealed, at the same time that they obtained a wider look-out than we could below. I had slept, I suppose, about four hours, when I was awakened by the howling of a dog, and, looking through the boughs, I observed a small canoe on the opposite side of the river, with four men in her, busily employed about something or other. While I was watching their proceedings, Kalong slid down the tree and came near me.

“See, Massa,” he said, “have some fun soon.”

I now observed that the people had erected a sort of stage, and on the top of it they had secured an unhappy dog, whose voice had first awakened me. Near the stage was a long stick, hanging over the water, and loosely attached to it was a thick rope, with a dead monkey at one end and a rattan at the other. Kalong explained that a strong piece of stick was placed alongside the monkey, with the end of the rope secured to the middle of it. The canoe shortly paddled away down the stream, greatly to our satisfaction; for we were afraid she might have come near us, when the consequences might have been disagreeable. The poor dog howled for some time, and the dead monkey floated on the surface of the water, till our attention was attracted by an object coming down the stream towards us. As it approached, we perceived the long snout and black scaly back of a huge crocodile. The monster eyed us, as we thought, with a malicious look, as if he contemplated attacking us, and, from his appearance, we judged that he would have made one hearty meal of us all, and perhaps swallowed up the canoe into the bargain. To prepare for him, I grasped Blount’s rifle, with the intention of shooting him through the eye, should he begin to molest us; but, of course, I would only have fired in a case of extreme necessity. Either he had not noticed us, or he thought he would first swallow the monkey, which was all ready for him, and then come back and have a nibble at us; so, to our satisfaction, away he swam across the river. He first rubbed his nose against the monkey to smell it, and then began sucking away very leisurely, thus to enjoy the morsel to the utmost. When he had got it down, he swam on a little, and that gave a jerk to the rope, which pulled the stick across his inside, so that by no possibility could it come out again. This seemed to inconvenience him excessively, for he plunged under the water, and then swam across from one side of the river to the other, the rattan at the end of the rope always showing his whereabouts. As he swam about, he approached disagreeably near to us, and we were not a little afraid that a whisk of his tail might stave in our canoe. Fortunately, he again turned, and he did not seem to wish to eat, the stick in his inside having probably spoiled his appetite. At last, when he found it was impossible to get free from this inconvenient ornament in the water, he scrambled on shore, where he lay hid among the reeds, not far from the spot where he had swallowed the bait, the rattan, which remained in the water, pointing out his position. In about an hour the canoe returned, accompanied by three others, with an equal number of men in each. They first got hold of the rattan, and then, landing, they gently drew him forth from his hiding-place. He offered no resistance, merely wagging his tail backwards and forwards, and I could scarcely persuade myself that he was a monster capable of eating a man at a meal. The Dyaks first made a strong lashing fast round his mouth, to prevent him from biting, and then secured his legs over his back, so that he was perfectly helpless. After haranguing him for some time, though what they said I could not tell, they dragged him again into the water, and towed him off at the stern of their canoes in triumph.

Kalong declared that they were carrying him away to worship him. This I could scarcely believe; but I have heard that they look upon the crocodile as the sultan, or rajah, of animals.

Fortunately, the people in the canoes were so much occupied that they did not observe us. No other adventure occurred; and as soon as it was dark, we issued forth from our leafy hiding-place, and paddled away down the stream. We passed a village where a number of torches were burning, and people were singing and beating their tom-toms, Kalong asserted, in honour of the captured crocodile. We were yet some way from the sea, when towards the morning we again sought a place of concealment. All day we rested, preparing for the work of the morrow. We endeavoured to fit our frail canoe, better to encounter the waves, by fastening strips of bark round her sides, and by decking over the bow and after part with the same material. We also filled a number of gourds we had collected with water; and Kalong foraged with considerable success in every direction for provisions, so that we had little fear of suffering from hunger, unless we should be kept out longer than we expected. At night we again proceeded, and I shall never forget the refreshing smell of the sea air as we first inhaled it on approaching the mouth of the river. It renewed our strength and courage; and when the morning broke, we were dancing on the ocean waves—the land was astern—no sail was in sight, and we felt at length that once more we were free.

Chapter Thirty Two.

For two days we had been at sea, steering to the southward of east, for the purpose of making the coast of Celebes should we not fall in with the Fraulein, or some Bugis trader, which might carry us to Singapore. The water providentially continued smooth, and the wind was light and favourable; but as we had no sail, that was of little service to us, and we made, therefore, but slow progress. We had all begun to suffer much from fatigue, so we agreed that two should row while the other two stretched themselves at the bottom of the canoe to rest. Kalong and I took one watch, while Hassan and Blount took the other, Eva and Nutmeg acting as look-outs. Eva was very anxious to take a paddle to assist; but her strength was not great, and I feared it would only uselessly exhaust her; but Little Nutmeg did not wait for permission, and as soon as Blount laid down his paddle she seized it, and showed that she could make use of it to very good effect. Kalong and I were paddling, and Eva was scanning the horizon in every direction, in the hopes of seeing the Fraulein, when she cried out:—

“Look there—look there, brother Mark! I see either an island or a huge whale, or the hull of a ship; but I cannot make out exactly what it is.”

I looked in the direction she pointed at to leeward, and a little on our larboard bow, and though I kept my eyes fixed on the spot attentively, I was unable to determine what the object was. We could not tell why we had not before seen it; but we supposed this was owing to the different direction in which the rays of the sun struck it. It was stationary, for as we paddled on we neared it.

“Me know what it is,” said Kalong. “Chinese junk without masts.”

We found he was right; and as we drew near, a very curious appearance she presented. Her masts were gone, though she seemed in every other respect to be uninjured; but not a living person could we discover on board. She was a merchant vessel, and might have measured some two hundred tons. Her head and stern rose considerably above the waist. At the after part were a succession of poop decks, one above another, narrowing towards the top, so that the highest was very small. It sloped very much from the stern, and on it was a windlass used to lift the huge rudder. On either side of the next deck were two cabins, with a roof in front of them made of bits of mother-of-pearl instead of glass. What is called the nettings ran from aft round the greater part of the vessel. The beams of the deck projected beyond the sides, and each butt-end was ornamented with an ugly face carved and painted. Every face was different, and ugly as the others. Some were of beasts, and some like human beings, and others of monsters which have no existence. The bow was perfectly flat, the stem scarcely coming out of the water. There was a topgallant forecastle, and on it rested two enormous anchors made of wood of a heavy nature, which sinks like metal. Above the forecastle was a narrow gallery, with a flight of steps leading to it. On the top of the bulwarks were arranged a row of jingalls, or swivel guns of very rough manufacture, and a number of shields made of straw, which, though they might ward off a spear, would be treated with little ceremony by a bullet. In the racks against the forecastle were a number of spears, and an instrument with a spear in the centre, and a sort of half-moon, the points turning out, which serves to thrust as well as to ward off a blow. In the centre of the poop, right aft, was a little shrine, in which sat ensconced a very ugly-looking deity, surpassing the other on deck in size and ugliness. The rudder was one of the things most remarkable about the vessel. It was in shape like that of a common barge; it was hung so that it could be raised or let down by means of the windlass, as required; and it was secured below by two ropes, which led along the keel forward, and being brought on to the forecastle, were hove tight by means of another windlass placed there. The crew slept in cabins under the forecastle; their caboose, or cooking-house, was on one side of the deck. There was a stove of brick, and some large pots for boiling. On one side was a tank for water, and above it lockers for stowing provisions and mess utensils.

We ran alongside and got on board. Blount suggested that the people might all have died of plague; and for a moment he persuaded me from moving from the spot where I stood; but as we saw no dead person, we soon got over our fears on that score.

A flight of steps led into the main cabin, which was completely open at one end, so that a sea coming on board would have swamped her. On going below, and examining the lockers, we discovered a store of provisions, and, what was of the greatest consequence, an abundance of good water in the tank. We had little doubt how she came to have no crew on board, for the hold had been completely ransacked, the work, evidently, of pirates, who had doubtlessly carried them off as slaves. She had, we concluded, come thus far south to collect a cargo of edible birds’ nests, trepang, and other articles, for the Chinese market.

It is extraordinary how far away from land these unwieldy craft will venture, and how they contrive to live in a heavy sea, which one would suppose would inevitably swamp them. The Malays had cut away her masts, probably to employ in some of their own craft.

“Now we are here, let us try and make ourselves comfortable,” exclaimed Blount, walking about the deck. “Let us have a good dinner, a sound sleep, and let us stretch our legs, and then we will consider what is next to be done.”

His suggestion was so good, that it was adopted. Hassan was a fair cook, and he made a very nutritious basin of soup with some of the birds’ nests we found on board. We had all gone through so many adventures that it scarcely appeared strange to find ourselves floating about on the Indian Ocean in a Chinese junk. It was so much more pleasant, indeed, than being cramped up in a canoe, that we felt no inclination to leave her; and no one seemed more delighted than Ungka, who scrambled about and poked his nose into every hole and corner. However, at a cabinet council which I called, consisting of the whole of our party, including Ungka, who, though he said nothing, looked very wise, it was resolved, that although it might be very pleasant living on board the junk, yet as she had no sails, and did not move, we might never get to the end of our voyage, we should, after a night’s rest, again take to our canoe, and endeavour to reach the coast of Celebes. Before night we hauled up the canoe on deck, and endeavoured rather better to fit her for sea, by heightening and strengthening her sides, and by nailing matting over the bow and stern.

The main cabin was devoted to Eva and Nutmeg. Blount and I took up our berths in the two little cabins on the highest part of the poop, and Hassan and Kalong went forward. We divided ourselves into four watches. It was prudent to have one person awake, in case anything should happen; at the same time, that one was sufficient. The night came on, and we retired to our respective sleeping-places. Each of us was to watch for about four hours. Blount took the first watch, Kalong took the next, and I was called about midnight.

The reader will recollect how, in the early part of my history, Eva and I, when infants, were rescued from the shattered boat, just before the storm which overwhelmed it came on. As I walked the deck, I was thinking of the account I had heard of that circumstance, and of the many extraordinary events of my life, when I had been so providentially preserved from the dangers which threatened me. “Yes, indeed,” I uttered aloud, “God has been merciful to me. He truly is everywhere.” A deep whispering voice seemed to come across the dark ocean—“And will protect to the end those who trust in Him,” were the words I fancied I heard. While I kept my watch, the wind began to rise in fitful gusts, and the uneasy rolling of the unwieldy junk showed that the sea was getting up. Thick gathering clouds obscured the sky; and the waves, like huge monsters from the deep, began to leap up on every side. I watched for some time, not liking to disturb the rest of the party unnecessarily. At last the junk gave a roll more violent than before, and nearly threw me off my legs. “Hillo! what’s the matter now, shipmates?” I heard Blount exclaiming, as he merged from his lofty berth, roused up by the jerk.

“Why, Seaworth, we must get her before the wind, or we shall have the seas tumbling on board us without leave.”

Accordingly we turned up the hands, except Eva and her attendant, whom I begged to remain quietly below. The stump of the foremast remained, and to it we lashed some spars we found on deck, and with a quantity of matting we discovered below, we manufactured a sail, which we managed to set. The helm was then put up, and to our great satisfaction the junk paid off before the wind. It was now daylight; a heavy gale was blowing, and the sea was running very high. As the sun rose, a break in the sky, through which he appeared, showed us the direction in which we were going; for we had no compass, and we found that our course was somewhat to the northward of east, which we calculated would carry us free of the coast of Celebes. The question then was, where should we be blown to? I believe none of us had any fears about the matter. How could we, when we had been so signally preserved? for we felt, had we remained in the canoe, in all probability we should have been engulfed by the waves. Every moment they rose higher and higher, and as the junk was rolled and pitched by them in her onward course, they seemed to follow after, as if eager to overwhelm her. We had to hold on to keep the deck, though, notwithstanding the way she tumbled about, no seas actually came on board the vessel. Eva took her post in front of one of the cabins on the raised deck, and there she sat like a true heroine, watching the raging ocean without a feeling approaching to fear.

“It may appear extraordinary, my dear Mark,” she said, smiling, when I went up to her; “but having you with me, and being once more at liberty, I feel far happier than I have ever done in my life.”

We sighted the land on the starboard hand, which we judged was that of Celebes; but we could not have hauled in for it, had not even the risk of shipwreck been too great to allow us to do so.

The whole day we ran on; the night at length came without any change in the weather, except that the wind shifted rather to the west, which compelled us to steer a more easterly course; for it must be understood that, with any regard for our safety, we could only keep directly before the wind. The tempest increased; and it was truly awful, as we felt that without chart or compass we were steering in almost total darkness through an unknown sea. We kept a look-out ahead, but to little purpose; while the tempest raged, we could do nothing but fly on before it. As I strained my eyes to try and pierce the obscurity, I fancied that I could see objects on either side of us, and sometimes land ahead; but still on we went, and I suspected that my imagination had deceived me. Eva had retired at dark to the cabin. Blount was at the helm, assisted by Hassan. We were almost worn out by steering, for the exertion was very great. I went aft to relieve him.

“Don’t you feel rather a different motion in the craft?” he said. “It may be fancy; but I cannot help thinking that she does not go along as lively as before. Take the helm, and I will go and see if my suspicions are correct.”

Saying this, he left me, and I took his place. In about five minutes he returned.

“Seaworth,” he said, “you must be prepared for bad news; it is as I suspected. The junk, with all this straining, has sprung a leak, and her hold is already half full of water. She may swim for some time longer; but I doubt if we shall ever again see the daylight.”

This was indeed sad news.

“We will do our best,” I answered. “We have the canoe, and we must make a raft.”

“Neither would be of any use in this sea,” he observed.

As he gave me the information, I instantly thought of Eva; and before forming any plan, I rushed below to bring her on deck, so that, should the junk sink, she might have a chance of escaping. I found her sleeping on a sofa in the cabin, in spite of the rolling of the vessel, while the little black girl lay on a mat below her. My sweet sister looked so calm and happy, as the light from the lantern, which hung from above, fell on her countenance, that I could scarcely bring myself to awake her to a consciousness of the danger which threatened her. At last I knelt down by her side and kissed her cheek to arouse her. She smiled, and looking up, asked me if I was come to take her on shore.

“I was dreaming, dear Mark, that we had arrived at a green and beautiful country, and that you told me it was England, and that all our dangers were over.”

I by degrees informed her of the true state of the case.

“You are with me, dear Mark, and all will be well,” she answered, as, supporting her in my arms, and followed by Nutmeg, I carried her to the upper cabin. Having deposited her there, I rushed back to learn what progress the water had made. It had already reached the floor of the cabin, and I fancied that I could even see it rising during the few minutes I stood there. At first I thought we might keep the vessel afloat by bailing. As two of us only could be spared for the work, I soon saw how futile such an attempt must prove. With a sad heart I returned on deck. I told Blount the state of affairs, and we agreed that our only chance of being preserved was to form a raft, and to lash ourselves to it, so that, when the junk went down, we might have something to keep us afloat. Not a moment was to be lost; so he and Hassan, as the most expert, set to work, while Kalong and I went to the helm. Neither of us could be spared, for, as it was, we had the greatest difficulty in steering. A couple of hatchets had been discovered, and with these they cut away all the planking most easily got at, and lashed it to a few spars remaining on deck. I could now feel the difference perceptibly in the motion of the junk; and as she sank lower in the water, I feared that the waves would leap over the decks, and thus more speedily bring on the catastrophe we expected. The time appeared very long, though Blount and Hassan worked as hard as they could.

I was hoping that the raft was finished, when Blount sprang up the ladder to me. “We have not a moment to lose,” he exclaimed; “the water is almost awash with the deck, and the junk cannot swim a minute longer.”

“Take the helm, then, while I bring out my sister,” I answered. Eva was prepared, and I was about to descend with her to the deck, where we expected to find the yet unfinished raft, when a huge wave, rising alongside, swept over the vessel, and I saw a large object carried away on its crest.

“There goes the raft!” cried Blount, with almost a shriek of despair. Another huge wave followed, and the whole centre of the junk seemed to be under water.

“She is sinking!—she is sinking!” burst from the lips of all; “Heaven have mercy on us!”

I clasped Eva in my arms, and fully expected that our last moment had arrived.

Chapter Thirty Three.

At the very moment that I had given up all hope of preservation, as if to confirm our worst anticipations, a huge wave came rolling up alongside. The junk rushed onward—a tremendous blow was felt—again she lifted, and was dashed forward—the rudder was knocked away, and the jury-mast fell overboard. Instantly the junk broached to. On a sudden, almost as rapidly as I take to tell it, the violent motion ceased, and a grating sound was heard, as if she had run upon a sandy beach. The seas struck her, but their force was evidently broken by some reef outside, though it continued too dark to enable us to discover where we were. The junk held together; and as the cabin on the poop for the present seemed a place of safety, we agreed to remain there till the return of day. The light at length came; and as I looked out from the cabin door, I found that we were in a small bay, with a sandy shore, and rich tropical vegetation beyond it, while what was my surprise to see directly outside of us, fast stuck on a reef of rocks, another vessel severely shattered by the waves!

My exclamation of surprise called the rest of the party from the cabins. No sooner did Eva see the vessel, than, pressing my arm, she observed, with a voice full of agitation:

“That vessel, Mark, is the Emu! I am certain of it; and if the dreadful men who form the crew are here, it were better that the sea had engulfed us.”

I could say nothing, for I could not help entering into her fears. It was high water when we were driven on shore; and as the tide had now fallen, we found that we could without difficulty lower ourselves on to the sand. In case the pirates should be wandering about the island, (for we concluded we had been driven on one), Blount offered to go and explore, and to try to enter into terms with them, while Hassan and Kalong remained with me to guard Eva. In about an hour he returned, and reported that he had seen no human beings.

“The pirates can no longer do us or any one else harm,” he remarked. “As I wandered along the shore, I found the remains of several men washed up on the beach, and who, by their clothes, I have no doubt were the crew of the Emu.”

The information that there were probably no savage inhabitants, or any pirates alive, to injure us, were satisfactory, though we could not help feeling a horror at the fate of those cut off in the midst of their career of crime. We had now to consider what was to be done. The junk, after having been forced over the reef, had, what seamen call, fetched headway again, and had been driven stem first up a gulf or narrow bay, one side of which completely protected her from the sea, so that she lay as secure as in a dock. As the sun rose, the gale also abated; and I considered that there would be no danger in leaving Eva and the little black girl on board, while the rest of us went farther to explore the country. We had found an abundance of provisions in the junk, so that we had no fear of starving, even should fruits not be discovered in the island, to support us till we could get away. How to get away was the question. The obvious means was by building a boat; but we could find no tools, and we were obliged to confess that our skill was inadequate to the work. Hassan and Kalong, however, asserted that they would be able, in time, to construct a large canoe. Our first excursion was to the wreck, which we found we could reach by wading at low tide along the top of the reef. On further examination, not a doubt remained on our minds that she was the Emu; and Eva, when she saw her, confirmed our opinion by recognising some of the cabin furniture, which had been washed out of her. We now set out to explore the woods. We had not got far when I came upon the body of a man, or rather a skeleton, covered with clothes. A few paces on was another; and not far-off we found a rude hut, with a blackened spot, where a fire had been lit before it. In the hut were two more bodies, and we afterwards found several more, but there was neither food nor water near them. There could be no doubt that they were the remnant of the pirate crew, whom at length retributive justice had overtaken. The rest were probably drowned and washed out to sea. How the catastrophe had occurred, the shattered wreck and those ghastly remains could alone tell us. At midnight, perhaps, during the raging of a storm, amid thunder and lightning, without hope of succour, the blood-stained pirates had met their just doom. We dragged them to a hole we found near at hand, and covered them up with stones and bushes, so that Eva should not be shocked by seeing them.

The island was a very large one; and after marching some miles into the interior, we came upon some cocoa-nut trees and plantains, among which were some sago trees, from which we collected an abundant supply of food. On our return along the coast, we found a high hill, on the top of which we proposed to erect a flag-staff; and discovering a spring of water near it, as also the means of building a hut, we resolved to take up our quarters there, in the hopes of being seen by any passing ship. Close to it, also, Kalong found a tree, which he and Hassan pronounced well adapted to serve as the foundation of a canoe. It must be remembered that we had no tools of any sort, except some clasp-knives, and some boarding-spikes found in the junk; but they proposed forming their hatchets and all their instruments out of flint stones and shells. “Give us time,” they answered, “and we will do it,” when Blount and I expressed a doubt of their success.

Having made the arrangements, we hastened back to the junk. We found Eva standing on the highest part of the poop, and waving a handkerchief, while she pointed eagerly seaward. I soon climbed up and joined her; and there I beheld what was indeed sufficient to make my heart beat quick with hope. About a mile off, having just rounded a headland, appeared my own schooner, the Fraulein. The rocks before had concealed her from our sight. Kalong and Hassan immediately recognised her, and so, they declared, did Ungka, who seemed to share our agitation and excitement. Such occurrences are difficult to describe. Our chief aim was to attract her attention. To do this, our first thought was to make a fire; so cutting away some dry wood from the junk, we formed a pile of it on the rocks. We trusted that the smoke or the junk herself would be observed. At first we thought she was standing away; then, to our delight, we saw her shorten sail, and running closer inshore, she dropped her anchor, and a boat was lowered. It pulled towards us; Fairburn and Prior were in it. We rushed down to the rocks to meet them. I need scarcely describe the rest. In another half hour I was on board my own vessel, with my sweet sister in safety, and all the work which at one time appeared so hopeless accomplished. There lay the pirate vessel a wreck on the rocks, and near her the tombs of those who had worked us so much mischief. Fairburn told me that they had run under the lee of the island during the gale, and were about to return to the coast of Borneo to watch for me. We bade an affectionate farewell to the junk, which had proved to us an ark of safety, and we carried away a number of relics of her. My crew received us with loud cheers, and not the least welcome, after all his adventures, was, I suspect, Ungka the ape, who quickly made himself at home.

“Where shall we steer for?” asked Fairburn.

“For Java,” I replied. “I must not forget my promise to the widow Van Deck and little Maria.”

I must now bring my adventures to a close. We reached Sourabaya in safety, and were heartily welcomed, not by the widow Van Deck, but by the wife of Lieutenant Jeekel, for she had made the honest officer happy by marrying him. As they were anxious to go to Europe, I offered them a passage as far as Calcutta in the Fraulein, and little Maria accompanied them. I need not say that she and Eva became very great friends.

I can scarcely describe the pleasure my return with Eva afforded our kind friends the Northcotes, or the sensation our romantic history created wherever it was known. Every assistance was given me to prove my identity, and with a variety of documents I sailed for England. I was very sorry to part with some of my friends, who could not accompany me. I presented the Fraulein to Fairburn, and Blount sailed with him, carrying Prior to Manilla. They all ultimately, by energy and perseverance, made themselves independent. When I reached England, I put my affair into the hands of a clever lawyer, and I found that I had few difficulties to contend with. All those who had been instrumental in the abduction of my sister and me were dead. A few days only before our arrival, the papers had announced the death of a Sir Reginald Seaton, without any claimant to his title or estates. He had once been blessed with a large family, but one after the other they had been laid in their graves, and he alone had been left a solitary and decrepit old man. Thus Heaven had proved the avenger of crime, and prevented the guilty ones from enjoying the profits of their guilt. The papers I possessed clearly proved that I was the rightful heir; and as there was no one to oppose my claim, I was, without much difficulty, allowed to take possession of the property. I did so with gratitude, but without any undue exuberance of spirits; for I felt all the heavy responsibilities which I at the same time took upon myself, and I humbly prayed Heaven to enable me to fulfil them faithfully.

I had the very great satisfaction of assembling at my house, within two years of the time I speak of, not only my Dutch friends, including that honest fellow Van Graoul, who had the command of a fine ship; but Fairburn, Prior, and Blount, as also Hassan and Kalong, who were undergoing a course of instruction to aid them in civilising their countrymen on their return home, were also of the party; while Ungka, now the most refined of travelled apes, had his usual seat by my side.

I must now wish my readers farewell. I hope that they will ever firmly believe, as I have been taught to do by the occurrences of my life, that in whatever peril we may be placed, God is at hand to protect us, and that whatever apparent misfortunes may occur to us, He orders them for our ultimate and permanent benefit. If I have succeeded in inculcating these important truths, I shall be satisfied that the adventures of Mark Seaworth have not been written in vain.

The End.

William H G Kingston

"Marmaduke Merry"

Chapter One.

I belong to the family of the Merrys of Leicestershire. Our chief characteristic was well suited to our patronymic. “Merry by name and merry by nature,” was a common saying among us. Indeed, a more good-natured, laughing, happy set of people it would be difficult to find. Right jovial was the rattle of tongues and the cachinnation which went forward whenever we were assembled together either at breakfast or dinner or supper; our father and mother setting us the example, so that we began the day with a hearty laugh, and finished it with a heartier. “Laugh and grow fat” is an apothegm which all people cannot follow, but our mother did in the most satisfactory manner. Her skin was fair and most thoroughly comfortably filled out; her hair was light, and her contented spirit beamed out from a pair of large laughing blue eyes, so that it was a pleasure to look at her as she sat at the head of the table, serving out the viands to her hungry progeny. Our sisters were very like her, and came fairly under the denomination of jolly girls; and thoroughly jolly they were;—none of them ever had a headache or a toothache, or any other ache that I know of. Our father was a good specimen of a thorough English country gentleman; he was thorough in everything, honest-faced, stout, and hearty, not over-refined, perhaps, but yet gentle in all his thoughts and acts; a hater of a lie and every thing dishonourable, hospitable and generous to the utmost of his means; a protector of the poor and helpless, and a friend to all his neighbours. Yes, and I may say more, both he and my mother were humble, sincere Christians, and made the law of the Bible their rule of life. He told a good story and laughed at it himself, and delighted to see our mother and us laugh at it also. Had he been bred a lawyer, and lived in London, he would have been looked upon as a first-rate wit; but I am certain that he was much happier with the lot awarded to him. He had a good estate; his tenants paid their rents regularly; and he had few or no cares to disturb his digestion or to keep him awake at night; and I am very certain that he would far rather have had us to hear his jokes, and laugh at them with him, than all the wits London ever produced. He delighted in joining in all our sports, either of the field or flood, and we always looked forward to certain amusement when he was able to accompany us. He was our companion and friend; we had no secrets from him,—why should we? He was always our best adviser, and if we got into scrapes, which one or the other of us was not unfrequently doing, we were very certain that no one could extricate us as well as he could. I don’t mean to say that he forgot the proverb, “Spare the rod, spoil the child;” or that we were such pieces of perfection that we did not deserve punishment; but we had sense enough to see that he punished us for our good: he did it calmly, never angrily, and without any unnecessarily severe remark, and we certainly did not love him the less for the sharpest flogging he ever gave us. Directly afterwards, he would meet the culprit in his usual frank, hearty way, and seem to forget all about the matter.

Our sisters were on the same happy intimate terms with our mother, and we boys had no secrets with her, or with them either.

Our father used to believe and assert that our family had settled in Leicestershire before the Conquest, and, in consequence of this notion, he gave us all old English names or what he supposed to be such. His own name was Joliffe, and he used to be called by his hunting associates, the other gentlemen of the county, Jolly Merry. He was not, I should say, par excellence a fox hunter, though he subscribed to the county hunt, and frequently followed the hounds; and no one rode better, nor did any one’s voice sound more cheerily on copse or hill side than did his, as he greeted a friend, or sang out, in the exuberance of his spirits, a loud tallyho-ho. My name stood sixth in the Family Bible, and that of Marmaduke had fallen to my lot. We had a Cedric, an Athelstane, an Egbert, and an Edwin among the boys, and a Bertha, an Edith, and a Winifred among the girls. We all went to school in our turns, but though it was a very good school, we did not like it so much as home. When, however, we got to school, we used to be very jolly, and if other boys pulled long faces we made round ones and laughed away as usual. Our school was in Northamptonshire, so that we had not far to go, and we kept up a very frequent correspondence with home, from which, in consequence of its vicinity, we received more hampers laden with cakes and tongues, and pots of jam, and similar comestible articles, than most of our companions. I do not say that we should not otherwise have been favourites, but it might have been remarked that the attentions and willingness to oblige us of our companions increased in proportion to the size of our hampers, and our readiness to dispense their contents.

However, I will not dwell on my school life. I imbibed a certain amount of classical and elementary knowledge of a somewhat miscellaneous description, and received not a few canings, generally for laughing in my class at something which tickled my fancy, when I ought not to have allowed my fancy to be tickled; but altogether my conduct was such that I believe I was considered to have brought no discredit on the Merry name or fame. Such was my uneventful career at school.

We were all at home for the summer holidays. We were seated at breakfast. What a rattle of tongues, and knives, and forks, and cups, and saucers there was going on. What vast slices of bread and butter were disappearing within our well practised jaws. Various cries proceeded from each side of the table. “Bertha, another cup of tea;” “Bertha, some more milk;” “Bertha, you haven’t given me sugar enough by half;” “Bertha, I like strong tea; no wish-wash for me.”

Bertha was our oldest sister and tea-maker general. She had no sinecure office of it; but, in spite often of the most remarkable demands, she dispensed the beverage with the most perfect justice and good humour. Not unsatisfactory were the visits paid to the sideboard, covered as it was with brawn, and ham, and tongue, and a piece of cold beef, and such like substantial fare.

Suddenly the tenor of our conversation was turned by the entrance of the servant with the post-bag. The elders were silent for a few minutes,—our father and mother and Bertha, and Cedric, who was at home from college. Our mother had a large circle of correspondents, and seldom a post arrived without a letter for her. Our father had fewer; but this morning he received one, in a large official-looking cover, which absorbed his attention. Still the clatter of tongues went on among us younger ones. Our father and mother had grown so accustomed to it, that, as the miller awakes when his mill stops, so they would have looked up to ascertain what was the matter had we been silent.

“Which of you would like to become a midshipman?” asked our father looking up suddenly.

The question had an effect rarely produced in the family. We were all silent. Our mother put down her letters, and her fond eyes glanced round on our faces. Her countenance was unusually grave.

Again my father looked at the document in his hand. “Captain Collyer says he should not be more than fourteen. Marmaduke, that is your age. What do you say on the subject?” said my father.

“Joliffe, what is it all about?” asked my mother, with a slight trepidation in her voice.

“I forgot that I had not read the letter. It is rather long. It is from my old friend, Dick Collyer, and a better fellow does not breathe. The tenor of it is that he has got command of a fine frigate, the Doris, fitting with all despatch for sea, and that he will take one of our boys as a midshipman, if we like to send the youngster with him. There is no time to lose, as he expects to be ready in a week or ten days; so we must decide at once.”

The question was put indirectly to me, “Should I like to go to sea?” Now, I had never even seen the sea, and had never realised what a man-of-war was like. The largest floating thing to which I was accustomed was the miller’s punt, in which my brothers and I used occasionally to paddle about on the mill-pond; in which mill-pond, by the bye, we had all learned to swim. I had seen pictures of ships, though as to the size of one, and the number of men she might carry, I was profoundly ignorant. I was, therefore, not very well qualified to come to a decision. Suddenly I recollected a visit paid to us by Tom Welby, an old schoolfellow, after his first trip to sea, and what a jolly life I thought he must lead as he described his adventures, and how fine a fellow he looked as he strutted about with his dirk at his side, the white patch on his collar, and the cockade in his hat. I decided at once. “If you wish it, father, I’m ready to go,” said I.

My father looked at me affectionately. There was, I am certain, a conflict going on in his mind whether or not he should part with me; but prudence conquered love.

“Of course, you must all have professions, boys, and the navy is a very fine one,” he observed. “What do you say, Mary?”

My mother was too sensible a woman to make any objections to so promising an offer if I did not; and therefore, before we rose from the breakfast table, it was settled that I was to be a midshipman, and we were all soon laughing away as heartily as ever. The news that Master Marmaduke was going away to sea quickly reached the servants’ hall, and from thence spread over the village.

Not a moment was lost by our mother in commencing the preparations for my outfit. Stores of calico were produced, and she and Bertha had cut out a set of shirts and distributed them to be made before noon. While they were thus employed, I went down to have a talk with my father, and to have my ignorance on nautical affairs somewhat enlightened, though he, I found, knew very little more about them than I did. While I was in the study the footman came to say that Widow Bluff wished to see him. “Let her come in,” was his reply. “Well, dame, what is it you want this morning?” he asked, in his cheery encouraging tone as she appeared.

“Why, sir, I hears how Master Marmaduke’s going away to sea, and I comes to ask if he’ll take my boy Toby with him,” answered the dame, promptly.

“What, Mrs Bluff, do you wish him to be an officer?” said my father.

“Blessy no, sir. It’s to be his servant like. I suppose he’ll want some one to clean his shoes and brush his clothes, and such little things, and I’d be proud for my Toby to do that,” answered the dame. Now, I had always thought Toby Bluff to be a remarkably dunder-headed, loutish fellow, though strong as a lion, and with plenty of pluck in his composition. I had helped him out of a pond once, and done him some other little service, I fancy; but I had forgotten all about the matter.

“I will see about it, dame,” said my father. “But I doubt if Toby, though a good lad, will ever set the Thames on fire.”

“Blessy heart, I hopes not,” exclaimed the dame in a tone of horror. “He’d be a hanged, if he did, like them as burnt farmer Dobbs’s corn stacks last year.”

Toby, it appeared, was waiting outside. My father sent for him, and found that he really had a very strong desire to go to sea, or rather to follow me. Toby had an honest round freckled countenance, with large hands and broad shoulders, but a slouching awkward gait, which made him look far less intelligent than he really was. As he had always borne a good character, my father promised to learn if Captain Collyer would take him. The answer was in the affirmative. Behold, then, Toby Bluff and me about to commence our career on the briny ocean.

I tried to laugh to the last; but somehow or other, it was a harder job than I had ever found it; and as to my mother and sisters, though they said a number of funny things, there was a moisture in their eyes and a tremulousness in their voices very unusual with them. Toby Bluff, as he scrambled up on the box of the chaise, which was to take us to meet the London coach, blubbered out with a vehemence which spoke more for the sensitiveness of his feelings than for his sense of the dignified; but when his mother, equally overcome, exclaimed, “Get down, Toby; I’ll not have thee go, boy, an thou takest on so,” he answered sturdily, “Noa, noa, mother; I’ve said I’d stick to Measter Marmaduke, and if he goes, I’ll go to look after him.”

My brothers cheered and shouted as we drove off, and I did my best to shout and cheer in return, as did Toby in spite of his tears. My father accompanied us as far as London. We spent but a few hours in that big city.

“I don’t see that it be so very grand like,” observed Toby as we drove through it. “There bees no streets paved with gold, and no Lord Mayor in a gold coach,—only bricks and mortar, and people running about in a precious hurry.”

Captain Collyer had desired that I should come down by the coach to the George at Portsmouth, where he would send his coxswain to meet me, and take me to the tailor, who would make my uniform, a part of my outfit which our country town had been unable to supply.

It was a bright summer morning when my father accompanied us to Piccadilly, whence the Portsmouth coach started.

“Cheer up, and don’t forget your name, Marmaduke,” he said, wringing my hand as I was climbing on to the front seat. He nodded kindly to Toby, who followed me closely. “Don’t you forget to look after the young master, boy,” he added.

“Noa, squire, while I’se got fists at the end of my arms, I won’t,” answered Toby.

“All right,” shouted the guard, and the coach drove off.

I found myself seated by a tall man with a huge red nose, like the beak of an eagle, a copper complexion, jet black piercing eyes, and enormous black bushy whiskers. He looked down at me, I thought, with ineffable contempt. His clothes were of blue cloth, and his hands, which were very large and hairy, were marked on the back with strange devices, among which I observed an anchor, a ship, and a fish, which made me suspect that he must be a nautical character of some sort. He addressed the coachman and the passenger on the box seat several times in a wonderfully loud gruff voice, but as they showed by their answers that they were not inclined to enter into conversation with him, he at last turned his attention to me.

“Why are you going down to Portsmouth, little boy?” he asked, in a tone I did not like.

“I suppose because I want to get there,” I answered.

“Ho! ho! ho!” His laugh was like the bellowing of a bull. “Going to sea, I fancy,” he remarked.

“Yes, going to see Portsmouth,” said I, quietly, “if I keep my eyes open.”

“Ho! ho! sharp as a needle I see,” observed the big man.

“Sharpness runs in the family,” I replied. We were well up to this sort of repartee among each other at home.

“Your name is Sharp, I suppose,” said my friend.

“No, only my nature, like a currant or a sour gooseberry,” I replied, not able to help laughing myself.

“Take care, youngster, you don’t get wounded with your own weapon,” said the big man.

“Thank you,” I answered, “but I am not a tailor.”

“No—ho, ho, ho,—perhaps not; but you are little more than the ninth part of a man,” said the giant.

“The ninth part of you, you mean; but I am half as big as most men now, and hope to be a whole man some day, and a captain into the bargain.”

“Then I take it you are that important character, a new fledged midshipman,” observed my huge companion.

“Judging of you by your size, I should suppose on the same grounds that you are nothing less than an admiral,” I retorted.

“I should be, if I had my deserts, boy,” he replied, drawing himself up, and swelling out his chest.

“Then are you only a captain?” I asked.

“I once was, boy,” he replied with a sigh which resembled the rumbling of a volcano.

“Captain of the main-top,” said the gentleman on the box without turning round.

“What are you now, then?” I asked.

“A boatswain,” uttered the gentleman on the box.

“Yes, young gentleman, as our friend there says, I am a boatswain,” he exclaimed in a voice of thunder, “and a very important person is a boatswain on board ship, let me tell you, with his call at his mouth, and colt in his hand, as your silent companion there will very soon find out, for I presume, by the cut of his jib, that he is not a midshipman.”

“And what is a boatswain on board ship?” I asked, with unfeigned simplicity.

“Everything from truck to kelson, I may say, is under his charge,” he replied consequentially. “He has to look after masts, spars, rigging, sails, cables, anchors, and stores; to see that the men are kept under proper discipline, and make them smart aloft. In my opinion a man-of-war might do without her captain and lieutenants, but would be no man-of-war without her boatswain.”

The gentleman on the box laughed outright, but the boatswain took no notice of it. I began to think in spite of his coarseness that he must be a very important personage, and probably I showed this in my manner, for he went on enlarging on his own importance.

“I tell you, young gentleman, it’s my belief that I have been round the world oftener and seen more strange sights than any man living.”

“I should like to hear some of your adventures,” I said.

“I dare say you would, and if you like to pay me a visit on board the Doris frigate, and will inquire for Mr Jonathan Johnson, the boatswain, I shall be happy to see you and to enlighten your mind a little.”

“Why, that is the ship I am going to join,” I exclaimed; “didn’t Captain Collyer tell you?”

“No, he has not as yet communicated that important matter to me,” answered Mr Jonathan Johnson, twisting his huge nose in a comical way. “But give us your flipper, my hearty,—we are to be shipmates it seems. I like you for your dauntless tongue; if you’ve a spirit to match, you’ll do, and I promise you that you shall some day hear what you shall hear.”

The coach stopped at the George. A seaman, who announced himself as Sam Edkins, Captain Collyer’s coxswain, came up, and touching his hat respectfully to Mr Johnson, helped me off the coach.

“Well, Edkins, have all the officers joined yet?” asked the boatswain.

“All but the second lieutenant; he’s expected aboard to-day, sir,” was the answer.

“What’s his name, Edkins? I hope he’s not a King’s hard bargain, like some lieutenants I have fallen in with within the last hundred years,” said Mr Johnson.

“No, sir; he’s no hard bargain,” answered Edkins. “I heard the captain say his name is Bryan, the same officer who, with twenty hands, cut out a French brig of seven guns and ninety men the other day in the West Indies.”

“All right; he’ll do for us,” observed Mr Johnson, with a patronising air. “By the bye, Edkins, have you received any directions about this boy?”

“No, sir; only that he was to go aboard at once.”

“Very well, then, I’ll take him. Come, youngster—what’s your name?”

“Please, sir, it be Tobias Bluff; but I be called Toby most times,” answered my young follower, evidently awe-struck with the manner and appearance of Mr Johnson. Not an inch did he move, however, from my side.

“Come along, boy,” cried the boatswain in a thundering tone which might have been heard half down the High Street.

“Noa,” said Toby, looking up undauntedly at him; “I has a said I’d stick to the young squire, and I’ll no budge from his side, no, not if you bellows louder than Farmer Dobbs’s big bull.”

Never had the boatswain been thus bearded by a ship’s boy. His black eyes flashed fire—his nose grew redder than ever, and seizing him by the collar of his jacket, he would have carried him off in his talons, as an eagle does a leveret, had not Edkins and I interfered.

“You see, Mr Johnson, the boy has the hay-seed in his hair, and doesn’t know who you are, or anything about naval discipline,” observed the coxswain. “If you’d let him stay with the young gentleman, I’ll just put him up to a thing or two, and bring him aboard by and by.”

Mr Johnson, who was really not an ill-natured man, agreed to this, remarking, “Mind, boy, the king is a great man ashore, but I’m a greater afloat—ho, ho, ho,” and away he walked down the street to the Point.

The passenger who had had the box seat was standing near all the time. “He’ll find that there’s a greater man than he is on board, if he overstays his leave,” I heard him remark, with a laugh, as he entered the inn.

He was a slight active young man, with a pleasant countenance.

“That’s our second lieutenant, Mr Bryan,” said Edkins to me. “I saw his name on his portmanteau. He must have thought the boatswain a rum ’un.”

Captain Collyer’s tailor lived close at hand, so I went there at once, and he promised to have a suit ready for me by the following morning.

Edkins told me I was to dine with the captain at the George, and to sleep there. He proposed that we should walk about in the interval, and I employed part of the time in comforting Toby, persuading him to accompany the coxswain on board the frigate without me.

We had just got outside the Southsea-gate, when, passing a fruit-stall, I saw a little boy, while the old woman who kept the stall was looking another way, surreptitiously abstract several apples and make off with them. She turned at the moment and observed the deed.

“Come back, ye little thieving spalpeen,” she cried angrily, rising and making sail in chase. She was very stout, and filled out with petticoats on either side. The wind was very strong from the south-west, and, knowing that it is easier to sail with a fair wind than a foul, off darted the little boy before it over Southsea common. He, however, compared to the old lady, was like a brig to a seventy-four, with the studding sails set alow and aloft, and she, with her wide expanded figure propelled onward, was rapidly gaining on the apple-loving culprit. She would have caught him to a certainty. Toby and I and Edkins ran on to see the result. An old admiral (so Edkins told me he was), taking his constitutional, stopped, highly enjoying the fun. He observed the cause of old Molly’s rapid progress. His sympathies were excited for the urchin.

“Try her on a wind, boy; try her on a wind,” he shouted, giving way to his feelings in loud laughter.

The boy took the hint, and coming about darted off to the westward. Molly attempted to follow, but her breath failed her; the hitherto favouring gale blew her back, and with anathemas on the head of the culprit, she gave up the pursuit, and returned panting to her stall.

“There’s the price of your apples, Molly,” said the admiral, as he passed, handing her a sixpence. “You have gained it for the fun you have afforded me.”

“That ’ere little chap will come to the gallows some day, if he goes on like that,” was the comment made by Toby.

“That’s true, boy,” observed Edkins. “People are apt to forget, if they are amused, whether a thing is right or wrong; white’s white, and black’s black, whatever you choose to call them.”

I felt very sure, from what I saw of Edkins, that he would take good care of Toby. He left me at the George. The captain came at last. He was a broad-shouldered, thick-set man, not very tall, but with fair hair and a most pleasant expression of countenance. Frank, honest, and kind-hearted I was certain he was. He reminded me of my father, except that the squire had a fresh and he had a thoroughly saltwater look about him. We were joined at dinner by several officers, and among others by my fellow-passenger, who proved, as Edkins suspected, to be Mr Bryan, the second lieutenant of the Doris. He amused the company very much by an account of Mr Johnson’s conversation with me.

“He is a very extraordinary fellow, that,” said the captain. “He is a first-rate seaman, and thoroughly trustworthy in all professional matters; but I never met his equal for drawing the long bow. I knew him when I was a lieutenant, and could listen to his yarns.”

The party laughed heartily at my account of the old applewoman and the little boy, and I felt wonderfully at my ease among so many big-wigs, and began to fancy myself a personage of no small importance. After dinner, however, Mr Bryan called me aside. “I must give you a piece of advice, youngster. I overheard your contest of wit with the boatswain, and I remarked the way you spoke to your superior officers at dinner. You are now in plain clothes, and the Captain’s guest, but do not presume on their present freedom. You will find the drawing-room and the quarter-deck very different places. Sharpness and wit are very well at times, but modesty is never out of place.” I thanked Mr Bryan, and promised to remember his advice.

The next day, with the assistance of the tailor, I got into my uniform, and, after I had had a little time to admire myself, and to wish that my mother and sisters could see me, Edkins appeared to take me and my traps on board. The frigate had gone out to Spithead, where one of England’s proud fleets was collected. The gig was waiting at the point. I stepped into her with as much dignity as I could command and we pulled out of the harbour. When we got into the tide-way the boat began to bob about a good deal. I felt very queer. “Edkins, is this what you call a storm?” I asked, wishing the boat would be quiet again.

“Yes, in a wash-tub, Mister Merry. As like a storm as a tom-tit is to an albatross,” he answered.

My astonishment at finding myself among the line-of-battle ships at Spithead was very great. What huge floating castles they appeared—what crowds of human beings there were on board, swarming in every direction, like ants round their nest. In a few moments a wonderful expansion of my ideas took place. Even our tight little frigate, as I had heard her called, looked an enormous monster when we pulled alongside, and the shrill whistle and stentorian voice of the boatswain sounded in my ears as if the creature was warning us to keep off, and I thought, if it began to move, that we should, to a certainty, be crushed. However, I managed to climb up the side, and as I saw Edkins touch his hat to a tall thin gentleman in uniform, with a spy-glass under his arm, and say, “Come aboard, sir;” I touched mine, and said, “Come aboard, sir.”

“All right,” said Edkins, as he passed me. “This is the first-lieutenant.”

He did not take much notice of me; but soon afterwards Mr Bryan appeared and shook hands with me, and told him that I was a new midshipman, a friend of the captain’s, and was very kind; and after a little time he called another midshipman, and desired him to take me down to the berth and to introduce me to our messmates. My conductor was a gaunt, red-haired lad, who had shoved his legs and arms too far into his trousers and jacket. He did not seem well-pleased with the duty imposed on him. I followed him down one flight of steps, when I saw huge cannon on either side, and then down another into almost total darkness; and though he seemed to find his way very well, I had no little difficulty in seeing where he was going. He stopped once and said, “What’s your name, youngster?” I told him, and turning to the right he caught me by the collar and shoved me through a door among a number of young men and boys, exclaiming, in a croaking voice, “Here’s Master Marmaduke Merry come to be one of us; treat him kindly for his mother’s sake.”

Having thus satisfactorily fulfilled his mission he disappeared.

“Sit down, boy, and make yourself at home,” said an oldish man with grey hair, from the other end of the table.

“Thank you, as soon as I can see where to sit,” said I; “but you don’t indulge in an over-abundance of light down here.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Make room for Marmaduke, some of you youngsters there,” exclaimed the old mate, for such I found he was, and caterer of the mess, “Remember your manners, will you, and be polite to strangers.”

“But he is not a stranger,” said a boy near me. “Yes, he is, till he has broken biscuit with us,” said old Perigal. “That reminds me that you are perhaps hungry, youngster. We’ve done tea, but we shall have the grog and the bread on the table shortly. We divide them equally. You youngsters have as much to eat as you like of the one, weevils and all, and we drink of the other. It’s the rule of the mess, like the laws of the Medes and Persians, not to be broken. However, we will allow Merry a small quantity to-night, as it is his first on board ship, but after that, remember, no infraction of the laws;” and old Perigal held up a weapon which he drew from his pocket, and with which, I found, he was wont to enforce his commands in the berth.

His system worked pretty well, and it kept the youngsters from falling into that most pernicious of practices, spirit drinking, and the oldsters were too well seasoned to be injured by the double allowance they thereby obtained.

Altogether I was pleased with my reception, and I fancy my new shipmates were pleased with me. My great difficulty at first was finding my way about, for as to which was the head or after part of the ship I had not the slightest notion, and the direction I received to go aft or go forward conveyed no idea to my mind.

As I was groping my way about the lower-deck, I saw what I took to be a glimmering light in a recess, when a roaring voice said, “Ho, ho! Mr Merry, what—have you come to see me? Welcome aboard the Doris.” The light was the nose, and the voice that of Jonathan Johnson the boatswain.

I thanked him, and, guessing it would please him, told him that I should hold him to his promise of recounting his adventures.

“Time enough when we get into blue water, Mr Merry. Under present circumstances, with every thing to do, and nobody fit to do it but myself; for you see, Mr Merry, the gunner and carpenter are little better than nonentities, as you will find out some day; I have barely time to eat my necessary meals, much less to talk.”

I told him that I should anxiously look forward to a fitting time for the expected treat, and asked him where I could find Toby Bluff.

“You shall see him in a jiffy,” he answered; and he bellowed out, “Boy Bluff! Boy Bluff! send aft boy Bluff!”

The same words were repeated in various hoarse tones, and in less than a minute Toby came running up. He had had the advantage of a day’s experience on board, and had wonderfully soon got into the ways of the ship.

When he saw me he shouted with joy.

“I did think, Master Marmaduke, you never would a coome,” he exclaimed. “But it’s all right now, and my—what a strange place this bees. Not a bit like the Hall, though there’s plenty o’ beef here for dinner, but it’s main tough, and the bread for all the world’s like old tiles.”

“Be thankful you haven’t to live on grind-stones and marlin-spikes, as I once had for a whole month, with nothing but bilge-water to wash ’em down,” growled out the boatswain, who heard the observation.

As he told me that he had not time to talk, I did not ask him how this had happened.

I might prolong indefinitely my account of my first days on board ship. I gradually found myself more and more at home, till I began to fancy that I must be of some use on board. No one could be kinder than was Captain Collyer, and he was constantly employing me in a variety of ways in which he thought I could be trusted. One day he sent for me, and giving me a letter, ordered me to take it on board the flagship, and to deliver it in person to Captain Bumpus, the flag-captain. I knew Captain Bumpus, because he had been one of our dinner party at the George, and I remembered that he had laughed complacently at my stories. He was, however, very pompous, not a little conceited, and a great dandy, and I cannot say that I had felt any great respect for him.

We had discussed him in the berth, and the opinion was that he was sweet on one of the admiral’s daughters. At all events he was a bachelor, and having lately made some prize-money, he was supposed to be looking out for a wife to help him to spend it. Moreover it was whispered that he wore a wig, but this he strenuously denied, being very fond of talking of the necessity he was under of having to go and get his hair cut, till it became a common remark that though Captain Bumpus got his hair cut oftener than any one else, it never appeared shorter.

I stepped into the second gig, and as Edkins went with me to steer the boat, I had no difficulty in getting alongside the flagship. As we pulled under the stern, I saw several ladies looking out from a stern gallery, which Edkins told me belonged to the admiral’s cabin. I found my way on deck, and touching my hat to the mate of the deck, announced my errand.

“Come, I’ll show you,” he said, seeing that I hesitated which way to turn, and he led me up first to one deck and then to another, and then he pointed to a door at which a sentry was standing, and told me to go in there. I found four or five officers in the after-cabin waiting to see Captain Bumpus, who was dressing, I collected from their conversation.

Presently a frizzled out Frenchman, the very cut of a stage barber (a refugee, I heard afterwards), entered the cabin with a freshly dressed wig on a block.

“Monsieur de Captain tell me to bring his vig and put it in his cabin. I do so vid your permission, gentlemen,” he observed, as he placed it on the table, and with a profound bow took his departure.

The story went that Captain Bumpus, who was fond of good living, had only lately fallen in with poor Pierre Grenouille, and had concluded a bargain on which he prided himself exceedingly. Ostensibly Pierre was engaged to dress his dinners, but privately to dress his hair, or rather his wigs.

There was a general titter among the officers, in which I heartily joined.

Suddenly, before we had time to compose our features, a door on one side opened, and Captain Bumpus appeared in full rig, with his sword under his arm, and his cocked hat in hand, looking self-satisfied in the extreme. He started when he saw the wig block and wig, the fac-simile of the one he wore on his head.

“What’s that?” he exclaimed in a voice hoarse with rage. “Who put it there?”

No one answered, and dashing down his hat, he seized the wig block and wig, and with an exclamation of anger threw them overboard.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, turning round and attempting to be calm, “what is it you have to say? Really this incident may seem ridiculous,” he added, seeing that there was still a suppressed titter going on, “but I detest the sight of a wig block since—you know that Highland tragedy—”

“A man overboard! a man overboard!” was heard resounding in gruff voices from above.

“Oh, poor man, he will be drowned, he will be drowned,” came in a sharper treble from the admiral’s cabin.

I heard the shrill pipe of the boatswain’s mate as boats were being lowered, and at that instant into the cabin rushed the French barber, wringing his hands in a frantic state, and exclaiming, “Oh, Captain, your beautiful vig, your beautiful vig, it vill all be spoilt, it vill all be spoilt.”

“My wig!” shouted Captain Bumpus, in a voice of thunder. “My wig, you anatomy, you mendacious inventor of outrageous impossibilities. Begone out of the cabin, out of the ship, overboard with you, the instant dinner is served!” And he gave the unhappy barber a kick which sent him flying across the after-cabin, through the door of the outer one, against the sentry, who was knocked over, and soldier and barber lay floundering and kicking, and bawling and swearing in their native dialects, amid the laughter of the officers, who ran to see what had become of the little man, and the shouts of the men who were outside.

Meantime the tide was running strong, and the wig block drifted past the other ships of the fleet, from all of which boats instantly put off in chase. They were all assembled round the fatal block, and the bowman of one, more fortunate than the rest, had got hold of it, and held it up amid shouts of laughter, when a boat from the flagship arrived and claimed the prize.

As the boat returned and pulled up astern, the admiral shouted out, “Have you got the poor fellow?”

“It wasn’t a man, sir; it was only the captain’s wig, sir,” was the answer.

“The captain’s what?” cried the admiral.

“Captain Bumpus’s wig,” shouted the bowman, as he held it up for inspection.

“Come aboard with it, then,” answered the admiral, roaring with laughter, for he richly enjoyed a joke.

I heard a merry giggle in the stern gallery. Captain Bumpus turned pale with rage and mortified vanity. I delivered my despatch, to which he said he would send an answer. The next day it was reported that he had resigned his commission and gone on shore. He could not bear the idea that the whole fleet should have discovered he wore a wig.

Chapter Two.

Blue Peter had been for some hours flying aloft when Jonathan Johnson’s pipe, sounding along the decks with a shrillness which surpassed the keenest of north-easterly gales, gave the expected order, which his mates, in gruffest of gruff tones, bawled out, of “All hands up anchor!” In an instant the whole ship was in an uproar, and seemed to me to be in the most dire confusion. Boatswain’s mates were shouting and bawling, the officers hurrying to their stations, the men flying here and there, some aloft to loose sails, and others to halyards, sheets, and braces. I must own that I did not feel myself of any great service in assisting at the operation going forward, but I ran and shouted with the rest, and as the men passed me I told them to look sharp and to be smart, and to hurry along; but what they were about to do I was utterly unable to discover. I met Toby Bluff hurrying along, looking very much scared and half inclined to blubber. I asked him what was the matter.

“It’s the big man with the rattan,” (he alluded to the ship’s corporal) “told me to go aft to the poop and stand by the mizen-topsail halyards,” he exclaimed. “But, oh, Master Marmaduke, where they be it’s more than my seven senses can tell. What shall I do? what shall I do?”

I saw some other boys running aft, so I advised him to go where they went, and to do whatever they did. I soon afterwards saw him hauling away sturdily at a rope, and though he tumbled down very often, he was quickly again on his feet. The fife and fiddle were meantime sounding merrily, and, as with cheerful tramp the men passed round the capstan-bars, the anchor was speedily run up to the bows. What the lieutenant on the forecastle could mean when he shouted out “Man the cat-fall,” I could not divine, till I saw that some of the crew were securing the stock of the anchor by means of a tackle to a stout beam, which projected over the bows of the ship. “Over to the fish,” next shouted out the officer, an order at first equally inexplicable to me, till I saw the flukes of the anchor hauled up close to the bows—fished, as it is called.

The sails were let fall and sheeted home, braces hauled taut, and the Doris, with a rattling breeze, under all sail, stood through the Needles Passage and down Channel. Those were stirring times. The cruisers of the various nations then at war with old England swarmed in all directions; and it was the ardent wish of every one on board the frigate, from the captain down to my small self, and to the youngest powder-monkey, that we should before long meet an enemy worthy of our prowess. A sharp look-out was kept aloft night and day, and it would have been difficult for anything under sail passing within the circle seen from our main-truck to have escaped notice. Captain Collyer also did his best to prepare his crew for an encounter whenever it might come, and the men were kept constantly exercising at the great guns and small-arms, and, for a change, at shortening and making sail, till they had all learned to work well together. I was all this time rapidly picking up a fair amount of miscellaneous nautical knowledge, partly by observation, but chiefly from my messmates, and from Sam Edkins, the captain’s coxswain, who had, as he said, taken a liking to me.

Mr Johnson, the boatswain, at times condescended to give me instruction. “At present, Mr Merry, you’ll observe, and I say it with perfect respect,” remarked my friend, “you’re like a sucking babe, an unfledged sparrow, a squid on dry ground—you’re of no use to nobody, and rather want somebody to look after you, and keep you out of harm. When you’ve been to sea as many years as I have, if you keep your eyes open, you’ll begin to find out what’s what.”

I confess that these observations of the boatswain were calculated to make me feel rather small. However, I was not offended, and I often managed to pay Mr Jonathan back in his own coin, which made him like me all the more. A great contrast to him in character was the captain’s steward, Billy Wise. Billy had been to sea all his life, but no training could make a sailor of him. He was devoted to the captain, whom he had followed from ship to ship, and who took him, I truly believe, from pure compassion, because no one else would have had him. He was, however, a faithful fellow, and I am certain would have done anything to serve his captain.

Captain Collyer used to have some of the youngsters into his cabin to learn navigation. I liked this very much, and studied hard; for, as I had come to sea to be a sailor, I wished to be a good one. Several of us were seated round the table one day, when the steward made his appearance.

“How is the wind, Wise?” asked the captain.

“Some says it’s east, and some says it’s west, Captain Collyer,” was the satisfactory answer.

“And which way do you say it is?” inquired his master.

“Whichever way you please, sir,” replied the steward, pulling a lock of his hair.

Even the presence of our captain could scarcely prevent us youngsters from bursting into a roar of laughter. This was surpassed, however, by an Irish midshipman, an old shipmate of mine, who, when undergoing his examination for navigation, being asked, whether the sun went round the earth, or the earth round the sun, looked up with perfect confidence, and unhesitatingly replied—

“Faith, gentlemen, it’s sometimes one and sometimes the other.”

He was very much surprised at being turned back. He, however, afterwards managed to pass, but whether it was because the examining officers were not quite confident as to the exact state of the case themselves, and therefore did not push the question, or that he had in the meantime gained the required information, I do not now remember.

Captain Collyer was accustomed to Billy’s eccentricities. They were sometimes inconvenient. One day, we fell in with a line-of-battle ship, and our captain had to go on board to pay his respects to his superior officer.

As he was hurriedly leaving his cabin he called for his cocked hat.

“Your hat. Captain Collyer—your hat, sir,” ejaculated Billy Wise, in a state of great trepidation,—“it’s all safe, sir. It druve ashore at Hurst, as we was coming through the Needles Passage, and some of the sodgers at the castle picked it up.”

Poor Billy had been brushing the hat at a port with too great vehemence, and sent it flying overboard. He might possibly have seen something dark floating towards Hurst, and his shipmates, who were always practising on his credulity, probably persuaded him that it was the captain’s hat. Many captains, in those days, would have given him a couple of dozen, or put him on nine-water grog for a month. Captain Collyer very soon forgot all about the matter, except when he told the story as a good joke. On the present occasion he had to borrow a cocked hat; and it was not till we had been in action, and one of the officers was killed, that he could get fitted with one of his own.

The captain had a goat, which was a source of much amusement to us youngsters, and of annoyance to Mr Lukyn, the first-lieutenant; for, as if aware that she did belong to the captain, she made no scruple of invading the quarter-deck, and soiling its purity. One day, my first acquaintance on board—the tall, gaunt midshipman with red hair, who, by the bye, went by the name of Miss Susan—with two or three other youngsters and me, was standing on our side of the deck, when Nancy, the goat, released from her pen, came prancing up to us. We, as usual, made grabs at her horns and tail, and somewhat excited her temper. Now, she began to butt at us, and made us fly, right and left. Miss Susan was capsized, and sent sprawling on the deck; and Nancy, highly delighted at her victory, frisked off to the starboard side, where Mr Lukyn, with all the dignity of a first-lieutenant, was walking the deck with his glass under his arm. Nancy, either mistaking his long legs for the stems of the trees and shrubs of her native hills, or wishing to repeat the experiment which had succeeded so well with regard to Miss Susan, made a furious butt at his calves while he was walking aft, unconscious of her approach. The effect must have been beyond Nancy’s utmost expectations, as it was beyond ours. Our gallant first never appeared very firm on his pins, and, the blow doubling his knees, down he came, stern first, on the deck with his heels in the air, while the goat, highly delighted at her performance, and totally unconscious of her gross infraction of naval discipline, frolicked off forward in search of fresh adventures.

Just at that moment up came Billy Wise with a message from the captain.

Now Mr Lukyn rarely gave way to anger, but this was an occasion to try his temper. Picking himself up from his undignified posture, “Hang the goat,” he exclaimed in a loud tone; “who let the creature loose?” Billy did not know, but having delivered his message, away he went forward; while we endeavoured to conceal, as far as we could, the fits of laughter in which we were indulging. Miss Susan’s real name was Jacob Spellman. Some short time after this, I was going along the main-deck with him, when we found the captain’s steward very busy splicing an eye in a rope, close to the cattle-pen, where Nancy had her abode. We walked on a little way, and then turned round to watch him. Having formed a running noose, he put it round the goat’s neck, and dragged her out of the pen. He then got a tub and made her stand upon it while he passed the rope over a hook in the beam above. Hauling away as hard as he could, he gave the tub a kick, and there hung poor Nancy, in a most uncomfortable position, very nearly with her neck dislocated; but as he had not calculated on her power of standing on her hind legs, the result he expected was unaccomplished, and she was not altogether deprived of life. She struggled, however, so violently that she would very soon have been strangled had not old Perigal, who was mate of the main-deck, come up and seen what was going forward. “Why, man, what are you about?” he exclaimed. “Please, sir, I be hanging the goat,” was Billy’s reply.

“Hanging the goat! who told you to do that?” inquired Perigal.

“It was the first-lieutenant, sir. She knocked him over right flat on the deck, and so he told me to go and hang her.”

“Well, you are a precious—,” exclaimed the old mate. “Let free the beast, and thank your stars that you didn’t hang her. The captain is a wonderfully good-natured man, there can be no doubt of it; but even he wouldn’t have stood having his goat hung.”

Of course I do not dress the language of my shipmates with the expletives in which many of them were apt to indulge, when the use of strange oaths and swearing of all descriptions was more common than even at present, when the practice would be more honoured in the breach than in the observance. One thing I must say, I never heard our gallant captain utter an oath or abuse a man during the whole time I had the happiness of serving under him, and a braver, more spirited, or more sensible man never trod the deck of a man-of-war as her chief. His memory is dear, not only to all those who served with him, but to all of high or low degree who knew him during his long and glorious naval career. His manners were mild and gentle—though he had an abundance of humour and spirit. He could, however, when he thought it necessary, speak with the gravest severity to a delinquent. I never saw any man more cool and calm and thoughtful in action. It may truly be said of him that in battle he was as brave as a lion, and in peace as gentle as a lamb. I could not resist uttering this panegyric on our well-loved captain.

To return to Billy Wise and the goat. The poor animal’s life was saved, though she had a strange way of stretching out her neck for some weeks afterwards, and always gave Billy a wide berth when she encountered him in her rambles about the decks.

When the captain heard the account, instead of being angry, he laughed heartily, and added the story to his batch of anecdotes.

“I must do something with that poor fellow,” he remarked. “He is not fit to be made Lord Chief Justice, I fear.”

It was not always plain sailing with me. Spellman and I were pretty good friends, but he was somewhat inclined to play the bully. He was called Miss Susan simply because he was as unlike a girl as a great awkward gawky fellow, with red hair and a freckled face, could well be.

One day, as I was going along the lower-deck, with a message to old Perigal, who was attending to some duty forward, I came suddenly on Toby Bluff, whose ear Spellman had seized, while with his heel he was bestowing sundry hard blows on the corpus of my sturdy follower, who already knew enough of naval discipline not to venture on retaliation. Toby, though short, was as strong as a lion, and could have hurled him to the deck if he had dared. This made Miss Susan’s attack all the more cowardly. What Toby had done to give offence I did not stop to inquire. My anger was up in a moment.

“Let go the boy, Spellman!” I exclaimed; “you shall not strike him again.”

Toby gained little by this, for Miss Susan only kicked him the harder; whereon, up I rushed and hit my tall messmate a blow between the eyes, which made lightning flash from them, I suspect. Spellman instantly let go Toby and sprang at me. I stood prepared for the onslaught. Blinded by my first blow, my antagonist hit out at random, and though double my weight, was far from getting the best of it. While we were thus pleasantly occupied, Mr Lukyn, with the sergeant-at-arms, was going his rounds. We were so earnestly engaged in endeavouring to the utmost of our power to hurt each other, that we did not perceive their approach. Toby knew too well the laws of British pugilism to interfere, though had my opponent been an enemy of a different nation, and had we been engaged in mortal combat, I have no doubt that I should have found my young follower an able supporter. An exclamation from Toby threw Spellman off his guard, when a full blow, which I had planted on his breast, sent him reeling back into the not very tender clutches of old Krause, the master-at-arms.

“What is this about, young gentlemen?” exclaimed Mr Lukyn, in a severe tone. “Fighting is against the articles of war.”

“He hit me, sir;” “He kicked the boy Bluff,” we both exclaimed in the same breath.

“I must have you both up before the captain, and ascertain who is the culprit,” said Mr Lukyn. “Master-at-arms, take these young gentlemen into custody.”

I, on this, represented that I had been sent on a message to Mr Perigal, and was allowed to go and deliver it. While I was absent, Spellman took care to put his case in the best light, and mine in the worst. In about an hour we were both taken before the captain, and Toby was summoned as a witness. For fear of committing me, he was only puzzled what to say.

“Speak the truth, and nothing but it,” said I boldly. The captain cast a look of approbation on me. Toby frankly confessed that, not seeing Mr Spellman, he had run against him, when he had been seized by the ear, and that I, coming up, had taken his part. Toby was dismissed.

“Now, young gentlemen, you are both in the wrong,” said the captain. “You, Mr Spellman, should not have struck the boy for his heedlessness, and you, Mr Merry, should not have taken the law into your own hands. You will both of you go to the mast-head, and remain there till Mr Lukyn calls you down; Mr Merry to the foremast, Mr Spellman to the mainmast.”

We thought that we had got off very easily; and we should, had not the first-lieutenant gone below and forgotten all about us. Hour after hour passed by: we had had no dinner: I was almost starved, and could scarcely have held on longer, when my eye fell on a sail to the southward. We were in the chops of the channel, with the wind from the northward. “Sail, O!” I shouted in a shrill tone. Fortunately Mr Lukyn was on deck, and when I had told him the direction in which I had seen the stranger, he called me down, it having probably occurred to him that I had been mast-headed rather longer than he intended.

When I got on deck I went up to him, and, touching my hat, said, “Please, sir, Spellman is still at the mast-head.”

“Oh, is he? ah!” he answered, taking a turn.

I guessed from this that he did not think I was much to blame. Still I was anxious to get poor Miss Susan out of this unpleasant predicament, for I knew he was almost dead with hunger. I had resolved to go up to Mr Lukyn to tell him so, when he hailed my late antagonist, and ordered him on deck.

“You have to thank Mr Merry that you are not up still,” observed the first-lieutenant, walking away.

Meantime the helm had been put up, and sail made in chase of the stranger. All hands earnestly hoped that she might prove an enemy. A sharp look-out was kept on her. One thing soon became evident—that we must have been seen, and that she was not inclined to fly.

“Now, Mr Merry, we’ll show you what fighting is,” observed Mr Johnson, the boatswain, as I stood near him on the forecastle. “You’ll soon see round-shot, and langrage, and bullets rattling about us, thick as hail; and heads, and arms, and legs flying off like shuttle-cocks. A man’s head is off his shoulders before he knows where he is. You’ll not believe it, Mr Merry, perhaps; but it’s a fact. I once belonged to a frigate, when we fell in with two of the enemy’s line-of-battle ships, and brought them to action. One, for a short time, was on our starboard beam, and the other right aft; and we were exposed to a terrible cross and raking fire: it’s only a wonder one of us remained alive, or that the ship didn’t go down. It happened that two men were standing near me, looking the same way—athwart ships, you’ll understand. The name of one was Bill Cox—the other, Tom Jay. Well, a round-shot came from our enemy astern, and took off the head of Bill Cox, who was on the larboard side; while at that identical moment a chain-shot from the ship abeam cut off Tom Jay’s head, who was nearest the starboard side, so cleanly—he happened to have a long neck—that it was jerked on to the body of Bill Cox, who, very naturally, putting up his hands to feel what had become, of his own head, kept it there so tightly that it stuck—positively stuck; and, the surgeon afterwards plastering it thickly round, it grew as firmly as if it had always belonged to the body. The curious thing was, that the man did not afterwards know what to call himself; when he intended to do one thing he was constantly doing another. There was Bill Cox’s body, d’ye see, and Tom Jay’s head. Bill Cox was rather the shorter of the two, and had had a very ugly mug of his own; while Tom Jay was a good-looking chap. Consequently, Bill used sometimes to blush when he heard his good looks spoken of, and sometimes to get angry, thinking people were making fun of him. At first, Bill never knew who was hailed, and used to sing out, ‘Which of us do you want?’ However, it was agreed that he was and should be Bill Cox; because the head belonged to the body by right of capture; for if Bill’s arms hadn’t sprung up and caught it, the head would have gone overboard, and been no use to nobody. So the matter was settled, as far as the public was concerned. D was put against Tom Jay’s name, and his disconsolate widow was written to, and told she might marry some one else as soon as she liked. But Bill wasn’t at all comfortable about himself. He was fond of fat bacon, which Tom Jay could never abide; and when Bill put it into his new mouth, why, you see, the mouth that was Tom’s spit it out again, and wouldn’t let it, by no manner of means, go down his throat. Then Tom was fond of a chaw, and seldom had had a quid out of his cheeks. Bill, for some reason, didn’t like baccy, and though his mouth kept asking for it, nothing would ever tempt his hands to put a quid inside. ‘I’m very miserable, that I be,’ groaned poor Bill; ‘I sometimes almost wishes I hadn’t caught Tom’s head—that I do.’

“You see, Mr Merry, people seldom know when they are well off, and that I used to tell him. More came of it when Bill got back home. When poor Tom Jay’s widow caught sight of him there was a terrible to do, seeing she was already married to another man; but I’ll tell you all about that by and by. There’s the captain about to speak.”

The captain’s speech was very brief: “Clear ship for action,” he exclaimed, as he placed himself on one of the after guns; “and now, lads, let me see what you are made of.”

I had been about to ask the boatswain how he got clear of the two line-of-battle ships, when this interruption occurred. Toby Bluff had been standing at a respectful distance, taking it all in with open mouth and astonishment. Each man went to his station—bulkheads were knocked away—the fires put out—the magazine opened—powder and shot were carried on deck—the guns were cast loose, and every preparation was made in a wonderfully short space of time. As I passed along the main-deck, I found Toby Bluff sitting on his tub, the picture of a regular powder-monkey—fat, sturdy, and unconcerned. He had become on very familiar terms with the other boys, and had fought his way into a satisfactory state of equality. He and those near him were firing off jokes at each other at a rapid rate, the others trying to frighten him, and he in no way inclined to take alarm.

“Never you mind,” he answered to a remark made by one of his companions; “if some chaps have their heads blown off, others gets new ones clapped on again! Ha, ha, ha! That’s more than some of you ever see’d done.”

I was glad to see that Toby was in such good heart, and would not disgrace our county. When I reached the upper deck, I found our bunting going up and down. We were signalising with the stranger, which, after all, turned out to be no enemy, but his Majesty’s thirty-six gun frigate Uranius. There was a general groan of disappointment when the order was given to secure the guns and close the magazine. I believe that, at that moment, most of the people, so worked up were they for fighting, would rather have had a turn to with their friend than have been baulked altogether. We found, however, that we should soon have a good opportunity of gratifying our pugnacious propensities. Admiral Cornwallis was at that time the commander-in-chief of the Channel fleet. He had directed Captain Collyer to look out for the Uranius and another frigate, the Emerald, and to proceed off Point Saint Matthieu, to watch the French and Spanish fleets then lying in Brest harbour. After cruising for a couple of days, we fell in with the other frigate, and thus all together proceeded to our destination. We soon reached it. On standing in towards the land, we very clearly made out the enemy’s fleet at anchor in Brest harbour; but few, if any, of the ships had their sails bent, and even if they had come out after us we could very easily have escaped.

“All hands shorten sail, and bring ship to an anchor,” was the order given, and all three frigates brought up just as coolly as if we had been at Spithead.

“I wonder what they think of us?” I observed to the boatswain, as one day I was examining the enemy through my glass.

“Think of us!” he exclaimed. “That we are as impudent as sparrows, and that they would willingly wring our necks and eat us if they could. But it is nothing to what I have seen done in the way of daring. I once belonged to a frigate, commanded by Captain Longbow, and, as he would tell you, if you were to ask him, we one night sailed right into the middle of a Spanish fleet—ran alongside one of their ships, boarded and carried her, and took her out free without the Spanish admiral discovering what we had been about. There’s no end to the wonderful things I have seen done, or, I may say, without conceit, have done, Mr Merry. But I rather suspect that we shall have to lose sight of the Dons and Monsieurs for a few days. There’s bad weather coming on, and we shall have to stand out to sea; but, never mind, they’ll not make their escape with a gale in their teeth.”

Mr Johnson prognosticated rightly. Before many hours it was blowing great guns and small-arms, and the three frigates were endeavouring, under all the sail they could carry, to obtain a good offing from the land. We tumbled about and pitched into the seas in a way which prevented me from, as usual, pitching into my dinner. One thing was satisfactory; the gale blockaded the enemy as effectually as we could have done. They were not inclined to come out and face either our guns or the fury of the wind. I cannot say, however, that just at that time anything brought much consolation to me. I had only one very strong wish; it was, to be thrown overboard—not that I had the slightest intention of jumping into the sea of my own accord. I was too far gone for any such energetic proceeding; and had anybody else taken me up for the purpose, I have no doubt that I should have struggled and kicked myself into perfect health again. I had coiled myself away on the top of my chest, on the lower-deck, in a dark recess, where I thought no one would see me; and there I hoped to remain all alone in my misery, till the ship went down, or blew up, or something else dreadful happened, for as to my ever getting well again that I felt was physically impossible. I had lain thus for some time, believing myself to be the most miserable small piece of humanity in existence, when, the frigate appearing to be pitching and rolling more furiously than ever, I heard a gruff voice exclaim—

“What, youngster! are you going to let the ship go down, and you not try to save her? On deck with you; be smart, now.”

I felt a colt applied to a part of my body which, in the position I lay, offered a tempting mark. The voice was that of old Perigal; his sharp eyes had found me out. I sprang up and rushed on deck with an involuntary yell of pain, to find the ship under her three topsails closely reefed, forcing her way bravely through the seas, and not at all inclined to go down, or to come to any other damage.

“You’re all the better for that trip, youngster,” said the old mate, with a grin, as I returned to the berth. “Now, just take a lump of this fat bacon, and a bit of biscuit,—and here, as a treat, you shall have a nip of old Jamaica, and you’ll be all to rights in ten minutes, and never be sea-sick again as long as you live.”

I remonstrated, but out came the colt, and with an argument so cogent I was fain to adopt my messmate’s remedy. It was a terrible trial. At first, I could scarcely bring my teeth to meet; but Perigal flourished his weapon, and my jaws went faster and faster, till I was not sorry to finish the whole of the biscuit and bacon placed before me, and could have taken twice as much if I could have got it. Perigal was right. From that day to this I have never suffered from sea-sickness.

Toby Bluff had undergone a similar ordeal, and when I was well enough to go and look for him, I found him scraping away at a beef bone, from which he had just removed the last particle of meat.

The summer gale was soon over, and once more we stood in for the land to look after the Frenchmen. As we drew in, I saw the captain and officers eagerly scanning the coast with their glasses, and it was soon known that a ship had been discovered at anchor by herself in a bay almost abreast of where we then were. She was protected, however, by the guns of some strongish batteries.

“We must have her out, though,” observed Captain Collyer; and forthwith the proposal was made to our consorts by signal.

Neither of the captains was the sort of man to decline engaging in the undertaking. Off we went, under every stitch of canvas we could carry, to look for the admiral, who, with a fleet sufficient to render a good account of the enemy, should they venture out of harbour, was cruising in the neighbourhood.

Admiral Cornwallis highly approved of the proposal. “Go and do it,” was his laconic reply. He was more addicted to acts than words. He sent a lieutenant, in whom he placed great confidence, to take command, and a boat and boat’s crew from the flagship to lead. This was not quite as complimentary a proceeding as the three captains would have liked; but they were all too zealous and too anxious to get the work done to stand on ceremony. Away back we sailed, till we once more made out the entrance to the bay, which was called Camaret Bay.

The craft we were about to attack, and hoped to capture, was the Chevrette, a ship corvette, mounting twenty guns—a powerful vessel, and not likely to be taken without a severe struggle. Notice was given that volunteers would be required for the service, and immediately the greater part of the officers and crews of the three frigates came forward. Among those who volunteered from the Doris was Mr Bryan, the second lieutenant; Mr Johnson, the boatswain; and Edkins, the captain’s coxswain. All were allowed to go. The captain had great confidence in Mr Bryan; and I suspect that he had a fancy to ascertain what Mr Johnson really was made of.

We brought up at our usual anchorage, and the remainder of the day was occupied in making preparations for the expedition. I saw Mr Johnson very busily employed in his cabin in cleaning his pistols.

“Come in, Mr Merry,” he said, as he caught sight of me. “These are old friends of mine: they have served me many a good turn before now. If it was not for these pistols I should not have been in the land of the living: some day I’ll tell you how it happened. Well, we are likely to have some desperate work to-night, and no one can tell whose lot it will be to fall. That reminds me, Mr Merry, I have written a letter to my wife, and I will intrust it to you. That is more than I would do to any other midshipman in the ship. She is a charming person—every inch a lady, and a lady of rank, too. One thing I must charge you—do not speak of me as a boatswain. She has no idea that I hold so subordinate a rank. She believes that I am an officer, and so I am; only I am a warrant and not a commissioned officer. Just tell her that I died fighting bravely for my country. Her name—for she is not called Mrs Johnson—and address you will find within that enclosure. If I come back, you will restore it to me as it is; if I fall, you will know what to do with it.”

I thanked Mr Johnson very much for the confidence he reposed in me, but told him that I had come for the very purpose of asking him to let me go in his boat.

“You, Mr Merry?” exclaimed the boatswain. “You’ll be made into mince-meat—cut to atoms—annihilated. It’s no child’s play, that cutting-out work we are going on, let me tell you. Time enough when you are bigger.”

“But I want to go, that I may know how to do it,” I argued; “I have come to sea to learn to be a sailor and an officer, and the captain says we should lose no opportunity of gaining knowledge; and I could not find a better occasion than the present for gaining an insight into what, I fancy, is of very considerable importance.”

I went on for some time arguing in this way, and coaxing the boatswain.

“Well! well! I cannot give you leave, youngster—you know that; but I have heard of boys stowing themselves away under a sail in the bows of a boat, and coming out to play their part right manfully when the time for action had arrived. I am to have the pinnace, you know.”

“Thank you—thank you,” I exclaimed, overwhelmed with gratitude at the enormous favour done me by the boatswain, of allowing me to run a considerable chance of getting knocked on the head.

“Don’t say any more about it, Mr Merry,” said Mr Johnson; “I always liked you; and I couldn’t do for my own son, if I had one, more than I would do for you.” The boatswain forgot to ask for his letter back, so I locked it up in my desk, after I had written a few lines to inform my family that, if they received them, it would be to convey the information that I had fallen, nobly fighting for my country, on the field of fame—or something to that effect. I know I thought my epistle so very fine and pathetic that I could not resist the temptation of sending it home, and very nearly frightened my mother and sisters into hysterics, under the belief that I really was numbered among the killed and wounded. It was only when they got to the postscript that they discovered I was all right and well. Having written this despatch, announcing my own demise—which, by the bye, I should certainly not have done had not the boatswain put it into my head—I set to work to make my other preparations. Having secured a pistol, with some powder and bullets, and a cutlass, which I fancied I could handle, I stowed them away in the bows of the pinnace.

I never before played the hypocrite, but I was so afraid that my messmates would discover my purpose, that I pretended to take no interest in the proposed expedition, and spoke as if it was an affair in which I should be very sorry to be engaged. I got, in consequence, considerably sneered at: Miss Susan, especially, amused himself at my expense, and told me that I had better go back to my sisters, and help them to sew and nurse babies, if I was afraid of fighting. I bore all that was said with wonderful equanimity, hoping that the next morning would show I was a greater hero than any of them.

At length the boats’ crews were piped away: it was the signal for which I had long been listening. I rushed on deck, and, unperceived, as I hoped, I jumped into the pinnace, and stowed myself away under the thwarts. The boats were lowered, the order was given to shove off; and, with a hearty cheer from all on board the ships, to which those on the boats responded, away we pulled for the mouth of Camaret Bay. My position was anything but pleasant, especially as I got several kicks from the feet of the men which nearly stove in my ribs; and I was therefore very glad when I thought it would be safe to crawl out, and present myself to the boatswain. The men, very naturally, were highly pleased, and I rose considerably in their estimation by what I had done; but Mr Johnson, of course, pretended to be very angry when he saw me, and told me the captain would never forgive me, or speak to me again, if I got killed. At first, the men were allowed to laugh and talk as much as they liked; but as we approached the entrance to the bay, silence was enjoined, and even the oars were muffled, so that we should give no notice to the enemy of our approach.

The night was very dark. Our boat had kept near that of our leader, Mr Bryan; but after some time it was discovered that the other division of boats had not come up. We had pulled very fast, and probably outstripped them. We pulled on till we got within the very mouth of the harbour, and then the order was passed from boat to boat that we were to lay on our oars till the rest of the boats came up. I found this rather a trying time. While we were rapidly pulling on I could not think, and I felt a powerful longing to be slashing away at the enemy. Now I began to reflect that they would equally be slashing away at me; and I remembered my own pathetic letter, and what I fancied Jonathan Johnson’s anticipations of evil. Probably the men were indulging in much the same sort of thoughts; I know that they did not appear to be in nearly such good spirits as at first. This showed me what I have ever since remembered, that when dashing work is to be done, it should be done off-hand, and that all pains should be taken to avoid a halt or interruption.

Hour after hour passed by; no boats appeared. At length the day broke, and so rapidly did it come on that, before we had time to get to a distance, the light revealed us to the eyes of the enemy. The other boats were nowhere to be seen; they, for some reason, had returned to the ships; we had now no resource but to do the same, in a very crestfallen condition.

I hid myself away, as before, and managed to get on board without any one discovering where I had been. I knew that Mr Johnson would keep his counsel, and I did my best to keep mine. Captain Collyer and the other captains were very much annoyed at the failure of the expedition, and it soon became known that they had resolved to make another attempt to cut out the Chevrette.

There was no time to be lost. Another expedition was arranged for that night. Every one knew that it would be far more dangerous than it would have been on the previous night, because the enemy would now be prepared for our reception. The corvette, indeed, was seen to go further up the harbour, so as to be more completely under the protection of the batteries; and as boats were continually passing between her and the shore, there could be little doubt that she was augmenting the number of her crew. Notwithstanding the formidable resistance they might thus expect to meet with, all were as eager as before to join in the expedition.

I resolved not to be baulked of my expected amusement, but how to accomplish my purpose was the difficulty. I heard both the officers and men regretting the failure of the previous night, and observing that they should have much tougher work the next time, by which I knew that the danger would be very greatly increased; but that only made me the more eager to go on the expedition. The resistance to be expected was, indeed, formidable. We could see with our glasses the people busily employed in throwing up new batteries on shore; and then a large gun vessel came out and anchored at the mouth of the bay, to give notice of the approach of boats. What, however, excited the rage of all on board, and made us still more eager to capture the French corvette, was to see her hoist a large French ensign above the British flag.

“That insult seals her fate,” observed Mr Bryan, loud enough for the men near to hear him. “Our fellows will take very good care to reverse those two flags before many hours are over.”

I was in a very fidgety state all day. I was not accustomed to concealment, and I dared trust no one with my plans. Even Toby Bluff I suspected, would try to prevent me going, unless he was allowed to go also; and that I did not wish, as it would, in the first place, have increased the chances of my being discovered, and also, though I was ready enough to run the risk of being knocked on the head myself, I did not wish to let him get hurt if I could help it. I likewise very carefully kept out of the boatswain’s way. I knew that, as the danger was increased, he would be still less willing to let me go, and I was in a great fright lest he should have an opportunity of speaking to me alone, and altogether prohibit me from going in his boat. At last a bright idea occurred to me—I would sham ill, and then no one would suspect me. I immediately went to our long-headed Scotch assistant-surgeon, Macquoid, and described my symptoms.

“You’re vary ill, lad—vary ill,” he answered, looking at me with a quizzical expression in his humorous countenance. “I’ll give you something which will do for ye, and not make ye wish for any more physic for a long time to come.”

Macquoid was as good as his word. Terribly nauseous was the draught he insisted on my swallowing; nor would he leave me till every drop had gone down, and then I rushed off to the berth and threw myself on a locker to luxuriate in the flavour, which nothing I could take would remove from my mouth.

It was the first and last time I ever made an attempt at malingering.

Chapter Three.

After I had taken Macquoid’s nauseous draught, I went and lay down on my chest. I chose that spot because, from the uncomfortable position in which I was obliged to place myself, I was not likely to go to sleep, and because I was there better able to hear when the boats’ crews were called away. I could not help now and then giving way to a groan, which the sickness and pain of the physic produced.

“Who’s that?” I heard old Perigal inquire, as he was passing to the berth.

“Oh, it’s only that little sneak Merry,” Spellman answered. “He thinks that he may be ordered off in the boat, and is shamming sick to escape, as if such a hop-o’-my-thumb as he is could be of any use.”

“That is not like him. I consider him a very plucky little fellow,” remarked Perigal.

“Thank you, old boy,” I said mentally. “And you, Miss Susan, I’ll be even with you some day for your obliging remarks.”

I cannot say, however, that I felt any enmity towards Spellman on that account. I had not respect enough for him. I would rather, however, have parted with more kindly feelings towards all my messmates on so dangerous an expedition. I could not help thinking over the matter while lying so long silent by myself, but my resolution to accomplish my design was not shaken. My messmates went into the berth, and just then I heard the boats piped away. I ran quickly upon deck, and, while the men were buckling on their cutlasses, I slipped into the pinnace, and stowed myself, as before, into so small a space that even the boatswain, who looked into the boat, did not perceive me. I knew that he looked for me, because I heard his gruff voice say, “All right; he’s not there. He’s thought better of it.” At about half-past nine the final order to shove off was given, and away we went. I got fewer kicks this time, for I took good care to keep my legs out of the way. The men, also, I suspect, guessed that I was there. I knew that I was perfectly safe with them.

The flotilla consisted of fifteen boats, containing nearly three hundred officers and men, not counting myself. After we had got, as I supposed, about a couple of miles from the ship, and I knew that I could not be sent back, I ventured to crawl out and look over the gunnel. The inky sea around us was dotted with boats, all the party keeping pretty close together. The night was so dark that I could see little more than their outlines, as they crept rapidly along, like many-footed monsters, over the deep. I did not fancy that Mr Johnson knew I was there, but his sharp eyes made me out through the gloom.

“Mr Merry, step aft, if you please, sir,” he bawled out suddenly.

Stepping over the oars, I went and sat myself down by him, but said nothing.

“Mr Merry, this conduct is highly reprehensible. I must report it to the captain as soon as we get back, after we have carried and brought out that French corvette, and covered ourselves with honour and glory; and I don’t know what he’ll say to you. And now, sir, after, as in duty bound, from being your superior officer, I have expressed my opinions, I should like to know what you are going to do when we get alongside the enemy?”

“Climb up with the rest, and fight the Frenchmen,” I replied promptly.

“Very good, Mr Merry; but suppose one of the Frenchmen was to give you a poke in the ribs with a boarding-pike, or a shot through the chest, or a slash with a cutlass, what would you do then?”

“Grin and bear it, I suppose, like anybody else,” was my answer.

“Very good, very good, indeed, Mr Merry,” said the boatswain, well-pleased; “that’s the spirit I like, and expected to find in you. Now, my boy, whatever you do, stick by me; I’ll do my best for you. If I get knocked over, and there’s no saying what will happen in desperate work like this, then keep close to Edkins. He’s a good swordsman, and won’t let you be hurt if he can help it. I should be sorry if any harm came to you. But, Mr Merry, how are you going to fight? I don’t see that you have got a sword, and I fancy that you’ll not do much execution with one of the ship’s cutlasses.”

I told him that I had got my dirk, and that I hoped to make good use of that.

He laughed heartily.

“A tailor’s bodkin would be of as much use in boarding,” he answered; “but you shall have one of my pistols; the chances are that I do not require either of them. Cold steel suits me best.”

I thanked Mr Johnson warmly, and then asked him what orders had been received about attacking. He told me that some of the boats were to board on the bows, and others on the quarters of the corvette; that a quarter-master of the Beaulieu, with a party of men to protect him, was to take charge of the helm; that others were to fight their way aloft, to let fall the topsails; and that he, with his men and another boat’s crew, was to hold possession of the forecastle, and to cut the cables. All this was to be done in spite of any fighting which might be taking place. Some were to sheet home the topsails, and the remainder were to do their best to overpower the enemy. We had got some way, when we caught sight of a strange boat inside of us.

The commander of the expedition, supposing that she belonged to the Chevrette, summoning five other boats to attend him, made chase to secure her, ordering his second in command to pull slowly on till he rejoined the expedition. On we went. As to pulling slow, that was a very difficult thing to do just then. So eager were the men, that they couldn’t help putting more strength into their strokes than they intended. All I know is that the nine remaining boats got close up to the harbour’s mouth, and that the others had not joined. We lay on our oars, as ordered, for a short time.

“What can have become of them?” exclaimed a lieutenant in one of the boats.

“Daylight will be upon us if we don’t look sharp,” said another.

“It would be a disgrace to go back without attempting something,” cried a third.

“We will lose no more time, but try what we can do without them,” said the senior officer of the party. He was undoubtedly very eager to lead on the occasion. Certain necessary alterations were made.

“Gentlemen, you all know your respective duties,” he added. “Then give way!”

Right cheerfully the men bent to their oars, and up the harbour we dashed. I kept looking ahead for the enemy. I knew that as soon as we saw her, she would see us, and then the fun would begin. I felt rather nervous, but very eager.

“There she is,” cried the boatswain.

Suddenly through the gloom, I saw the tall masts and spars of the ship we were to attack. A voice from her hailed us in French. Of course our only reply was a hearty cheer, and on we dashed faster than ever. Not unmolested though. The next moment, sheets of flame darted from the ports, from one end of the ship to the other, and showers of grape and bullets rattled about our heads. A groan, or a cry of anguish from some of the boats, told that the emissaries of destruction had taken effect. Thick fell the shot, and the next instant a heavy fire opened on us from the shore; but nothing stopped our progress. On we dashed, and were quickly alongside the enemy. The whole side bristled with boarding-pikes, and as we attempted to climb up, muskets and pistols were discharged in our faces, and tomahawks and sabres came slashing down on our heads. Our men cheered and grasped hold of the ship’s sides, but again and again were thrust back, and then the Frenchmen leaped into our boats, making a dashing effort to drive us out of them. They had better have remained on their own deck, for very few got back. Some did though, and formed shields to our men, who climbed up after them. Meantime, our boat had boarded, as directed, on the starboard bow, but finding it hopeless to get up there, Mr Johnson dropped astern, and perceiving only one boat on the quarter, and space for us to shove in, we hooked on, and the next instant were scrambling up the side. I kept close to the boatswain. I thought that we were about to gain the deck, when the enemy made a rush towards us, and over we went, and I was left clinging to the side, with a dozen sabres flashing above my head. As to letting go, I never thought of that. I kept Mr Johnson’s pistol in my right hand, and was about to fire, when down came a sword, which would have clove my head in two, had not a lieutenant of marines in the next boat interposed his own weapon, and saved me. But the act was one of self-devotion, for the Frenchman brought his sabre down on my preserver’s arm, while another thrust a pike through his body, and hurled him back, mortally wounded, to the bottom of the boat. I should, after all, have shared the same fate, had not Mr Johnson at that instant recovered himself, and with a shout, loud enough to make our enemies quake, up he sprang, and, with one whirl of his cutlass, drove the Frenchmen from the side. Over the bulwarks he leaped; I and most of the men from the two boats followed. But though we had gained the deck, there seemed but little chance of our forcing our way forward.

Our men, in the first desperate struggle alongside, had lost their firearms, and for a few seconds the tall figure of the boatswain, as he stood up facing the enemy, offered a mark to a score of muskets aimed at him. The Frenchmen, expecting to see him fall, came on boldly. I grasped his pistol, hoping to avenge him.

“The forecastle is our station, lads,” he shouted, and his stentorian voice was heard above the din of battle.

“Make a lane, there; make a lane, there,” he added, dashing furiously among the enemy. I followed by his side. His whirling cutlass flashed round, and sent the Frenchmen flying on either side. On we went, intent on our object, bearing down all opposition, to gain the forecastle, while another party had got possession of the helm. The deck was by this time covered with killed and wounded. Many of our men had fallen. We strode over friend and foe alike, alive or dead. The break of the topgallant forecastle was gained. It was desperately defended, but the boatswain, clearing with a sweep of his cutlass a spot to stand on, sprang up among the astonished Frenchmen. I felt myself lifted up after him; our men followed; and though pikes were thrust at us, and pistols were flashed in our faces for a few seconds, our opponents either leaped overboard or threw themselves on the deck, and sang out for quarter. Some of our men, appointed for the purpose, went to the head sails, while others instantly cut the cable. I glanced my eye upwards; the topmen, who had fought their way aloft, had cut loose the topsails with their cutlasses, and they were now being sheeted home; but the fighting was not over, a desperate attempt was being made by the enemy to drive us out of the ship. The boatswain, meantime, was uttering his war shouts, issuing orders to the men, and dealing death and wounds around.

“Old England for ever I hoist the fore-staysail. Back, ye Johnny Crapeaus! Back, ye French scarecrows! Haul away, my lads, and belay all that. Hurra! we’ve gained the day!”

In the latter assertion he was somewhat premature, for the French crew, now rallying amidships, made a desperate attack on the forecastle, but the boatswain’s flashing weapon literally cut them down like corn before the reaper’s scythe, as they came on. Still they pressed round us. Most of our men were occupied in making sail.

A big Frenchman, the boatswain of the ship, I fancy, who was almost as big as Jonathan himself, now sprang ahead of his comrades to measure his strength with our champion. He was evidently a first-rate swordsman, and in his progress forward had already cut down two or three of our men. He shouted something to his companions; it was, I suspected, to tell them to try and wound Mr Johnson while he was engaging him in front. I had hitherto grasped the pistol he had given me, but had not fired it. I felt for the lock. On came the Frenchmen; Mr Johnson had need of all his skill to keep his enemies at bay. The French boatswain pressed him desperately hard. One of his mates rushed in, and was bringing down his cutlass with a terrific sweep, which would have half cut our boatswain in two, when, raising my pistol, I fired at the man’s head. The bullet went through his brain, and his cutlass, though wounding Johnson slightly in the leg, fell to the deck. The boatswain’s weapon meantime was not idle, and at the same moment it descended with a sweep which cut the Frenchman’s head nearly in two, and he fell dead among his comrades. It was at that instant the French discovered that their ship was under way. “Sauve qui peut!” was the cry. Some jumped overboard and endeavoured to swim on shore. Many leaped below, either in fear or with determination still to carry on the fight, and others threw down their arms and cried for mercy. Not a cutlass was raised on them after that, but the fellows who fled below had got possession of some muskets, and began firing at all of us who appeared near the hatchways. A party of our men, however, leaped down among them and quickly put a stop to their proceedings.

The ship was now completely under our command; the sails filled, she felt the helm, and was standing down the harbour. Though it appeared to me nearly an hour, if not more, I found that not five minutes had passed since the boats got alongside. But we were not quite free. We were congratulating ourselves on our success, when a shot whistled between our masts, followed by another, and a heavy battery opened upon us. We were too busy to reply to it, and the men went about their work just as coolly as if nothing was occurring. The wind was light, and we were a long time exposed to the fire of the battery. Mr Johnson, between pulling and hauling, for he lent a hand to everybody, apostrophised the masts, and urged them not to get shot away. He evidently thought more of them just then than of anything else. They were in his department.

“I wonder, Mr Johnson, whether any of us will have to change heads?” said I.

“If you and I did, you’d look rather funny with my mug on your shoulders,” he answered, with a loud laugh. “Even your own mother wouldn’t know you, I suspect.” Just then a shower of grape came rattling round us, and though I could hear the shot whistling by, close to my ears, not one of us was hit. I could not help wishing that a breeze would spring up, and carry us clear of the unpleasant neighbourhood. Just then the missing boats arrived, and rather surprised our friends were to find that we had already secured the prize. Though too late to help to take her, they were of great assistance in towing her out of range of the enemy’s batteries, and I believe some of the poor fellows in them were hit while so employed. At length a breeze sprang up, and all sail being made, right merrily we glided out of the enemy’s harbour, much, undoubtedly, to their disgust, and to our very great satisfaction.

Now came the sad work of counting the killed and wounded. We had lost twelve of the former, two being officers, and nearly five times that number wounded; while we found that the corvette had her captain, three lieutenants, and three midshipmen, and eighty-five seamen and soldiers killed, being ninety-two killed, though only sixty-two were wounded. The deck was a complete shambles: the wounded were carried below, friends and foes alike, though the dead Frenchmen were hove overboard at once. Our own dead, being not so numerous, were kept to be committed to the deep with more ceremony in the morning. Among them was a midshipman. I could not help lifting up the flag which covered his face. Poor fellow, there he lay, stiff and stark! A jovial laughing fellow he had been, cracking his jokes but a few minutes before, just as we were entering the harbour. Such might have been my fate. He had fallen, though in the path of duty. He had been ordered to come. I felt more sad, and was more thoughtful, than I had ever been in my life before. How long I stood there I do not know. Mr Johnson’s voice aroused me.

“I haven’t had time to speak to you before, Mr Merry,” said he. “You did very well,—very well indeed. Jonathan Johnson thanks you from the bottom of his heart; that he does. If it hadn’t been for your steady aim, and the unfailing accuracy of my pistol which you fired, I should now be among those lying there, covered with glory;—a very fine thing in theory to be covered with, but, practically, I would rather be alive, and have less of it. However, I mustn’t stop talking here. By the bye, there’s Mr Bryan has found you out. I will tell him how you have behaved, and I dare say that he’ll not get you into trouble, if he can help it.”

I thought that would be very kind in Mr Bryan. It did not occur to me that I had done anything to be proud of; nor had I, indeed. I had done what I ought not to have done. I wanted to see some fighting; I had seen it, and just then I felt that I did not want to see any more. The face of that dead midshipman haunted me. I had had a sort of a notion that midshipmen could not be killed, and now I had had proof positive to the contrary. I felt unusually grave and sad. For a long time I could not get the face out of my head. I believe that it contributed to sober me, and to prevent me from being the reckless creature I might otherwise have become.

Day broke as we hove in sight of the squadron, and loud cheers saluted us as we brought up in triumph among them. A prize crew was put in charge of the captured ship, and I returned in the pinnace with the boatswain to the Doris. I was in hopes of getting on board without being observed, but too many eyes were gazing down on us for me to do that. Spellman was, of course, one of the first to discover me.

“What, you there, ‘hop o’ me?’” he exclaimed; “how did you tumble into the boat?”

“Don’t answer him,” whispered the boatswain, as we climbed up the side; “I’ll let him know what I think of you and him.”

I ran down below as fast as I could to change my clothes and wash, for I was dreadfully dirty, covered from head to foot with powder and blood. The first person I encountered was Toby Bluff.

“Oh! Muster Merry, Muster Merry! Be you really and truly alive?” he exclaimed, throwing his arms round my neck, and bursting into tears. “They told me you was gone away to be killed by the Frenchmen, and I never expected to see you more; that I didn’t. But is it yourself, squire? You looks awful smoky and bloody loike. Where are all the wounds? You’ll be bleeding to death, sure. Let me run for the doctor.”

He would have been off like a shot, but I assured him that I was not hurt. After he was satisfied that such was the case, I despatched him to the cook’s galley to procure some hot water, with which, and the aid of soap, I managed speedily to get rid of the stains of the fight. By the time I got to rights, breakfast was on the table, and I went into the berth and sat myself down as if nothing had happened. I flattered myself that my messmates looked at me with considerable respect, though they badgered me not a little.

“Where have you been, youngster?” said one. “You’ll catch it, my boy!”

“What have you been about, Merry?” asked old Perigal, who was rather annoyed at not having been allowed to go. “Getting most kicks or halfpence, I wonder? but ‘duty is duty, and discipline is discipline,’ as the master remarks; and you mustn’t be playing these pranks, my boy, or you’ll get knocked on the head or turned out of the service. Over zeal is not approved of at head-quarters.”

I went on eating my breakfast with perfect equanimity, and I very soon found that my messmates were eager to have an account of the expedition, which I was able to give them with tolerable clearness. I was still somewhat uncomfortable as to what the captain would say, and, before long, he sent for me. I went trembling. He received me, however, very kindly, though he was somewhat grave.

“The boatswain speaks in the highest terms of your coolness and courage, and says that you saved his life. I am therefore willing to overlook your infraction of the rules of discipline on this occasion, but remember that, however well you may behave in other respects, you can never make wrong right. In consequence of this, I cannot speak of your bravery in public as I should have liked to do.”

This was a good deal for the captain to say, and more, I felt conscious, than I deserved. The officers were very civil to me, and I felt that I had certainly risen in public estimation, and was no longer looked upon as a little boy.

A few days after this Spellman came into the berth in a great rage, stating that he had overheard the boatswain say that Mr Merry was worth his weight in gold, and that he, Spellman, was not worth his in paving-stones. “Listeners never hear any good of themselves,” observed one.

“And if you are not worth your weight in paving-stones, I should like to know what you are worth?” asked old Perigal.

“I am much obliged to the boatswain for his good opinion of me,” said I. “But he probably was thinking of the saying that London is paved with gold, and meant to say that you were worth your weight in gold paving-stones.”

“That may be,” answered Spellman, willing to be pacified; “but I cannot say I liked his tone.”

On this there was a general laugh. The boatswain’s tone was well-known. It was wonderful what withering contempt he could throw into it. The men dreaded it more than they did even his rattan, and that, in his hand, was a somewhat formidable weapon. I remembered his promise when Spellman was quizzing me, on our return from capturing the Chevrette, and I found that he had fulfilled it. I thanked him the next time we met off duty.

“Yes, Mr Merry; I like to serve my friends, and serve out my enemies. Not that poor Mr Spellman is an enemy of yours or mine; but—I say it with all due respect—he is a goose, and I like to baste geese.”

I did not repeat to Spellman what Mr Johnson had said of him. I had an intuitive feeling that it was harmful to tell a person what another says of him, except it happens to be something especially pleasant. I believe more ill-blood and mischief is created in that way than in any other.

Soon after this, we sailed on a cruise to the westward, for the purpose of intercepting some of the enemy’s homeward-bound merchantmen.

Notwithstanding what I have said of Spellman, I was in reality on very good terms with him. He was continually playing me tricks; but then I paid him off in his own coin. I had, however, made the friendship of another messmate, George Grey by name. He was about my own age and size, and came from Leicestershire, but from a different part of the county to that where my family lived. I liked him, because he was such an honest, upright little fellow. No bullying or persuasion could make him do what he thought wrong. I do not mean to say that he never did anything that was wrong. When he did, it was without reflection. I never knew him to do premeditated harm. We stuck by each other on all occasions; skylarked together, studied navigation together; and when we were together the biggest bully in the mess held us in respect. Mr Johnson liked George Grey as much as he did me.

I had never got the boatswain to commence his history. I told Grey that I was determined to get it out of him, as it was certain to be amusing, though we agreed that we were not bound to believe all he said. He certainly was an extraordinary character. A boaster and a man (I do not like to use a harsh term) who is addicted to saying what is not true, is generally found to be a coward, and often a bully; whereas my worthy friend was as brave as a lion and, gruff as was his voice, as gentle as a lamb, as he used to say of himself, if people would but stroke him the right way; and I can assert a kinder hearted monster never lived. Grey and I, one afternoon when it was our watch below, found him in his cabin. He was taking his after-dinner potation of rum and water, y-clept “grog,” and reading by the light of a purser’s dip.

“Come in, young gentlemen, come in, and be seated,” he sang out; and as we willingly obeyed, he added, “This is what I call enjoyment—food for the mind and moisture for the whistle. We have not many opportunities for mental improvement and the enjoyment of light literature, as you may have discovered by this time; and to a man, like myself, of refined taste, that is one of the greatest drawbacks to our noble profession.”

Grey and I did not understand exactly what he meant; but, after letting him run on for a little time, we told him why we had come, and begged him to indulge us by commencing at once.

“There is, as you sagaciously observe, young gentlemen, no time like the present for doing a thing which is to be done; and so,”—and he cleared his throat with a sound which rang along the decks—“I will begin. But remember, now, I’ll have no doubting—no cavilling. If you don’t choose to believe what I say, you need not listen any more. I will not submit to have my word called in question.”

“Heave ahead!” said a voice outside; I suspected it was Spellman’s. I soon found that there were several other listeners, and was afraid Jonathan would refuse to go on; but, in reality, he liked to have a large audience, and seasoned his descriptions accordingly. Again he cleared his throat, and said—

“I’ll begin—as I remarked. My mother was a wonderful woman. I have a great respect for her memory. Joan of Arc, Queen Dido, or the Roman Daughter could not hold a candle to her. She was up to any thing, and, had opportunities offered, would have been the first woman of her age. As it was, she made herself pretty well-known in the world, as you shall hear. When she was quite a young woman she once on a time became first-lieutenant of a dashing frigate. When the captain was killed, she took the ship into action, fought two line-of-battle ships broadside to broadside, and then, when there was not a stick left standing, carried them by boarding. She would have brought both of them into port, but one went down from the severe hammering she had given them. You doubt what I am telling you, young gentlemen, do you? Well, then, I’ll give you proof which ought to satisfy any candid mind that I am speaking the truth. You must know that there is a song written about her; and, of course, if she hadn’t done what I have been telling you it wouldn’t have been written. It runs thus:—

“Billy Taylor was a smart young sailor,

Full of life and full of glee,

And he went a courting Molly Nailor,

A maiden fair of high degree.

“That maiden fair was my mother. Billy Taylor, do ye see, went a courting her, and swore that he loved her better than the apple of his eye, or a shipload of prize-money, and no end of glasses of grog, and fifty other things, and that her cheeks were like roses from Persia, and her breath sweeter than the essence of all the gales of Araby that ever blew, and all that sort of thing. She believed him, for she was young and tender hearted, and did not know what horrible falsehoods some men can tell. I do hate a fellow who doesn’t speak the truth. Now, do ye see, that scoundrel Taylor was only bamboozling her all the time, for he went away and fell in with another lady who had more of the shiners, though less beauty, and he having brought to bear the whole broadside of false oaths he had been firing away at my respected mother, the other lady struck her flag and became his wife. Like other wid blades of his stamp, he soon ran through all the poor girl’s money, so he wasn’t a bit the better for it, and she was very much the worse. When she had no more left for him to lay his hand on, he had to go to sea again.

“My mother, who was not my mother then, you’ll understand, because I wasn’t born till some years after that,—and I’m proud to say that my father was a very different man to Billy Taylor. He was an honest man; and when Miss Nailor found out all about Billy Taylor’s treachery, she resolved to be avenged on him. He had entered on board the Thunder bomb, and she heard of it. Accordingly she rigged herself out in a suit of seaman’s clothes, and as her father was a seaman,—an officer, of course, (my parentage was respectable on both sides)—and she knew all about seamen’s ways and sayings, she very easily passed for one.

“One fine morning, off she set in her new toggery for Portsmouth, where the Thunder was fitting out. She had provided herself with a loaded pistol, which she kept in her pocket, vowing to revenge herself on the traitor Taylor.

“As the Thunder was short of hands, the captain was very glad to enter the smart young seaman she seemed to be when she presented herself before him.

“Billy Taylor was aboard, and when she caught sight of his face she had some difficulty in keeping her fingers off it, I believe you. Not that she was otherwise, I’ll have you understand, than a mild tempered woman, when she had her own way, but she had received a good deal of provocation, you’ll allow. The deceiver didn’t know her, and all went on smoothly for some time. She proved herself so smart and active a seaman, (or sea woman,—I should say a mermaid, eh?) that she soon got made captain of the main-top over the head of Billy Taylor and many older hands. How they would have fired up if they had known the truth!

“At last the Thunder sailed down Channel, and my mother began to fancy that all the things she had heard about Taylor might be false, and all her old feeling for him came back. However, as his ill-luck would have it, the ship put into Plymouth Sound, and as she lay there a boat came off from Causand with a lady in it.

“Billy Taylor watched the boat till she came alongside, and when the lady stepped on deck he kissed her lips and folded her in his arms.

“Miss Nailor was standing by. The scene was too much for her.

“‘Oh, you foul traitor!’ she exclaimed, drawing her pistol just as the lady and the deceiver Billy were walking forward hand in hand. ‘Take that!’

“Off went the pistol, and the false lover tumbled over as dead as a herring. The lady, at first, was inclined to go into what the uneducated sailors call high-strikes—you understand, young gentlemen; but she was a strong-minded woman, and when she heard how Billy had been deceiving another girl, she said it served him right, and that she would have nothing more to say to him, dead or alive, and, stepping into her boat, away she went ashore at Causand, where she had come from.

“The captain of the Thunder, when he found out that my mother was a woman, and how she had been treated by Billy Taylor, as the song says, ‘very much approved of what she’d done,’ and declared that she was a fine spirited girl, (which she certainly had proved herself to be), and that he would make her his first-lieutenant as soon as there was a vacancy. You see they did things differently in those days to what they do now. No one ever hears of a young woman being made first-lieutenant, though it is said there are many old women higher up in the list; but it wouldn’t become me, holding the subordinate situation of a boatswain, to credit the fact. The captain very soon had an opportunity of fulfilling his word, for in a very short time the ship went into action, and his next in command being killed, he gave Miss Nailor the death vacancy, and then she became first-lieutenant of the gallant Thunder bomb. However, young gentlemen, I must put a stopper on my jaw-tackle just now. I have had uninvited listeners to my veracious and authentic history, and I hope they have benefited by it.”

Mr Johnson placed his finger on the side of his nose, and winked one of his piercing eyes.

“The fact is, I like to indulge in my faculty of invention and amplification, and you may possibly have an idea that I have done so in the account I have given you of my female parent’s early adventures. Ho! ho! ho!” and he heaved back, and indulged in a long, low, hoarse laugh, such as a facetious hippopotamus might be supposed to produce on hearing a good pun made by an alligator.

Spellman, and the rest who had been listening out side, on this, beat a retreat, suspecting, probably, that the boatswain had been laughing at them.

Our watch was called, and Grey and I had to go on deck. I had by this time picked up a large amount of miscellaneous nautical knowledge, so had Toby in his way. As to going aloft, or in feats of activity, few of the other midshipmen could beat me. I said that I could swim well. Our father had taught us all at an early age, and I could accomplish the passage across the mill-pond five times and back without resting. Toby, too, after I had saved him from drowning, had learned the art. It was fortunate for us that we had done so.

We had returned unsuccessful from our cruise to the westward, and were somewhere about the chops of the Channel. Night was coming on, and it was blowing very fresh.

“A sail on the lee bow!” shouted the look-out from the mast-head. The wind was south-west, and the frigate was close-hauled, heading towards Ushant.

“What do you make of her? Which way is she standing?” asked Captain Collyer, who was on deck.

“Looks like a lugger, standing up Channel,” was the answer.

“Up with the helm, keep her away!” exclaimed the captain.

“All hands make sail.”

In an instant the men were hauling on tacks and sheets, braces and bowlines; the yards were squared away, studding sails were set, and off we flew before the wind like an eagle at its prey. The chase kept on before the wind. I had gone up into the fore-top, though I had no business to be there, but it happened to be the station of my particular chum, Grey, and I could enjoy a better sight of the chase from thence than elsewhere.

As the evening advanced, the wind increased, but we were gaining rapidly on the chase, and of course the captain was unwilling to shorten sail. Stays and braces grew tauter and tauter, studden sail-booms cracked, and the topgallant masts bent like willow wands.

“We are going to get it,” observed the captain of the top.

He was right. Away flew the main-topgallant studden sail; the topmast studden sail followed. At the same moment, the foremost guns with a loud roar sent a couple of shot after the chase. It was getting dark, but I felt sure that one had struck her counter. Still she held on, and we continued in chase, she carrying as much sail as she could stagger under.

“We shall carry the masts out of the ship if we don’t look sharp,” observed the captain of the top. The yards cracked more than ever. “All hands shorten sail,” cried the captain from the deck. “In with the studden sails!”

When the men went out on the fore-yard, I, to show my activity and daring to my messmate Grey, went out also. The frigate had begun to pitch and roll a little. By some means I lost my hold, and should have fallen on deck and been killed, had she not rolled at the moment to starboard, and sent me flying overboard.

“There goes poor Marmaduke Merry,” shouted Grey.

I was plunged under the water, but quickly rose to see the frigate flying by me. As she passed, something was thrown from the deck, and the next instant I observed, I fancied, some one leap from the mizen chains. I did not for a moment suppose that I was going to be drowned, but how I was to be saved I could not divine. I swam on till I got hold of a grating which had been thrown to me, and had not long seated myself on it when I heard a voice sing out—

“All right, Master Marmaduke; I said I’d go wherever you did, but to my mind now it would have been better to have stayed on board.”

It was Toby, and after I had helped him up alongside me, I assured him that I agreed with his remark, but that I could not help it. I looked anxiously for the frigate. Her mighty form could only just be distinguished through the gloom, and the lugger could nowhere be seen.

“This isn’t pleasant,” said I. “But keep up your spirits, Toby, I suppose the frigate will turn to look for us, and if not, we must hold on till the morning, when I hope we may be picked up by some ship or other.”

“Ne’er fear, Master Marmaduke,” answered Toby. “If you think it’s all right, I’m happy.”

I certainly did not think it all right, for in a short time it became so dark that we could scarcely see our hands held up before our eyes. As to seeing the frigate, that was out of the question, even if she passed close to us. Happily the gale did not increase, and we were able to hold on to our frail raft. We couldn’t talk much. I felt anything but merry. Suddenly the grating received a blow, and I saw a dark object rising up above us. I was thrown against it. It was the side of a vessel. I should have been knocked off the grating had I not found a stout rope in my hand. I drew Toby to me, we both clutched it; the grating slipped from under our feet, and there we were hanging on to the side of a strange craft. We shouted out, and were at once drawn on board, and by the light of a lantern, which was held up to examine us, I found that we were on board a small vessel, and surrounded by Frenchmen.

Chapter Four.

The craft on board which Toby Bluff and I so unexpectedly found ourselves was a lugger, as I discovered by perceiving her yards lying fore and aft along the decks. It was evident that her sails had been lowered when the squall came on, and so she had not been observed as the frigate shot by in the darkness. Owing to this circumstance our lives had in all probability been saved. Not that I thought about that at the time; on the contrary, from the fierce looks of our captors, I fancied that they were going to knock us on the head, and I wished that we were safe back on our raft again. Toby seemed to feel much as I did.

“Oh, Muster Merry! be these here fellows going to eat us?” he asked in a tone of alarm.

“I hope not, Toby,” I answered. “If they take us, buttons and all, we shall stick in their throats, that’s one comfort. However, we will try and put a good face on the matter, and, whatever happens, we won’t be cast down; only I hope they will not treat us as we have often treated miller’s-thumbs, and throw us into the water again.”

While Toby and I were exchanging remarks, the Frenchmen were talking to each other and occasionally asking us questions, I supposed; but as we did not understand a word of each other’s language, neither party was much the wiser. I looked about me. The lugger’s decks were crowded with men, and she had several guns cast loose, ready for action. She was, there could be no doubt, a privateer. I knew that the crews of such vessels were often composed of the worst and most unscrupulous of characters, and I expected nothing very pleasant at their hands. At last the captain, who had been looking out forward at our ship, came up to us.

“So, you one little officer of dat frigate dere,” he observed.

“Yes,” said I, rather proudly; “I have that honour.”

“Sa—!” He gave forth a particularly unpleasant sound from his throat, “You bêtes Anglish, you send my wessel to bottom last cruise, and sixty of my braves-garçons wid her. I vow I send every Anglishman I catch to look for them. S-a-a—.”

He looked so vicious that I thought he would execute his threat forthwith. I did my best, however, to put on a bold front.

“Whereabouts did this happen, Monsieur?” I asked quite coolly.

“Some twenty leagues to eastward dere,” he answered, looking hard at me.

“And which way is the tide making,” I inquired. I happened to have heard the master observe just before I went aloft, that the tide had only then made to the westward.

“It is vat you call ebb,” said the French captain.

“Then you see, monsieur, that there is no use throwing us overboard just now, because we should drift away to the westward, and your late vessel and crew must be somewhere to the eastward,” said I, as boldly as I could, though I had no little difficulty in getting out the words.

“Ah! you von Jack-a-napes, you von poule—littel fighting coc, I see,” he remarked in an altered tone. “Vell, you stay aboard; you sweep my cabin; you like dat better dan drown.”

“Certainly, monsieur, very much better,” said I, considerably relieved; “I shall be very happy to serve you in any way I can, consistent with my honour, and perhaps you’ll let this boy here help me?”

“Bah, no!” answered the captain, giving a contemptuous glance at poor Toby. “He only fit to sweep out de fore hold.”

I saw that it would not be wise to say anything more, so I held my tongue.

The captain said a few words to the men, and while one led poor Toby forward, another conducted me towards the companion-hatch. Toby turned an imploring look at me, and struggled violently.

“Oh, Muster Merry! Muster Merry, they be a-going to cut our throats and heave us overboard. I know they bees; but don’t let them do it till I comes to be with ee,” he cried out. “Don’t ee, now, Muster; don’t ee.”

Poor Toby, finding that he could not get loose, began kicking and struggling, and shouting at the top of his voice. This seemed to afford infinite amusement to the Frenchmen, who imitated him; but, in spite of all his efforts, dragged him forward. I, in the meantime, was taken aft, and had just reached the companion-hatch, down which the men were going to thrust me, when the captain came running along the deck, shouting out to his crew. My captors let go of me. In an instant, the halliards, tacks, and sheets were manned; sail was rapidly made; and, two or more reefs having been taken in, away we stood, close-hauled as near to the north-west as the wind would allow. I soon learned the reason of this proceeding. To my great joy, on looking eastward, I discovered the frigate looming through the darkness, about half gun-shot distance from us. Whether the lugger was seen by those on board or not was a question. I rather suspected that Captain Collyer had stood back to look for Toby and me, though it was almost as hopeless as looking for a needle in a bundle of hay, I felt very sure that he would search for us, and that he would rather lose the chance of capturing the schooner than lose us; indeed, I hope that there are not many naval officers who would not have done the same. I anxiously watched the Doris, to see what she would do. The Frenchmen very naturally believed that she was coming after them. While the men were flattening in the sheets, Toby made his escape, and came up to me.

“Oh, Muster Merry, who be these people? Where be they taking us to? What be they going to do to us?” he asked in a subdued, frightened tone.

“Never mind,” said I, “look there.”

I pointed to the frigate, which, as far as I could judge, seeing her through the darkness, had three reefs down in her topsails, and was standing towards us, heeling over to the gale.

“Hurra!” shouted Toby, “All right now; she’ll soon be sending this here craft to the bottom. Hurra!”

“Very likely,” said I. “But we, perhaps, shall have to go with her, and, just now, the less noise we make the better, or the Frenchmen may be sending us below.” Toby was silent.

No sooner were the lugger’s sails hoisted than she was perceived, and in half a minute, to set the matter at rest, a shot from a thirty-nine pounder came flying between the masts. Toby ducked his head. He saw, however, that I did not move mine. I had had so many flying about my ears the night we took the Chevrette that I had got quite accustomed to them. Another shot came, and Toby’s head did not move, as far as I could see. I dare say he blinked his eyes a little; but, as it was dark, I am not certain. It was a trial to our nerves, for the shot whistled near our shoulders, and, though we could not help feeling proud of our shipmates’ gunnery practice, we would rather that they had not aimed so well.

“I say, Toby, if, like the boatswain’s acquaintance, you get my head on your shoulders, be honest; don’t go and pass yourself off for me,” I observed.

“Lor, Muster Merry, I wouldn’t so for to go to forget myself,” he answered.

His tone, more than the words, made me burst into a fit of laughter.

“You garçon not laugh long,” observed the captain, as he hurried aft to take a look at the compass. “You merry now, you cry soon.”

“I’ll laugh while I can; it’s my nature to be merry, captain,” I answered, determined to appear as brave as possible. “But I say, captain, what does that big ship want you to do?”

“Ah you von little rogue,” he answered, less angrily than I might have expected; “you go below, or you get head knock off.”

“Thank you,” said I. “But I may have to go lower than I like if I do, so I would rather stay on deck, and see what is going forward.”

The captain merely answered “Bah,” as if he had too much to think of just then to trouble himself about us, and issued some orders to his crew. Two long guns were immediately cast loose and pointed at the frigate. “They can’t hope to contend with her,” I observed to Bluff. But they did though, and began blazing away in right good earnest. They fired high, for their object was to wing her. If they could have knocked some of her spars away they would have had a better chance of escaping.

The lugger was evidently a very fast craft, and held her own wonderfully. This was soon perceived on board the frigate, which began to fire more rapidly than before. Captain Collyer had not spared powder and shot, and, since we left port, the men had been every day exercised at the guns. The result was now apparent by the number of shot which passed through the sails of the lugger, or struck her. Still the Frenchmen seemed in no way inclined to yield. The captain stood aft, issuing his orders with the greatest coolness. His officers were much less collected, and kept running about with ropes in their hands, frequently striking the men if they flinched from their guns. The lugger, which was really a very powerful vessel, of some two hundred and fifty tons, tore through the seas, which came in cataracts over her bows, deluging her fore and aft.

I was glad that Toby and I were near the companion-hatch, that we might hold on tight to it. The scene was stirring in the extreme; rather more than was pleasant indeed. I did not like the state of things, and Toby’s teeth began to chatter in his head. It was very dark. The wind roared through the rigging; the sails, extended to the utmost, would, I thought, burst from the bolt-ropes, or carry the stout mast out of the vessel. The lugger heeled over till the men at the guns were up to their knees in water, and at last they could only fire as she rolled to windward. It must be remembered that the frigate was to leeward. Though she sailed faster than the lugger, the latter was weathering on her. My knowledge of seamanship scarcely enabled me to form a correct judgment as to the Frenchman’s chance of escape, but still I did not fancy that anything could run away from the Doris,—our frigate,—which, I was fully persuaded, was the perfection of naval architecture, and everything a ship should be. The Frenchmen were all this time wonderfully silent, except when a shot whistled past their ears or struck the vessel, and then they gave way to volleys of oaths and execrations, the meaning of which, however, I did not understand. They appeared very resolute, and I thought fully expected to escape.

On we tore through the raging sea, and often so blinded were we with the showers of spray which fell on board that the flashes of the guns alone showed us the position of the frigate. I was saying that I was sure Captain Collyer would do his best to pick Toby and me up, and now, when I saw him chasing the lugger, it occurred to me that he must have either guessed that we were on board her, or that he must have come to the conclusion that we were lost.

“I wonder what they are saying about us?” I remarked, partly to Toby and partly to myself. “Mr Johnson will be sorry for us, and so will Grey, and so, I really believe, will old Perigal. I don’t think Spellman will, though. I rather suspect he’ll be for constituting himself my heir, and taking possession of my books and things. However, I hope we may some day get on board again, and make him disgorge.”

There did not seem much chance of that though. Every moment I expected, should a shot not send her first to the bottom, to see the lugger run her bows right under, as she tore on through the raging waters. The frigate seemed to be gaining very little, if at all, on us. The Frenchmen naturally calculated on the darkness increasing, and when once out of her sight, on being able to alter their course, and get clear away. I devoutly hoped that they would not. Hours, it seemed to me, passed away; still the lugger and the frigate held their relative positions, the latter firing occasionally, but the Frenchmen, after a time, ceased doing so; indeed, in the heavy sea running, they could scarcely work their guns. The wind increased, but there was no sign of shortening sail; the sky sent down deluges of rain; it became darker than ever. I had never, I thought, taken my eyes off the frigate, except when the spray dashed over me, and compelled me to close them for a moment. I was looking in the direction where I had last seen her.

“Bluff, do you see her?” I exclaimed suddenly, rubbing my eyes at the same time with all my might, to bring back the object I had lost.

“No, Muster Merry. To my mind she isn’t there,” he answered positively.

The Frenchmen were of the same opinion, for I heard them chatting away together, and laughing heartily. Still we continued on the same tack. Indeed, to go about would have been a dangerous operation, and to wear would have lost ground, and very likely have brought the lugger back in sight of the frigate. No one had taken any notice of us for a long time. The captain now came to the companion.

“Ah! you brave garçon, come here,” he said, as he descended.

Giving Bluff a pull, as a sign to come after me, I followed him below. A bright lamp swung from the deck above, and exhibited a well-furnished if not a luxurious cabin, with a table in the centre, on which, secured in the usual way, were bottles and glasses, and deep dishes containing various sorts of viands.

“Come, you hungry; sit down,” said the captain,—an order which I very gladly obeyed, though it was far from easy to stick on my chair, or to convey the food to my mouth.

“Pierre!” shouted the captain, and a man, who seemed to be his steward, got up from a corner of the cabin where he had been asleep, and stood ready to wait on us. The captain motioned him to give some bread and sausage to Toby, who retired with it to the door, where he sat down to eat it at his leisure.

Our host did not talk much. He put a few questions as to the number of the Doris’s guns, and their length and weight of metal, and whether she was reputed a fast sailer; to all which questions I gave honest answers, and he seemed satisfied. He rapidly devoured his food, and was evidently in a hurry to be on deck again. This made me fancy that he was not quite so certain of having escaped the frigate as I had at first supposed. A glass of hot wine and water raised my spirits, for I had been so long in my wet clothes, that, although the weather was warm, I had become very chilly. Without asking his leave, I handed a glass to Toby, who wanted it as much as I did. The captain said nothing, but when he got up to go on deck, he told me that we might take off our clothes, and turn into one of the berths to get warm. At first I was going to do so, but I could not help fancying that some accident might happen, and that I would rather be dressed, so I sat down with Toby on the deck, holding on by the legs of the table.

The steward, having stowed away the things, went and lay down in his corner, and soon, by his loud snores, showed that he was again fast asleep. Toby quickly followed his example; and I had been dozing for some time, though I thought that I was awake, when I was aroused by the report of a gun overhead. The lamp had gone out, and left a strong odour of oil in the close cabin. The grey light of dawn streamed down the companion-hatch. Calling Toby, I jumped on deck. There, away to leeward, was the frigate, within gun-shot distance, but this time the lugger had begun the fight, and she had not yet fired. The wind had lessened, and the sea had gone down considerably. The frigate was on our lee-quarter, and I saw that, as soon as she opened her fire, our chance would be a very small one.

The French captain, and his officers and men, had got two guns over the quarter, having cut away some of the bulwarks, and were energetically working them, with desperation stamped on their countenances. Toby and I stood, as before, holding on to the companion-hatch, and this time—I must confess it—my teeth, as well as his, chattered with the cold, and damp, and agitation. No one took any notice of us. The Frenchmen were again aiming high, in the hope of knocking away some of the frigate’s spars. They were brave fellows: I could not help admiring them. Shot followed shot in rapid succession. I wondered that Captain Collyer’s patience was not exhausted.

“There! I know’d they’d do it,” exclaimed Toby, suddenly. “And catch it if they did!” he added.

As he spoke I saw a white splinter glance from the fore-topmast of the frigate, while a rent appeared in the sail. The Frenchmen shouted as if they had done a clever thing, but they had little to shout for; the next instant a shower of round-shot came whistling through our sails, some just above our heads; two struck the lugger’s side, and one killed three men dead on the decks. Though I knew how dangerous was our position I was too eager to see what was taking place to go below. Still the gallant French captain would not strike, but stood as energetically as before, encouraging his men to work the guns. I wished that he would give in though, for my own and Toby’s sake, nor did I think that he had a chance of escaping. There he stood full of life and energy, now hauling on a gun-tackle, now looking along a gun. The next moment there was a whistling and crash of shot, and I saw several mangled forms sent flying along the deck. One was that of the brave captain. I ran to assist him, but though there was a convulsive movement of the limbs, he was perfectly dead. At the same moment down came the lugger’s mainyard. I saw that it was completely up with her at all events. Some of the privateer’s men continued at the guns, but the greater number tumbled headlong down below, to avoid the frigate’s next broadside. My eye glancing up at that moment, I saw the French flag still flying. Believing that the only way to avoid the catastrophe was to haul it down, followed by Toby, I ran aft to do so. I was too late. The Frenchmen fired, and another crushing broadside struck the lugger, and made her reel with the shock. The companion-hatch was knocked to pieces. We should have been killed had we remained at our former post.

The next instant there was a fearful cry—the men who had gone below sprang up again with pale faces and cries of terror. The lugger rushed on, made one fearful plunge, and I saw that she was sinking. I had kept my eye on the wreck of the companion-hatch. Dragging Toby with me, I sprang to it and clutched it tightly, and as the sea washed along the deck, and the sinking vessel disappeared, we found ourselves clinging to it and floating on the summit of a curling wave. As soon as I had cleared my eyes from the water, I looked round for the frigate. She was in the act of heaving-to in order to lower her boats. The sea around us was sprinkled with struggling forms, but not half the lugger’s crew were to be seen. Numbers must have gone down in her. Shrieks and cries for help reached our ears, but we could assist no one. Some were clinging to spars and planks, and pieces of the shattered bulwarks; a few were swimming, but the greater number were floundering about; and now I saw a hand disappear—now two were thrown up to sink immediately beneath the waves—now a shriek of agony reached our ears. It was very terrible. The companion-hatch to which Toby and I clung had been so knocked about that it scarcely held together, and I expected every moment that it would go to pieces, and that we should be separated. I earnestly wished for the boats to come to us, and it appeared to me that the frigate was far longer than usual in heaving-to and lowering them. At last, as we rose to the top of a wave, I saw three boats pulling towards us. The men were giving way with all their might as British seamen always will when lives are to be saved, even those of enemies. Several Frenchmen had been picked up, when I saw a boat making towards us. Mr Johnson was steering, and Spellman was the midshipman in her. We were not recognised when we were hauled into the boat, and might not have been had I not said—

“What, Spellman, don’t you know me?”

“You, Merry,” he exclaimed, looking at me with an astonished gaze. “What business have you here? Why we left you drowning—up Channel somewhere—hours ago.”

“Thank you, but we have taken a cruise since then,” said I.

“And rather a perilous one, young gentleman,” exclaimed the boatswain, now recognising me. “You had the shot rattling pretty thick about you, and I’m heartily glad to see you safe, that I am.” And he nearly wrung my hand off as he shook it. “I never saw guns better aimed than ours were, except once, and that was when I was attacking a Spanish line-of-battle ship in a jolly boat. I’ll tell you all about it some day, but well just pick up some of these drowning Frenchmen first. Give way, my lads.”

The other two boats rescued several of the lugger’s crew; we got hold of six or seven more who were floating on spars or planks; one of them was the second officer of the privateer; but out of a hundred and forty men who were on her decks when she went down, not more than thirty were rescued. Toby and I met with a very pleasant reception when we got on board, and as soon as I had got on some dry clothes and had had a glass of grog to restore my circulation, Captain Collyer sent for me into the cabin to hear an account of our adventures. He seemed highly interested when I told him of the gallantry of the French captain, and expressed his regret at his death. A brave man always appreciates the bravery of his opponent. When I got back to the berth I had to tell the story all over again, and Toby, I have no doubt, was similarly employed among his messmates.

“It is very evident, Merry, that you are reserved for a more exalted fate,” was the only comment Spellman made, when I ceased.

“Thank you, Miss Susan,” I answered; “I owe you one.”

“It is a great pity that the lugger went down, though,” observed old Perigal; “I should have had a chance of taking a run home in her as prize-master, and seeing my wife. Besides, she might have given us a pinch of prize-money.”

The regret generally expressed was rather for the loss of the few pounds the lugger might have given them, than for that of the men who formed the crew.

“What! I did not know that you were married,” I observed to Perigal when he said he was married.

“But I am, though; and to a young and charming wife who deserves a better husband,” he answered in an abrupt way. “If it wasn’t for her I shouldn’t be now knocking about the ocean as I have been all my life; and yet, if it was not for her I should have very little to keep me on shore. It’s the prize-money, the booty, keeps me afloat. I am an arrant buccaneer at heart.”

“I should not have supposed you that,” said I. It was now evening, and old Perigal had his glass of grog before him. On these occasions he was always somewhat communicative.

“I’ve been married six years or more,” he continued in a half whisper. “My wife is the daughter of an old shipmate who was killed in action by my side. His last words were, ‘Take care of my orphan child—my Mary.’ I promised him I would as long as I had life and a shilling in my pocket. I expected to see a little girl with a big bow at her waist, and a doll in her arms—as he’d described her. He’d been five years from home or more, poor fellow. Instead of that, I found a handsome young woman, tall and graceful. What could I do? I was struck all of a heap, as the saying is; and I discovered at last, that though I was but a mate in the service, and an old fellow to boot compared to her, she liked me; so we married. I’d saved some little prize-money, and I thought myself rich; but it went wonderfully quick, and a rogue of a fellow who borrowed some wouldn’t even pay me; and if it hadn’t been for the sake of Mary I wouldn’t have said anything to him, but let the coin burn a hole in his pockets. I went to law, and the upshot was that I lost all I had remaining. Now came the tug of war. Was I to go to sea again and leave Mary? I couldn’t bear the thought of it. Anything would be better than that. I would enter into some business. A bright idea struck me. Three or four hundred pounds would enable me to carry it out. Mary and I agreed that I should have no difficulty in getting that, I had so many friends. I would pay them a good interest. I tried. You should have seen how they buttoned up their pockets and pursed up their lips; how many similar applications they had, how many decayed relations wanted their assistance! They didn’t say, however, that they had assisted them. I had no business to complain; I had made a mistake, and I felt ashamed of myself. At first, though my heart swelled, I was very angry; but I got over that feeling, and I resolved to trust to myself alone. It was not till then that I recovered my self-respect. I say, Merry; if you fancy that you have many friends, don’t you ever attempt to borrow money from them, or you’ll find that you are woefully mistaken. Mary and I talked the matter over, and she settled to keep a school, and I to come to sea again.

“It was a sore trial, youngster, and you may fancy that a rich galleon wouldn’t be an unacceptable prize, to save the poor girl from the drudgery she has to go through. It wasn’t the way her poor father expected me to treat her, but I have done my best; what can a man do more?”

The old mate was going to help himself to another glass, but he put the bottle away from him with resolution. I had observed that he often took more than anybody else in the mess; but after that, whenever I saw him doing so, I had only to mention his wife, and he instantly stopped. From this account he had given of himself I liked him much better than ever.

I one day asked Mr Bryan, who knew his wife, about her, and he told me that she was a very superior young lady, and that he could not overpraise her.

Of all my shipmates, Grey seemed most pleased at having me back again, and he assured me that had he been able to swim he would have jumped after me, and I believe that he would have done so. I promised on the first opportunity to teach him to swim. People are surprised that so many sailors cannot swim, but the truth is, that when once they get to sea, they often have fewer opportunities of learning than have people living on shore. In southern climates some captains, when it is calm, allow the men to go overboard; but in northern latitudes they cannot do this, and many captains do not trouble themselves about the matter. My advice therefore is, that all boys should team to swim before they come to sea, and to swim in their clothes.

Next to Grey, I believe Mr Johnson was most satisfied that I was not drowned.

“I had written an account of what had happened to your disconsolate parents, and had taken an opportunity of praising you as you deserved; but as you are alive, I’ll put it by, it will serve for another occasion,” he observed.

I thanked him, and begged him to give me the letter, which, after some persuasion, he did. I enclosed it to my sisters, assuring them that it was written under an erroneous impression that I was no longer a denizen of this world, and begged, them not to be at all alarmed, as I was well and merry as ever:

“Sir,—Your son and I, though he was only a midshipman,—I am boatswain of this ship—were, I may say, friends and companions; and therefore I take up my pen to tell you the sad news, that he and boy Bluff went overboard together this evening, and were lost, though we didn’t fail to look for them. It may be a consolation to you to know that they always did their duty, which wasn’t much, nor very well done, nor of any use to anybody, but that was no fault of theirs, seeing that they didn’t know better. Then you’ll not fail to remember that there’s no longer any chance of your son being hung, which has been the fate of many a pretty man, either by mistake or because he deserved it, and that must be a comfort to you. I’ve nothing more to say at present.

“From your obedient servant,

“Jonathan Johnson,

“Boatswain of His British Majesty’s frigate Doris.”

I had hopes that the letter would afford infinite satisfaction to my home circle.

We ran back to Plymouth with our prisoners, and then receiving sealed orders, sailed for the westward. On the captain opening his orders we found that we were bound for the North American and West India Station.

One day, as Mr Johnson seemed in an especially good humour, I got Grey to come, and we begged hard that he would go on with his history.

“Ah yes, my true and veracious narrative,” he answered. “Ho! ho! ho!”

His ogre-like laugh sounded along the deck, and served as a gong to summon an audience around him, though only a favoured few ventured into his cabin.

“I was telling you about my maternal parent, the estimable Mrs Johnson. I was alluding to times before she assumed that appellation, or became my parent. I brought up my history to the period when she became first-lieutenant of the gallant Thunder bomb. She did not remain in that craft long, for the captain, officers, and crew, were turned over to a dashing, slashing, thirty-six gun frigate, the Firegobbler. It is extraordinary what a number of actions that frigate fought, and what other wonders she performed all owing to my mother, I believe you. At last, one day, not far off from the chops of the Channel, a large ship, under Spanish colours, was sighted. The Firegobbler gave chase, and a running fight ensued, during which a shot killed the captain, and of course my mother, who took command, followed up the enemy.

“Before the day was over, another Spanish line-of-battle ship hove in sight, and when the two closed each other, they hove-to, and waited for the Firegobbler, which wasn’t long in getting into action. Then, I believe you, she did give them a hammering, in such right good earnest, that, before the sun set, they cried peccavi, and struck their flags. As I told you, the other day, she brought them both in triumph into Plymouth. Now, by all the rules of the service, she ought to have been promoted, you’ll allow; but, by some means or other, the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty found out that she was a woman,—perhaps some jealous fellow peached on her,—and, think of their ingratitude, not only wouldn’t they give her a commander’s rank, but they superseded her, and would by no manner of means allow her to remain in the ship. To my mind, those big-wigs up in London have no consciences. What encouragement is there for a spirited young woman to go and fight her country’s battles? None! that’s a fact! Miss Nailor had to go on shore. But she couldn’t bear a quiet life; so, slipping on seamen’s clothes again, she shipped aboard another frigate, but, of course, she had to go before the mast. That made little difference to her; she loved the sea for itself, and didn’t care where she was. For some time she got on very well; but she didn’t always remember that she was no longer a first-lieutenant—which was natural, poor thing! Well, one day, when off the coast of America, she quarrelled with the man who was first-lieutenant, and meeting him on shore, she put a pistol into his hand, and told him he must fight her. He was a spirited fellow, and said that he never refused that sort of invitation, and as it was in the chief street of a large city, they had plenty of seconds. Well, they fought, and she had the misfortune to shoot him through the heart. Most men would have died immediately, but he lived long enough to forgive her for what she’d done, and to say what a fine fellow he thought her. Of course, as it’s against the articles of war to shoot a first-lieutenant, she couldn’t go aboard the frigate again; and when a file of marines came to seize her, the people of the place carried her off, and wouldn’t give her up, and so the jollies had to return without her. Two parties were formed in the place. One said she ought to be given up, and the other, that she oughtn’t, and shouldn’t, and that they wouldn’t. It was one of the secret causes of the American revolution.

“Among those who sided with her was a Captain Johnson, a very fine man, master of a very fine ship, and as he happened to want a mate, he asked my mother if she would take the berth, not dreaming all the time that she was a woman. They had a good deal of talk about the matter, and as she had taken a fancy to him, she told him all her history. I have said that my father was a fine man. He was the tallest and smartest man I ever saw, and had the loudest voice, too, I believe you, or he wouldn’t have won the heart of my mother. She wasn’t a woman to knock under to an ordinary, everyday sort of man. He was so tall, that the barber had to stand on the table to shave him, and as he walked along the streets, he could hand sugar-plums to the children in the upper windows; and his voice was so loud, that he once made a stone-deaf woman jump off her chair, right up to the ceiling, with fright, when he raised it above the ordinary pitch to speak to her; and he was so strong, that he made nothing of lifting an ale cask to his lips, and drinking out of the bung-hole. He was the man to command a ship’s company! When he found any two of them quarrelling, he would lift one up in each hand, with outstretched arms, and he would then knock their two heads together, and go on bumping harder and harder till they promised to be friends.

“No two people could have been better matched than my parents, and they had a sincere respect for each other. They were above anything like a namby-pamby, soft sighing, do-sweetest, kiss-me style of love. My father made his offer from the deck of his ship, as she was standing out of harbour, and my mother answered him from the shore through a speaking-trumpet. The truth was, that when the owners heard that she was a woman, they didn’t approve of her going as mate; they thought that it would invalidate the insurance.

“The wind fell outside, so he dropped anchor and pulled on shore, and was married, and, of course, off she went to sea with him. A very useful wife, too, she made, for though she didn’t wear the breeches, she could take command of the ship better than any one else on board. Thus it was that I came to be born at sea. There was a terrific gale blowing, and the ship was running under bare poles during the time that important event in the world’s history occurred.

“‘The wind it whistled, the porpoise roll’d,

The dolphins rear’d their backs of gold;

And never was heard such an outcry wild

As welcomed to life the ocean-child.’

“I believe you, my hearties, that was a gale! I don’t believe the sea ever ran so high before, or has ever run so high since. We were fully half an hour going up the side of one sea, and nearly a quarter sliding down into the trough on the other—so I have been told: I cannot say that I remember the circumstance, though I do recollect things which happened a long time ago.

“I was a precocious child, let me tell you. I had as fine a set of teeth as ever cracked biscuit by the time I was six months old, and lived upon lobscouse and porter. I was weaned by that time, and I wasn’t two years old when I could go aloft like a monkey. It wouldn’t have done for me to have been like any every-day sort of baby.”

I was almost inclined to believe Mr Johnson’s assertions, for, as I looked at the huge red-nosed man before me, I could scarcely persuade myself that he had ever been a baby in long clothes.

“Speaking of monkeys,” continued Mr Johnson, winking his eye, “I once had a desperate fight with one, when I wasn’t much more than three years old. I was sitting on the main-truck, with my legs dangling down, as was my custom when I wanted a good allowance of fresh air. We had a monkey aboard—a mischievous chap,—and when he saw me, he swarmed up the mast, and, putting up his paw, snatched a biscuit out of my jacket-pocket. I gave him a slap on the head, and in return he bit my leg, and tried to pull me down. To be even with him, I jumped on his shoulders, and down we slipped together, till we reached the topmast cross-trees. There I got a rope, and, lashing him to the heel of the topgallant-mast, sang out to the hands in the top that they might see what I had done. You may be sure that they were very much astonished.

“I was a great favourite among the crew, and ran no slight chance of being spoilt. I could dance a hornpipe with any man on board; and as for singing a rollicking sea-song, there were few who could match me. I soon learned to hand reef, steer, and heave the lead, as well as any man on board. My mother was proud of me, and so was my father; and they had reason to be, and that’s the truth.

“At last it struck them that they ought to give me some education, to fit me to become an officer and a gentleman. I, however, was not fond of books, but I learned to read chiefly from the signboards over the shop fronts along the quays at the different ports to which we traded. Not that I required much instruction, for I picked up knowledge faster than most people could serve it out to me.

“I was one morning sent on shore to school, but the master thinking fit to cane me, I tucked him up under my arm, and walked off with him on board the ship, where I stowed him under hatches, and kept him there till he promised to treat me in future with more respect. After this little occurrence we were very good friends; but when the ship went to sea, he begged that I might on no account be left behind. That was but natural, for I hadn’t got into shore ways exactly.”

The cry, from the deck, of “All hands make sail!” interrupted Mr Johnson’s veracious narrative.

“A chase in sight,” he exclaimed; “and a prize she’ll prove, though we have to fight for her!”

Chapter Five.

Every officer, man, and boy, not otherwise especially engaged, had their eyes directed ahead, watching the chase, as her sails gradually rose above the horizon. What she was had not yet been ascertained. She might be a man-of-war, or perhaps, only a merchantman. If the first, we hoped she would fight; if the latter, that she might carry a rich freight. After a time, I saw Mr Johnson rubbing his eyes, and, suddenly bringing his hand down on his thigh with a loud smack, he exclaimed—“She’s only a Yankee merchantman, after all.” The stranger was evidently making no attempt at escape; indeed, before long, she lost the wind altogether, though we carried it on till we got within about a mile of her. We then found that the boatswain was right; indeed, it is easy to know an American merchantman by her light-coloured hull, breadth of beam, low masts, square yards, and white canvas.

As we lay rolling away, a boat was lowered from the stranger, from whose peak the stars and stripes hung down, so that none but a practical eye could have made out the flag.

The boat came alongside, and a gentleman, in a broad-brimmed straw hat and jean jacket, stepped on board, with a cigar in his mouth, and walking aft with the greatest coolness, put out his hand to Captain Collyer, who, looking true dignity itself, was standing on the quarter-deck, with his officers round him. Not a little electrified was he by the address now made him.

“How goes it with you, skipper?” quoth the stranger, almost wringing his hand off. “You’ve a neat little craft under your feet, I guess, but we’ve got some who’d wallop her in pretty smart time. You’d like to know who I am? I’m Captain Nathan Noakes; I command that ship there, the Hickory Stick, and I should like to see her equal. She’s the craft to go, let me tell you. When the breeze comes, I’ll soon show you the pair of heels she’s got. We’ll run away from you like greased lightning, I guess.”

“She looks a fine vessel, sir,” said Captain Collyer, too polite to turn away, as some men I have known might have done.

“She is, sir,” said the American master with emphasis.

“I calculate she’d sail twice round the world while you was going once; but don’t rile, now, at what I say—you can’t help it, you know. Come, take a cigar—they’re real Havanna.”

“Thank you, sir, I do not smoke,” said our captain with naturally increasing stiffness, “nor is it customary, I must observe, for any one to do so on the quarter-deck of his Britannic Majesty’s ships.”

“Ah! that’s the difference between slavery and freedom,” answered the stranger, with most amusing effrontery, lighting another cigar as he spoke. “You serve the tyrant King George. I serve myself, and no one else, and I like my master best of the two; but I pity you—you can’t help it.”

Some of the officers were very indignant at the impudence of the Yankee captain; others were highly amused, and I believe Captain Collyer was, for he turned away at last to hide his laughter. Nothing, however, seemed to abash the skipper.

“Well, you Britishers will be inclined to deal, I guess,” he observed; and, without waiting for an answer, ordered the people in his boat to send up some cases of claret and boxes of oranges which he had brought. A whip was sent down, and they were soon had on deck, and I must say we were not sorry to make a deal with him—that is to say, the captain and gun-room officers took the claret, and the midshipmen the oranges.

“Well, I guess you’ve got them dirt cheap,” observed the Yankee skipper, as he pocketed the money. “But mind now, I don’t warrant them all sound.”

Had he made the remark before we bought them, we might have thanked him for his honesty. On opening the cases we found that more than one half were rotten, and that the rest would not keep many days. That, of course, was the reason he had sold them.

He finished his cigar while he went on talking much in the same strain as he had done at first, and then coolly proposed inspecting the ship. As there was no objection to his so doing, he was allowed to go round the decks, when he might have counted thirty-six guns, and as fine a looking crew as ever stepped the deck of a man-of-war. At length Captain Nathan Noakes returned on board the Hickory Stick. Afterwards, when I repeated to the boatswain the remarks of Captain Noakes, his observation was—

“I cannot stand those Yankees—they do exaggerate so terribly. One cannot depend on a word they say.”

I made no reply, for it struck me that Mr Johnson himself did at times, as he would have said, rather overstate facts. I made the remark to Perigal.

“Well, boy, the boatswain is like most of us,” he answered; “we don’t see our own faults. I suspect no man would be more ready than he would to grow angry should his veracity be called in question.”

“But those stories of his own adventures are very amusing,” said I.

“Very,” said Perigal. “And as long as he confines himself to them no great harm is done; but if a man once gets into the habit of departing from the truth for the sake of amusing his hearers, he may not stop there, and will, very likely, tell a falsehood of a different character whenever it may suit his convenience to do so.”

The sun when setting indicated fine weather. During the night there was a light breeze, scarcely sufficient to send our heavy frigate through the water. When day dawned, however, our Yankee friend, we discovered, had managed to slip away, and was hull down to the south-west.

In the same direction another ship was seen, with which it was considered probable that the Yankee had communicated. The stranger looked suspicious—a heavy ship—and certainly a man-of-war. All hands in consequence set to work to whistle for a breeze, and to our infinite satisfaction it came very soon, confirming most on board in their belief as to the efficacy of the operation. Sail was then made, and we steered for the stranger. She was soon pronounced to be a powerful frigate, a worthy match for the Doris, and so with light hearts we cleared for action, not doubting that we should take her, whatever her size or the number of her guns. Our only fear was that she might run away. To prevent this, our captain, who was up to all sorts of tricks to deceive an enemy, had arranged a mode of disguising the ship. By means of some black painted canvas let down over the main-deck ports, she was made to look like a corvette, or flush-decked vessel. Captain Collyer, we heard, had before taken in and taken several vessels in this way, and we hoped now to be as fortunate.

At an earlier hour than usual we piped to breakfast, that we might not fight on empty stomachs, and I may safely say that the prospect of a fierce contest damped no one’s appetite. For my own part I never made a better meal in my life. I hurried, however, very soon again on deck, spy-glass in hand. Looking through it, there was no longer any doubt as to the character of the stranger. There she lay, standing under easy sail, and evidently waiting our approach. Just as I got on deck she fired a gun to windward, and the French ensign flew out from her peak.

As we drew nearer we could count twenty-two ports on a side. She thus carried many more guns than we did, and had probably a much larger crew. These odds were highly satisfactory. We had no fear about the issue of the combat; our only dread was that she might escape us. Our captain determined to do his best to prevent this. He was not a man given to make long speeches, but as soon as everything was ready for battle, he called the men on deck.

“My lads,” he said, “there’s a ship somewhat bigger than we are, and maybe there are more men on board; but they’re only Frenchmen. You can take her if you try, and I know you will. I intend to engage her to leeward, that she may not escape us. You’ll do your duty like British seamen, and that’s all I want of you.”

This pithy speech was received with three hearty cheers, a good prognostic of victory.

The determination of the captain to engage a more powerful antagonist to leeward was very brave, for it was the least advantageous position for fighting. The reason of the Frenchman’s boldness in waiting for us was clearly that he supposed the Doris to be much smaller than she really was. But then how was it that the Yankee skipper should not have told him the truth. They had certainly communicated. We had only just before seen his royals dipping beneath the horizon. However, we hadn’t time to think of that or anything else, before a shot from the enemy came whistling through our sails. Several followed in rapid succession. We were keeping away so as to cross her stern, and rake her with a broadside, and then to haul up again on her beam. To avoid this she also kept away, and began to pepper us rather more than was pleasant. Her captain had clearly determined that we should not get to leeward.

“She must have it as she wishes,” cried Captain Collyer. “Give it her, my lads.”

At that moment the canvas which had concealed our main-deck guns was triced up, and in right good earnest we poured our whole broadside into our opponent. The unexpected salute must have staggered her, and now she too hauled up, and, discovering that she had not got a baby to play with, applied herself in earnest to the combat, and we ran on blazing away at each other nearly yard-arm to yard-arm.

“This is what I like,” exclaimed Mr Johnson, rubbing his hands. “This is a good honest stand-up fight; we know what the enemy’s about, and he knows what we are about, and I shall be very much surprised if he does not find out before long that we are giving him a tremendous good licking.”

I would not quite agree with the boatswain, for the enemy’s shot was crashing about us with terrific effect. The French frigate also sailed much faster than we did, and soon shot ahead of us; and still further to prevent us from attaining our object, she wore round and came on to the other tack, giving us a fresh broadside as she did so. The manoeuvre succeeded so well, that it was repeated again and again. This enraged our crew, several of whom were struck down; the wounded were at once carried below, the dead were drawn out of the way; they were not yet numerous enough to throw overboard. I looked to see how my particular friends were getting on. George Grey had a division of guns under him, and was behaving like the young hero he was. Toby Bluff was busily employed in bringing up powder, and looking as totally unconcerned about everything else as if this was the most important work to be done. Having brought up his tub, he sat himself down on it, determined that not a spark should get in if he could help it. In like manner the captain was doing his duty to the best of his power, and so was every officer and man in the ship. Mr Lukyn, the first-lieutenant, had chosen me to act as his aide-de-camp, to carry orders that he might have to send to any part of the ship; in that way I was kept constantly moving about, and it appeared to me that I escaped many shots which might otherwise have hit me. Once a shot knocked some hammocks out of the hammock nettings, and grazed the mainmast just as I had passed it, and another took off the head of the boatswain’s mate, just as he was raising his hand to signify that he understood an order I had given him. I consequently walked on till I met the boatswain, and delivered the order to him that he might see it executed. “This will never do, Lukyn,” I heard the captain say. “We must get alongside her again.” The sails were accordingly trimmed, and we ran right down on the enemy, pouring into her as we did so a fire of round-shot, grape, and musketry, but, I must own, getting as much in return, and having our rigging terribly cut about. The French ship had at the time little way on her, so we shot ahead; both of us, after exchanging a couple of broadsides, falling off before the wind. We had now separated considerably. The hands were sent aloft to knot and splice the rigging, to enable us to work the ship, which we otherwise could not do. While we were thus employed, the French frigate hauled up, and, passing our stern diagonally, raked us, but at too great a distance to do us much damage. Every officer and man was exerting himself to renew the fight, when once more the French ship bore up, and showed that she was going again to pass under our stern.

“Down, with your faces on the deck, all of you, my lads,” shouted the captain, the order being repeated by the other officers. I observed, however, that both he and Mr Lukyn stood upright. The expected shower came, the enemy passing within pistol shot. I looked up anxiously to ascertain if either of my superiors was hurt. There they stood as calm as before, but Mr Lukyn’s hat had been knocked off, and two bullets had passed through the sleeve of his coat.

“That was a narrow shave,” observed the captain, as Mr Lukyn stooped down and picked up his hat. Had the men been standing up, great numbers, probably, would have been killed or wounded. The enemy after this hauled up on the larboard tack, and was about to pour her starboard broadside into us, when, our crew springing to their feet, our sails were thrown back, and the French frigate’s larboard bow came directly on to our starboard quarter. As she did so, the boatswain with his mates sprang aft, and in a moment it seemed that the enemy’s bowsprit, or rather jib-boom, was lashed to our mizen-rigging, in spite of a heavy rattling fire of musketry, kept up on them by the French marines on their forecastle. A body of our marines came aft to reply to them, and numbers were dropping on both sides. While this was going forward, I saw a French officer walking along the bowsprit with a musket in his hand. He rested it on the stay, and was taking a deliberate aim at Captain Collyer, who stood, not observing this, encouraging the men to work the after guns. At that instant a marine who had just loaded his musket was shot dead. I seized it as he fell, and in the impulse of the moment, dropping on my knee, raised it to my shoulder and fired at the Frenchman on the bowsprit who at the same time fired. A ball passed through the captain’s hat—he turned his head and observed that I had just fired, and saw also the Frenchman falling headlong into the water.

“Thank you, Mr Merry, you have saved my life,” he said, turning a look of approval on me; but there was no time for more. Everything I have described passed like a flash of lightning. All was now smoke and noise, the men straining at the gun-tackles, sponging and loading; the marines firing and stooping down, as they had been ordered, to load, to avoid the bullets of the French marines who were so much above them. Meantime the French had been mustering on deck, and suddenly appearing on their forecastle, they rushed along the bowsprit, and were leaping down on our hammock nettings, the headmost reaching the deck.

“Boarders, repel boarders!” shouted Mr Bryan; and he with one or two mates, followed by Jonathan Johnson, with his doughty cutlass, hurried aft to meet them. What had become of the captain and Mr Lukyn I could not tell. Fierce was the encounter, for the French seamen fought desperately, and their marines kept blazing away faster than ever. Mr Bryan and the French officer leading the boarders met,—their blades flashed rapidly for a few seconds, and the Frenchman fell mortally wounded. Mr Johnson was in his glory: the first time he led on his followers, however, the Frenchmen withstood him for some seconds, and, more of them pouring down on the deck, he was driven back a foot or two, but it was only for a moment. With a loud shout, he made a furious dash at the boarders: Mr Bryan, with several mates and midshipmen, of whom I was one, seconded by our gallant purser, who with a brace of pistols in his belt and a sharp cutlass in his hand, instead of remaining below, had come on deck to share the danger and aid in the fight; and of the whole number of the enemy who had reached the deck of the Doris, not one quarter escaped on board their own ship unwounded, and very nearly half were killed outright, or were taken prisoners. We, however, did not get off scathless. The enemy still continued to annoy us with their foremost guns; while the shot from their muskets rattled thickly round our heads, our main royal-mast and main-topsail yard had been shot away, and the gaff was so severely wounded, that when the Frenchmen fell aboard us, it dropped over his deck. At this moment we saw some of the crew tear our ensign from the gaff and carry it aft as a trophy; there was not a man in our ship who would not have gladly rushed aboard the enemy to recover it.

“It will never do to be without a flag,” said I to Grey. “I propose we go aloft and nail a couple to the mast.”

“With all my heart,” he answered; and he getting a boat’s ensign and I a union-jack from the signal locker, we ran aloft with them before any one saw what we were about. We agreed, however, that they would look best at each end of the cross-jack, and accordingly, quick as lightning, we lashed them there. The Frenchmen might certainly have picked us off, but, as many of their nation have much chivalry in their composition, when they saw that we were young midshipmen, and what we were about, I suspect refrained from firing. At all events, we accomplished our dangerous exploit, and returned on deck. Scarcely had we reached it, and stood amid the shower of bullets whistling along it, than, to my great sorrow, I saw Grey fall; he uttered no cry; I ran towards him to lift him up; he said that he was not badly hurt, but he fainted, and Mr Bryan ordered him at once to be carried below. Directly afterwards Mr Bryan fell; he, however, raised himself on his arm, and with the help of two seamen, in a short time stood up, and refused to leave the deck. Mr Collman, our brave purser, tried to persuade him to go below.

“Let the surgeon look to you, and if he thinks you are fit you can return.”

“No, no; thank you, Collman,” he answered. “I don’t know what may happen while I’m away. Time enough to go to the doctor when we’ve thrashed the Frenchmen.”

It was my duty, as I said, to stay by the first-lieutenant. I was inquiring for him, when I saw a number of the French marines peppering away at the after ports in the captain’s cabin. I instantly bethought me that the captain and Mr Lukyn must be there, and accordingly hurried to the main-deck.

Our captain had, without asking leave of the dock yard authorities, cut two ports in his cabin on each side next the quarter, in readiness for the very contingency which had now occurred. Our carpenter had, however, stupidly forgotten to drive in ring bolts to work the guns, while the gunner had not prepared tackles of sufficient length to haul the aftermost guns from the side to the new ports.

When I reached the cabin, the captain and first and third lieutenants, and the gunner and carpenter, and other officers and men, were working away to find means to train aft a gun. The marines, however, stationed along the larboard gangway of the enemy had found them out, and as I reached the cabin it seemed as if a hailstorm was playing into it, and the bulkheads were literally riddled with bullets. Several men lay dead about the decks, and every now and then another sank down wounded, while many were labouring away with the blood flowing from their sides or limbs. I ran in and asked Mr Lukyn if he wanted me.

“No, no, Merry; go out of this, boy,” he answered kindly.

At that time it was certainly the part of the ship suffering most. As I was going out I passed Mr Downton, our third lieutenant. He was reeving a rope through a block to form a tackle, when a shot struck him in the head. He fell forward in the way of the gun. He was dragged unceremoniously out of it by the legs, and the men cheered as they hauled it aft. I ran to help poor Mr Downton. I lifted him up. He gave a look so full of pain and woe in my face that I would gladly have shut it out, and then with a deep sigh breathed his last. I never felt so sad before. He was a good kind officer, and I liked him very much. I now, I own, began to think that we were getting the worst of it, and should have to strike our colours, or go down with them flying. Just then the gun, double shotted, was run out aft, and fired right into the enemy’s bows. Our men’s cheers drowned the shrieks and cries which followed from the French ship. Again the gun was loaded and fired with the same terrific effect. The French marines continued blazing away at the people in the cabin, but were at length driven from the gangway by the hot fire of our jollies and small-armed men. The latter had also to direct their attention to a carronade which the enemy had got on his forecastle, and which might have done us a vast deal of mischief, but such a shower of musket balls whistled round it the instant a Frenchman got near, that none would venture to work it.

As Mr Lukyn had ordered me out of the cabin when I found that I could be of no use to Mr Downton, I went on deck again. The bullets were whistling along the deck as thick as hailstones. This sort of work would have continued probably till we had treated each other like the Kilkenny cats, or till the French ship had given in, when her jib-boom gave way, and she forged ahead. As she did so, our next aftermost gun was manned and fired, cutting away her head rails, and, what was of greater consequence, the gammoning of her bowsprit.

“Hurrah, lads! the day’s ours,” shouted Mr Collman; “over to the starboard guns.”

The master was on the main-deck with the captain.

“Now the battle’s going to begin in earnest, Mr Merry,” observed the boatswain, near whom I found myself.

Thought I to myself, “It has been going on in pretty serious earnest for the last two hours or more.”

Now both frigates, running on yard-arm to yard-arm, fired their guns in succession as they could be brought to bear; but our people, from constant practice, tossed our guns in and out twice as rapidly as the Frenchmen. This soon told; the enemy’s main-topmast was shot away, the foremast was badly wounded, several of her ports were knocked into one, and instead of the cloud of canvas which lately swelled proudly to the breeze, her sails were riddled, and, with rope ends, hung useless from every shattered yard. In some respects we were not much better off, and our rigging was so cut about that the ship was no longer manageable. Taking advantage of her greater speed, our antagonist drew ahead till she got out of gun-shot, greatly to the rage and annoyance of the crew, who bestowed on her three loud groans, and many an anathema on finding that she had escaped them.

It now came on calm, and she could not get far off. Not a moment, however, was lost before all hands were set to work to repair damages; never was rigging more rapidly knotted and spliced. My eye was seldom off our enemy. A slight breeze had again sprung up, when suddenly I saw her foremast rock, it seemed, and over it went with a crash, carrying a number of her crew on it into the water. A loud cheer burst from our men, as they saw what had occurred, and they redoubled their efforts to get the Doris ready to renew the action. By noon we had knotted and spliced all the standing rigging, rove new braces, and had got the ship under perfect command, while the freshening breeze carried us rapidly up towards our opponent.

The heat of the sun and our exertions made us feel very hot, and now the Yankee’s oranges came into requisition. Both midshipmen and men might be seen sucking them heartily, as we once more stood into action. The enemy seemed still disposed to defend himself as we stood across his stern, so that he could bring no guns to bear on us. He, however, trusting to the effect his large body of marines might produce, fired a rattling volley as we were about to pour in our broadside. Spellman and I were at the moment standing near the boatswain. As the French marines fired, I felt a sharp burning pang in my shoulder, which made me jump on one side, while I saw Spellman’s orange flying away, and, putting up both his hands, he cried out, “Oh, my orange! my orange!—and they have riddled my cheeks, the blackguards.”

I could not help laughing at his exclamation and face of astonishment, in spite of the sickness which was creeping over me.

“It’s lucky it was not through your head, Mr Spellman,” observed the boatswain, picking up the orange and handing it to him, but he was in no way inclined to suck it, for his mouth was full of blood, which he began vehemently spluttering out over the deck.

Now our frigate sent forth a roaring broadside; the enemy’s ship was for an instant shrouded in smoke. As it cleared away, down came the French ensign, and an officer was seen to spring on to the taffrail, and, with the politest of bows, signify that they had struck. Loud, hearty cheers was the answer returned by our brave fellows, who by sheer hard fighting, and rapid working of their guns, had achieved, in little more than three hours, a victory over a foe so vastly superior. Those cheers, though pleasant sounds to our ears, must have been very much the contrary to our enemies.

Then, and not till then, did Mr Bryan consent to be carried below. I have no personal knowledge of what happened after this, for even before the cheering had ceased, I should have sunk fainting on the deck, had not the boatswain caught me. When I came to myself, I was undressed in my hammock, and, except a pain and stiffness in my shoulder, there was nothing, I thought, very much the matter with me, though when I tried to rise I found that to do so was out of the question. Spellman and Grey were in their hammocks close to me. Though Spellman was least seriously hurt of either of us, his appearance, from having his head bound up with two huge plasters over his cheeks, was by far the most lugubrious, as he sat up and looked first at Grey, and then at me, and said, “Well, I hope you like it.”

“Thank you, Miss Susan,” said I. “We might be worse off, but we shan’t have to go whistling through the world in future as you will, and if ever you fall into the hands of savages they’ll put a rope through your cheeks and drag you along like a tame bear.”

“You don’t think so, Merry, I’m sure,” he answered, in a tone of alarm, which showed that he vividly pictured the possibility of such an occurrence; “do you, Grey?”

Poor Grey was too weak to say much, but he gave Spellman very little encouragement to hope for the best, and when Macquoid visited us, entering into the joke, he said nothing to remove his apprehensions.

My chief anxiety was now about Toby Bluff, and I was very glad to find that he had not been hurt. At last, when he came to me, I had some difficulty in quieting his apprehensions, and in persuading him that it was a very fine thing to be wounded, and that I should have lots of honour and glory, and be made more of when I got home than I had ever been before in my life, and that he would share in it without having had the disagreeable ceremony to go through of being wounded.

“As to the glory, and all that sort of thing, I’d as lief have let it alone, if it was to cost a bullet through me, Muster Merry,” he answered. “But I’d have been main glad if the mounseers had just shot me instead of you. It wouldn’t have done me no harm to matter.”

“He is a faithful fellow, certainly,” I thought, “but he has no chivalry in his composition.”

From the jabbering we heard around us, we found that the French prisoners had been brought on board, and Macquoid told us that every man who could be spared was employed in repairing the prize. Mr Lukyn had gone to take command of her, with Perigal as his second in command, and I was very glad to find that the old mate was unhurt.

Our prize was the Aigle. She carried six guns more than we had, and they were of heavier calibre. She was nearly three hundred tons larger, and her crew numbered a hundred men more than we had. We had beaten her because our men were better gunners, and had fired half as rapidly again as had her crew. We had lost fourteen killed and thirty wounded, and she thirty-four killed and sixty wounded.

“Ah! young gentlemen,” said Mr Johnson, who in the intervals of his labour paid us a visit, “it was as pretty a stand-up fight and as well won a battle as I ever heard of, or you’ll ever see probably.”

At length both frigates were refitted, and, as we understood, steering a course for old England. We three midshipmen found it rather dull work staying in our hammocks all day, as it was too dark to read, though we managed to sleep, as only midshipmen can sleep, and we agreed that we would get the boatswain, when he had leisure, to come and sit by us to go on with his history. We succeeded, and, seated on a bucket, he began:—

“Well, young gentlemen, flesh and blood wants some rest, though I can do more than most men in the way of work, and instead of taking a doze in my cabin I’ll indulge you, and the service shall not suffer. Ah, ah! let me see:—I was telling you of my childhood. I very soon grew up. I didn’t take long to do that. By the time I was fifteen I knew a thing or two, and there wasn’t a seaman aboard my father’s ship who could beat me at anything.”

“At pulling the long bow especially,” said a deep voice from one of the hammocks.

“Who spoke?” inquired Mr Johnson, turning round sharply. “I’ll tell you what, whoever you are, a man may shoot with a long bow, or a man may shoot with a short bow; but for my part I say a man has a right to use the weapon which suits him best; and so, Mr Bow-wo-wo, just bowse taut that jaw-tackle of yours, and don’t let’s hear any more of your pertinent remarks, I’ll thank ye, my bo.” Mr Johnson then continued, “At last, said my father one day to me—‘Jonathan, you are big enough and strong enough to go without leading strings, and the sooner a lad does that the better.’

“‘Yes, father, I am,’ said I, and I was, for I was six feet two inches high, and could knock over an ox with my fist, as I’d done many a time to save the butcher trouble.

“‘You must look out for a ship, my son,’ said my father.

“‘I will,’ said I, and I did. I shipped on board a Greenland whaler, the Blazylight, and sailed the next day for the North Pole. We had a fine run to our fishing ground, and soon began to kill our whales at a great rate. It was the sort of sport which just suited me. I never could stand angling for minnows; but whale-fishing is a very different sort of work, I guess.

“We had got a full ship, and were thinking of turning south, when we were becalmed near the land, and as the ship could not move, I, with four or five more, started on an expedition to shoot polar bears, which were pretty common thereabouts. We had got a good way from the ship, when a thick fog—not an unfrequent visitor to those parts—came on. I had a pocket-compass with me, and so I wasn’t a bit alarmed. However, when we tried to find the old Blazylight again, I must confess we could not. We wandered about till all my companions died from sheer fright and fatigue; and I should have died, too, if I had given in; but I wouldn’t do that; so I collected all my shipmates’ ammunition, and set to work to kill and pot bears. I lived like a prince, as far as quantity was concerned, but I got rather tired of bear’s flesh at last. I rubbed myself over with the grease, and was soon covered from head to foot with a hide of the finest wool, so that I didn’t feel the cold a bit. It was cold, however, at times, with a vengeance. Frequently the frost was so severe, that it froze up even the very air, and if I had not melted it every now and then, by firing off my gun, I should have died for want of breath; and often it wasn’t possible to move without cutting a way for myself through the atmosphere with my axe. I suspected, as I afterwards found to be the case, that what we had taken, to be land, was in reality an unusually large field of ice, with icebergs imbedded in it, and that we had been carried by some unknown current imperceptibly towards the north for a considerable distance. Now, when we had left the ship, we had kept to the westward. When we wished to return, we had steered east by the pocket-compass I told you of. On, and on, and on, I kept on the same course. What do you think I was doing? Why I was walking round and round the North Pole, and should have kept on walking till now, for nothing would have made me give in—I promise you that wasn’t my way—had I not come upon the print of my own footsteps in the snow. This made me aware of my error; so I sat down to consider how it could have happened, and at last the truth flashed on my mind. You see it was a very natural mistake I had made, for the needle of my compass was all the time pointing to the North Pole, just as a capstan-bar does to the capstan, while I was running round at the other end of it. I was rather puzzled to know what to do, for had I walked south, not having the means of ascertaining my longitude, I might, I thought, find myself on the other side of the globe, somewhere, perhaps near Behring’s Straits, leading into the Sea of Kamtschatka, where there would be little chance of my falling in with a ship.

“I had sat cogitating for some time, and was beginning to get rather chilly, when it occurred to me that I might render a great service to science, by going chock up to the North Pole, and ascertaining of what it is composed. I instantly rose from my seat, put my compass down to strike the course I was to take, fired off my gun to clear myself a path through the frozen atmosphere, secured my stock of bear’s flesh on my back for provisions, and manfully set forward, with my face away from all human beings.”

“But how could you see, Mr Johnson?” asked Grey. “I always thought it was dark in those regions during winter!”

“See! why perfectly well,” answered the boatswain promptly. “If the stars and moon happened not to be shining, there was always the aurora borealis blazing up, like a great fire, right ahead of me. You have seen the northern lights on a winter’s night, but they are a very different affair up there to what they appear so far south. If it wasn’t for them, in my opinion, there would be no living in those regions, but by their warmth they keep the atmosphere round them in a very pleasant state. Well, on I walked, sleeping at night in the huts I made in the snow, leaving a small hole open to breathe through; and it was not disagreeably cold, owing to the warm whiffs which came every now and then from the Pole.

“After progressing thus for several days, I observed an extraordinary phenomenon. Whenever I took my compass out in my hand, I felt that the instrument had a tendency to move directly before me. This tendency increased gradually as I proceeded, till, one morning, when I put it down as usual to mark my course before starting, to my infinite surprise, and I may say dismay, away it glided over the snow, increasing in rapidity of motion as it proceeded.

“Horrified at the reflection of what might be the consequence should I lose it, I rushed forward, and, in my eagerness to grasp my treasure, fell prostrate on my face, just, happily, as my fingers clutched it.

“This wonderful occurrence (for I own that it did surprise even me, and I could not have believed it had another man told it me) brought me to a stand-still, and compelled me to form a new plan for my future proceedings. I was unwilling to give up the enterprise, though I saw the full risk I was running; but dangers never daunted me,—I should think not,—and I determined at every hazard to proceed. I accordingly retraced my steps a day’s journey, when I found the attractive powers of the Pole of less force; and then erecting a lofty pyramid of snow, I placed my compass on the summit, and carefully covered it. On the top of all I fastened a red pocket-handkerchief, secured to a walking-stick, in order to make the object still more conspicuous. Having performed this work, I lay down in a snow hut to rest, and the next morning again set forward towards the Pole.”

The boatswain stopped to clear his throat.

“That is very interesting, Mr Johnson,” said Grey. “Do go on.”

“I’ll indulge you, young gentlemen—I’ll indulge you; and as I look upon what I am going to tell you as the most interesting part of my adventures, no one must interrupt me. The king on his throne mustn’t and sha’n’t—till I have finished my authentic and veracious narrative.”

“Mr Johnson! Mr Johnson! the captain wants you—sharp!” shouted Toby Bluff, running along the deck. Mr Johnson gave a grunt, and, springing from his seat, disappeared up the hatchway.

Chapter Six.

I had a good constitution which had not been impaired by any excess, and as Mr Perigal and the other oldsters of the mess kept strictly to the law by which they had awarded to themselves two-thirds of the youngsters’ grog, my blood was not inflamed by having imbibed spirituous liquors. I therefore, under Macquoid’s judicious care, very rapidly recovered from the effects of my wound. In a few days I could have got up and run about, but as poor Grey, who was much more hurt than I had been, was too weak to leave his hammock, I promised to remain in mine to keep him company. When Macquoid came to me, therefore, one day and told me that I might dress and go on deck, I replied in a very faint voice, that I had not strength to move, and groaned a great deal when he moved me to dress my wound.

“Some internal injury, I fear,” he observed, “I must see to it.”

He then turned to Spellman, to dress his cheeks. He groaned exactly in the way I had done, and spoke in the same faint tone, declaring his inability to rise.

“Ah, poor fellow, some internal injury, I fear; I must see to it,” remarked the assistant-surgeon in the same tone, as he left us.

Miss Susan, thinking that he had quitted the sick bay, sat up in his hammock, and made a well-known and expressive signal to me with his thumb to his nose, which Macquoid, who happened at that moment to turn his head, could not have failed to observe.

“Miss Susan, you donkey, you have spoilt all. We are found out,” I exclaimed. “Macquoid saw your sign to me.”

Spellman declared that did not signify; that he would explain how it happened to Macquoid, and assure him that the gesture was one which he frequently made when suffering from a paroxysm of pain.

I told him that he had better say nothing of the sort, and that he would only make matters worse, but he persisted that he knew better than I did, and told me to hold my tongue. Of course it was very wrong to sham to be worse than I was, but I persuaded myself that it was not like actual malingering, as I had a foundation for my assertion, and really did not feel as if I could walk. Still I may as well say here, that though I have ever been through life merry by nature, as well as by name, and have loved joking as much as any man, I have learned to hate and detest falsehood. It is un-Christian like in the first place, and thoroughly low and ungentlemanly in the second. I say this, lest in consequence of my having introduced the wonderful adventures of my shipmate, Mr Johnson, it may be considered that I think lightly of the importance of speaking the truth. To do Jonathan justice he took ample care that his yarns should never for a moment deceive the most simple-minded or credulous of his hearers. At that time, however, I did not see things as clearly as I did when I grew older, and I was vexed at having tried to deceive Macquoid, more from the fear of being found out than from any refined sense of shame. He, however, when he came again in the evening, treated us exactly as if we were still very weak, and when Spellman persisted in talking of the odd position into which his hands twisted themselves when he was in pain, he seemed to take it all in, and agreed with him, that such was a very natural and common occurrence. I had my doubts, however, of Macquoid’s sincerity, and having had some experience of his mode of treatment on a former occasion, resolved to be very much better the next visit he paid us. I said nothing to Spellman, whose spirits rose immediately.

“I told you so,” he exclaimed, when Macquoid was gone. “I told you I should humbug Johnny Sawbones.”

“Now if we could but get the boatswain to come to us, and to go on with his yarns, we should be all right and jolly,” observed Grey.

I agreed with him, and soon afterwards Toby Bluff coming to see me, which the faithful fellow did as often as he could during the day, I sent him to invite Mr Johnson to pay us a visit, as he would have more leisure then than at any other time of the day. Nothing loth, the boatswain soon made his appearance.

“And so, young gentlemen, you want to hear more of my wonderful, not to say veracious, narratives,” he observed, while a pleasant smile irradiated his features. “Well, I hold that the use of a man’s legs is to move about the world, the use of his eyes is to see all that is to be seen, as he does move about, and the use of his tongue to describe all that he has seen, and so I’ll use mine to good purpose, and indulge you, but, as I’ve said before, I say again, I will have no one doubt my word. If there’s any cavilling, I’ll shut up as close as an oyster when he’s had his dinner, and, having made this preliminary observation, here goes. Let me recollect, where had I got to?” Mr Johnson said this while taking his usual seat on a bucket, between our hammocks, his huge legs stretched out along the deck, and his big head sticking up, so that his eagle eyes could glance round above them.

“I remember,—I was taking a walk to the North Pole. I did not think that I could be many days’ journey from it. But that did not matter. The air was so bracing that I could take any amount of exercise without fatigue, and was therefore able to walk all day, sitting down merely for convenience sake when I was enjoying my dinner off the preserved bear. I of course could not cut the flesh with my knife, as it was frozen as hard as a rock. I was therefore obliged to chop it into mouthfuls with my hatchet, and even when between my teeth it was some time before it would thaw, but then you see, as I had nobody to talk to, I had plenty of time for mastication, and it was undoubtedly partly to this circumstance that I kept my health all the time. There is nothing so bad as bolting one’s food, except going without it. By the way, I have had to do that more than once for several weeks together. Once for a whole month I had nothing to eat but some round-shot and bullet moulds, and an old jackass, which was washed up on the beach, after being well pickled by the salt water, but that has nothing to do with my present story. I wish that I had kept a diary of my proceedings during my northern ramble. It would have proved highly interesting to Sir Joseph Banks, and other scientific people, but, as it happens, I have my memory alone to which I can trust, though that, however, never deceives me. Well, after leaving my flagstaff I travelled on, neither turning to the right hand nor to the left, and it is wonderful what a straight course I kept, considering the difficulty there is in finding one’s way over a trackless plain without a compass. If I had had too much grog aboard, I could not have done it, and it’s a strong argument in favour of keeping sober on all occasions, but more especially when any work is to be done. I slept at night, as before, in a hole in the snow, but never suffered from cold; this was partly on account of the quantity of bear’s grease I swallowed, which served to keep the lamp of life alive, and also because every mile I advanced I found the atmosphere growing warmer, and the Northern Lights brighter and brighter. There could be no doubt about it; those lights were the cause of the unexpected warmth I encountered; so warm, indeed, did the air become, that I am certain many a man would have turned back for fear of being roasted alive, but I was not to be daunted. Onward I went till I got within less than a mile of one of the biggest fires I ever saw. The effect was grand and beautiful in the extreme. You might suppose yourself looking at a city fifty times as large as London, and every house in it as big as Saint Paul’s, and every part of it blazing away at the same time, and even then you would have no conception of the magnificence of the scene which met my view, as I beheld the source of those far-famed Northern Lights, the Aurora Borealis, as the learned people call them.

“The flames, you must know, were not of that bright hot colour which issue from a furnace, but were of a delicate pale red, flickering and playing about in the most curious way imaginable, sometimes blazing up to the height of a mile or so, and then sinking down to a few hundred feet. The heat at the distance I was then from it was rather pleasant than oppressive; it had not even melted the snow on the ground, but of course that was so hard frozen, that it would have required a very warm fire to have made any impression on it. Well, as I advanced I began to lick my chops at the thoughts of the hot dinner I intended to enjoy—for, after all, however philosophical a man may be, his appetite, if he is hungry, must be satisfied before he is fit for anything—when I beheld a number of moving objects, scarcely distinguishable from the snow, encircling the fire. I could not make out at first what they were, but on approaching still nearer, I discovered the truth, though I could scarcely believe my eyes, for there, sitting up on their hams, were countless thousands of polar bears, warming their paws before the aurora borealis. It is a fact as true as anything I have been telling you, and at once fully accounted to my mind for the disappearance of bears from the arctic regions during the winter months, and fully refutes the popular idea, that they sit moping by themselves in caverns, employing their time in sucking their paws.

“Not liking the idea of losing my hot dinner, not to speak of the disappointment of not being able to say that I had been chock up to the North Pole, I determined to venture among them.”

“It wouldn’t give you much concern to say you had been there, at all events, even if you hadn’t,” growled out a voice from one of the hammocks.

“Sir!” exclaimed the boatswain very sternly, “I would have you to know that I scorn to exaggerate the truth, or to make an assertion which is not in strict accordance with the facts. If you doubt my words, stop your ears or go to sleep, or I’ll shut up altogether.”

“Oh no, no, do go on, Mr Johnson,” exclaimed several voices at the same moment. “We don’t doubt a word you’re saying.”

“Well, that’s right and proper,” said the boatswain, much appeased. “If I do draw on my imagination at any time, it is because it is the only bank I know of which would not dishonour my drafts, as many a gentleman who lives by his wits would have to confess, if he spoke the truth. Well, I resolved to venture on, and soon got up near enough to see that the bears were sitting as close as they could pack, in a large circle round the real, veritable North Pole, and that those who were moving were merely stragglers, who could not find room to squat down with the rest. I was standing contemplating the strange scene, when an immensely big fellow, catching sight of me, came waddling up on his hind legs, and growling terrifically with anger. ‘This is inhospitable conduct, Mr Bruin, let me observe,’ I shouted out, but he did not attend to me. I had my gun loaded in my hands, so, when he came within ten yards of me, I fired, and hit him on the eye. Over he rolled as dead as mutton, so it appeared, and I had just time to cut a steak out of his rump for dinner, when another rushed towards me. I loaded calmly, fired, and knocked him over, but this was a signal for fifty others to make a charge at me. I felt that, ready for a fight as I was, I could not hope to contend against such overwhelming numbers, so I did what any person, however brave, situated as I was would have done—I took to my heels and ran as hard as I could go. I never ran so fast in my life before, and good reason I had to put my best leg forward, for, in the course of a minute, there were a thousand bears at my heels, every one of them licking their jaws with the thoughts of dining off me. I must own that I did not like it. On I ran straight for my signal staff, never once looking behind me, for I could hear the bears growling as they followed full tilt; and so clearly are sounds conveyed over those vast expanses of snow, that they seemed close at my heels.

“By the time I had run for fully ten hours without stopping, I began to get rather out of breath, and almost to fear that I should not hold out much longer, when to my great satisfaction the growling grew less and less distinct, as the bears, dead beat, dropped off one after the other, till at last, turning my head, I found that I was alone. I cannot express how comfortable this made me feel, so I sat down for half an hour to recover my breath, and to eat my dinner, which was a cold instead of the hot one I expected to enjoy.

“When I got up again, what was my surprise to see my flagstaff in the distance, not two miles ahead, and it was only then I discovered how very fast I must have run, for I had come back in a few hours a distance which it had before taken me a week to perform. I have heard of fear giving wings to the feet, but though I won’t allow that I was afraid, I must have flown along at a good pace. Well, I got up to my flagstaff, and found my compass all right, though as soon as it was clear of the snow it had a slight inclination to move northward; and so, to avoid risk, I stowed it away carefully in my pocket. The handkerchief was frozen as stiff as a board, and I had some difficulty in folding it up for other purposes. I was glad also to get back my walking-stick, which helped me wonderfully over the ground. Again I sat down. It was only now the real difficulties of my position burst on me, but difficulties never have and never shall daunt me. After a little consideration I determined to discover the spot where I had commenced making the circuit round the Pole. For several days I was unsuccessful; till at last I beheld a dark object on the snow. I ran towards it, and it proved to be, as I expected, the body of one of my shipmates, the last who had given in—a Shetlander—Murdoc Dew by name, as good a seaman as ever lived. I exchanged boots with him as mine were worn out with so much walking, and then, pushing on, I came upon the bodies of my other companions and the bears we had killed, by which I knew that I was steering a right course for the spot where I had left the ship. I calculated that had I gone south when I first thought of doing so, I should have got on shore somewhere to the eastward of Nova Zembla, and have had to travel right through Siberia and the whole of Europe before I could have got back to old England, which, considering that I had not a purse with me, nor a sixpence to put into it, would not have been pleasant.

“On I went till I got into the latitudes where icebergs are collected. They are, as is known, vast mountains of ice and snow, so that when I once got among them it was impossible to see any way ahead, and as the summer was coming on and their bases melted, they began to tumble about in so awful a way, that I fully expected to be crushed by them. My food, too, was almost expended, and Murdoc Dew’s boots gave symptoms of over use, so that at last I began to think that there might be a pleasanter situation than the one I was placed in, when one day, having climbed to the summit of the highest iceberg in the neighbourhood, I beheld a light blue smoke ascending in the distance. Taking the exact bearings of the spot, I slid down an almost perpendicular precipice, of three hundred feet at least, at an awful rate, and then ran on as fast as my legs would carry me, for after a solitude of eight months I longed to see my fellow-creatures, and hear again the human voice. On I went, but still to my disappointment no ship appeared in sight, till at last I saw in front of me a low round hut, evidently the habitation of Esquimaux—a people whose habits, manners, and appearance I was never much given to admire. I should observe that what with my bear-skin cloak and my long beard and hair, (I say it without any unbecoming humility) I did, probably, look rather an outlandish character.

“As I understood something of the Esquimaux lingo—indeed, there are few tongues I don’t know something about—I shouted loudly to attract their attention. On this, two men, dressed in skins, came out of the hut, and answered me in so extraordinary a dialect, that even I did not comprehend what they said. I then hailed them in Russian, but their answers were perfectly unintelligible. I next tried French, but they shook their heads, as was, I thought, but natural for Esquimaux who were not likely to have been sent to Paris for their education. I then spoke a little Spanish to them, but I was equally at a loss to understand their answers. Portuguese was as great a failure; even several of the languages of the North American Indians did not assist us in communicating our ideas to each other. I tried Hindostanee, Arabic, and Chinese, with as little effect. This was, indeed, provoking to a man who had not exchanged a word with a fellow-creature for so many months, till at last, losing temper, I exclaimed in English more to myself than to them:—

“‘Well, I wonder what language you do speak then?’

“‘English, to be sure,’ answered both the men in a breath, ‘and never spoke any other in our lives.’

“‘Are you, indeed, my countrymen?’ I cried, rushing forward and throwing myself into their arms, for by the tone of their voices I discovered that not only were they Englishmen, but my own former shipmates.

“They, of course, thinking that I had long been dead, had not recognised me; indeed I had some difficulty, as it was, in convincing them of my identity, and of the truth of the account I gave of my adventures since I left the ship. I was certainly an odd object, with a beard of so prodigious a length, that it not only reached the ground, but I had to tie it up as carters do their horses’ tails, to keep it out of the snow. My hair and eyebrows had increased in the same proportion, so that I was more like a wild beast than a man. This extraordinary exuberance I attribute entirely to my having lived so completely on bear’s flesh. When cut off it served to stuff a large sized pillow, which I afterwards gave to the President of the United States, who sleeps every night on it to this day.

“My old shipmates told me that they were the only survivors of the crew—that our ship had been nipped by two floes of ice with such violence that she was sent flying into the air full sixty feet, and that, when she came down again on the ice, she split into a thousand pieces, which went skating over the smooth surface for miles, and that, of course, the bones of every one on board were broken, but that they, having been sent ahead in a boat at the time, escaped.

“Now I do not wish to throw any discredit on my friends’ narrative, but remember that I will not and cannot vouch for the accuracy of any man’s statements except of my own.

“My friends, having got over their first surprise, invited me to enter their hut, where I must say I enjoyed a comfortable fire and a warm chop—though I burnt my mouth when eating the hot meat, accustomed as I had so long been to iced food. We washed down the flesh with some excellent rum, a few casks-full of which my shipmates had discovered near the scene of the catastrophe, in frozen forms, like jellies turned out of a tin, for the wood had been completely torn off when the ship went to pieces. When our repast was concluded we whiled away the time by narrating our adventures, and though you may have observed that I am not much given in general to talking, I confess I did feel a pleasure in letting my tongue run on. It moved rather stiffly at first for want of practice; but the hot food and spirits soon relaxed the muscles, and then it did move certainly. My only fear was that I should never get it to stop again. We talked on for twelve hours without ceasing, and, after a little sleep, went on again the whole of the next day.”

A loud guffaw from the occupant of a distant hammock made the boatswain stop short, and look round with an indignant glance.

“I should like to know, Mr Haugh! Haugh! Haugh! whether you are laughing at me, or at my veracious narrative? If at me, I have to remark that it is over well-bred, whoever you are, officer or man; if at my history, let me observe, all you have to do is to match it before you venture to turn it into fun. It may have been equalled. I don’t wish to rob any man of his laurels; but it has not been surpassed, and so Mr Haugh! Haugh! I’ve shut you up, and intend to shut up myself, too, for it’s time for me to go on deck and see what’s become of the ship, and that no one has walked away with her.”

Saying this, the boatswain rose from his tub, and with his huge head and shoulders bent down as he passed under the beams, he took his departure from among the hammocks. He had not been gone long before Toby Bluff made his appearance; and as he came up to me I fancied, from his countenance, that there must be something wrong with him.

“What is the matter, Bluff?” I asked.

“Why, sir, I thought Mr Johnson was here,” said he, without giving an answer to my question.

“But what if he is not?” said I.

“Why, Muster Merry, I wanted to see him very much before he went on deck,” he answered.

“On what account?” I asked, convinced that Toby had something to say which he, at all events, considered of importance, and I thought he might just as well tell me before he communicated it to the boatswain. He was Mr Johnson’s servant, it must be remembered.

“Why, sir, I don’t know whether I am right or wrong,” he whispered, coming close up to my hammock. “It’s just this, sir. We have got, you know, some three or four hundred French prisoners aboard, at all events many more than our own crew now numbers, as so many are away in the prize, and others wounded. Well, sir, as I have been dodging in and out among them, I have observed several of them in knots, talking and whispering together as if there was something brewing among them. Whenever I got near any of them they were silent, because they thought I might understand their lingo, though I don’t. I was sure there was something wrong. It might be they didn’t like their provisions or their grog, and were going to ask for something else, but, whatever it was, I made up my mind to find it out. At last I remembered that there is a boy aboard, Billy Cuff, sir, who was taken prisoner by the French, and lived in their country for ever so long, and he used to be very fond of coming out with French words, though he is not a bit fond of the French, for they killed his father and his brother, poor fellow. Thinks I to myself, if Billy has not got much wits he has got ears, and we’ll see what we two together can find out. So I told Billy, and I got him to come and stow himself away near where I knew the Frenchmen would soon collect, and sure enough, sir, from what Billy heard, they have made up their minds to try and take the ship. They caught Billy and me stealing away, and from their looks they would have pitched us overboard if they had dared, but we tried to seem innocent like, as if we didn’t think any harm, and they still fancy it’s all right. Now if any of them saw me going up to speak to the boatswain they might suspect that something was wrong, and be on their guard. I’ve done right, I hope, sir?”

“Indeed you have, Bluff,” said I, highly pleased at the intelligence and forethought he had shown. It proved that his wits were sharpening at a great rate, that in fact he had got the hay-seed out of his hair very rapidly.

I agreed with him that it would not do to let any of the Frenchmen see him talking to the boatswain, because, if they were really going to rise, they might do so before preparations could be made to withstand them. He might go at once to Mr Bryan or to one of the other officers, or to Captain Collyer himself, but then I thought it more than probable that they would not believe him, so I told him to run up and to tell the boatswain that I wanted particularly to see him.

In a short time Mr Johnson’s long nosed, ruddy visage appeared above my hammock. I then told him, in a low voice, all I had heard from Toby.

“I should like to see them attempt it,” he answered, laughing. “It’s a cock-and-bull story, depend on that, Mr Merry, but still you did very right in sending for me. It’s possible that I may report the circumstance to the captain, as it’s right that he should know the zeal and intelligence exhibited by boys Bluff and Cuff, though, as I say, there’s nothing in it, depend on that.”

Notwithstanding Mr Johnson’s assertion I observed that he immediately sent for boy Cuff to his cabin, and, as Toby afterwards told me, interrogated him very closely as to what he had heard. Nothing, however, was said to me on the subject, and I began to fancy that boys Bluff and Cuff had been deceived, or were making a mountain out of a molehill. This matter had not made me forget Macquoid’s promised visit to us. The next morning, when we were all awake, I asked Spellman how he felt.

“Very jolly,” he answered. “But I have no intention of getting up and bothering myself with duty for some time to come. I’ve done enough for the good of the service to last me for some time.”

“I should think so,” said I. “I hear Macquoid’s voice; here he comes.” I uttered a few groans, which Spellman repeated with considerably more vigour. I let him go on, while I sat up with a pleased countenance to welcome the assistant-surgeon, who appeared with a big bottle containing some black-looking stuff, and a glass. Spellman went on groaning.

“Poor fellow, I’ve got something which will do him good,” observed Macquoid with a twinkle in his eye. “Here, take this, my lad; there is nothing like it for internal pains.”

As he poured out the nauseous draught, the smell alone was so horrible that I resolved to do anything rather than take it. Spellman, however, fearing that he should be detected if he refused, held his nose with his finger and thumb, and with many a wry face gulped it down.

“Don’t you think a little more would do him good?” said I, in a hurried tone. “I don’t want any myself; the fact is, Macquoid, that the plasters you put on yesterday did me so much good, and you have treated me so well altogether, that I feel getting quite well and strong, and have been waiting all the morning for your coming, to ask if I might get up.”

Macquoid shook his head at me. “We’ll see how the wound looks first,” said he. “But you must take a little of my elixir asafoetidae et liquorice first. You evidently properly appreciate its virtues by recommending that Spellman should have more of it.”

“Ah, but you know, as you often say, when you drink up my grog, ‘What’s one man’s meat, is another man’s poison,’” I answered promptly, for Macquoid was very fond of making use of all sorts of proverbs, especially when he wished to show that he was right in anything he chose to do. “I have no doubt that it will do Spellman a great deal of good, or of course you would not give it to him, it would be meat to him; but as I am perfectly free of pains it would be positively throwing it away on me, though I don’t say it would be poison, of course not.”

“Oh, you humbug, you arrant humbug,” exclaimed Spellman, sitting up in his hammock and clenching his fist at me. “Why, not five minutes ago, you were groaning away worse than I was—that he was, Macquoid. Give him some of your beastly stuff. It’s not fair that I should take it, and not him. He promised to keep me company.”

“When the pains return he shall have more of it, depend on that,” said Macquoid, scarcely able to dress my wound for laughing. “He has tasted it already. You shall have his allowance to-morrow if you are not better.”

Spellman having betrayed himself, had not only to drink the mixture which was made as nasty as could be, though probably perfectly harmless, but to get up and be ready to make himself useful if required. My neck was rather stiff, but the pain was so slight that I felt almost able to return to my duty. I was glad to get about the decks, because I wanted to find out if Toby’s information had been believed. I saw nothing to indicate that anyone apprehended an outbreak of the prisoners. The officers walked the deck as usual, singly or in couples, with a look of perfect unconcern, and the marines were scattered about, employed in their ordinary occupations. A Frenchman, who was, I guessed, the French captain, was pacing the quarter-deck with Captain Collyer, and his countenance looked very sad and troubled; but that arose, I concluded, because he had lost his ship and was a prisoner Mr Bryan and some of the other gun officers spoke to me very kindly, and congratulated me on being about again. At length Macquoid sent me below, suggesting that it might be wiser to take a little more of the elixir before I went to sleep, but I declined the favour, assuring him that the very thought of it restored me to unwonted strength. He laughed, and wished me good night, advising me to make the most of my time, as I should soon have to keep watch again. “Such wide awake fellows as you are cannot be spared,” he observed. I was soon asleep. I awoke with a start. All was dark. I heard seven bells strike; I knew it must be towards the end of the first watch. The voice of an officer hailing the look-out sounded peculiarly distinct, and served to show the quiet which reigned on board. The sea was smooth, we were carrying a press of sail, and I could hear the rush of the ship through the water. Suddenly the silence was broken by the heavy tramp of men along the deck, while loud shouts and shrieks seemed to burst from every point. The drum beat to quarters, and I heard the voices of officers in loud distinct tones perfectly free from agitation issuing orders.

“What is the matter?” I exclaimed, starting up.

“What can be the matter,” exclaimed Spellman, “Are we all going to be murdered?”

“The matter is, that the Frenchmen have risen, and are trying to take the ship,” said I. “And though they may murder us, who are unable to resist them, it’s a consolation to feel they’ll be knocked on the head to a certainty themselves.”

“I can’t say that I feel it any consolation at all; oh dear! oh dear!” cried Spellman, jumping up and beginning to dress, an example I followed, for I had no fancy to be killed without resistance.

Grey at that moment awoke. I told him what was occurring, and that I intended to stick by him, and was groping about to get something to fight with, when I heard a voice high above the shrieks and cries, which I knew to be that of the lieutenant of marines, shouting—

“Charge them, lads.”

Then came the steady tramp of the jollies along the deck, lanterns were quickly lighted, and looking out I could see the Frenchmen scampering off, tumbling down the hatchways, or hiding under the guns. They discovered that they had made a slight mistake. Not a trigger was pulled, and except for a few prods with the points of bayonets, which caught the Frenchmen in their nether ends, no blood was drawn. Captain Collyer had not been quite so fast asleep, nor had boys Bluff and Cuff been quite so stupid as the Johnny Crapauds had fancied. The jollies had been warned to be in readiness, and before the first roll of the drum had sounded along the decks, they were at their posts, ready, as they always were, for anything.

The Frenchmen were soon put under hatches, and their officers, who had not joined the conspiracy, (though they might if it had been successful, because then it would have been a very gallant affair), going among them, discovered the ringleaders, and, dragging them out, they were put in irons.

It was some time, however, before complete quiet was restored. We, that is to say my messmates and I, assembled in the berths, and having discussed the matter, concluded that all the culprits would be hung next morning.

As our purser’s dips did not allow us to enjoy any extra amount of light, we soon had to retire to our hammocks. What was our surprise next morning to find that the Frenchmen were summoned aft, when their captain appeared and addressed them. I learned afterwards that he asked them whether they had been well fed, comfortably berthed, civilly treated, and on their owning that they were, he told them that they were a set of ungrateful scoundrels, a disgrace to the French nation, and that they all deserved to be hung.

Captain Collyer then stepped forward and said that though they might deserve hanging, as they had fought their ship bravely, and as no lives had been lost, he should overlook their fault, but he warned them that if they made a similar attempt they would be severely dealt with. The Frenchmen retired, looking considerably ashamed of themselves. The French captain then took off his hat, and making the most polite bow to Captain Collyer, thanked him for his humanity, observing that the truly brave were always humane.

I could not ascertain whether Captain Collyer had heard what Toby had told me, but two days afterwards, he and Cuff were together, not far from the captain, when he turned round and said:

“My eye is upon you, boys Bluff and Cuff, and, if you continue to behave as well as you have done, your interest will be cared for.”

Now, I could not help thinking that they really had saved the ship, but it would have been inconvenient to have acknowledged this at the time, and certainly have done Bluff and Cuff no real good; probably only have set them up, and made them idle. I am convinced that the captain acted in this matter, as he did in all others, with true kindness and judgment.

Four or five days after this providential suppression of the mutiny, as I was walking the deck, having volunteered to return to my duty, the look-out at the mast-head hailed that a sail was in sight. The usual questions were asked, and the master, going aloft to examine her, pronounced her to be, without doubt, a line-of-battle ship. It was not quite so easy to determine whether she was an enemy or a friend. If the former, we might have another battle to fight, for Captain Collyer was not the man to yield without one. Having the prize in tow, we were making all sail on our homeward course.

On came the stranger. She was on our weather quarter, and soon showed us that she sailed faster than we did.

Captain Collyer now hailed Mr Lukyn, who commanded the prize, to say that he intended to fight the line-of-battle ship to the last, and then explained to him how he intended to manage.

“With all my heart, sir,” answered Mr Lukyn, and the crew of the prize gave a loud cheer to show that they were ready.

The drum beat to quarters, and not only did all that were well assemble, but even all the sick and wounded who could move crawled up on deck to help man the guns. Though I should not have been sorry to have got home without more fighting, I was as ready as any one, and hoped that I should not get another wound, as I was quite content with the one I had to exhibit. A guard was kept over the prisoners, who were told that they would be shot down without mercy if they made any disturbance, and then in grim silence we stood ready for the fight.

The stranger came on, but at length she began to make signals, and we signalled in return, and then we soon found out that she was not an enemy, but a friend. She proved to be the Hercules, 74, and as she was homeward-bound, her captain said that he would keep us company, to help fight any enemy which might appear.

We ran on for two days, when the Hercules made the signal of “fleet to the south-east,” and soon afterwards that several ships had borne up in chase. We next learned that they were enemies. We had still the prize in tow. Every stitch of canvas alow and aloft which the ship could carry was packed on her. It was an anxious time. To lose our gallantly won prize, and perhaps to be carried off to a French prison, were not pleasant anticipations.

I asked Mr Johnson what he thought about the matter.

“Why, Mr Merry, look you, I never anticipate evil,” he answered, with an expression of countenance very different to what he put on when telling his wonderful yarns. “Time enough when it comes. ‘There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip,’ as you’ve heard say, and you’ll find it through life. The Frenchmen out there think that they are going to gulp us down, but they may find that they are mistaken.”

Fortunately the Aigle was a remarkably fast vessel, and though she could not carry all the canvas we did, we towed her along easily. The Hercules acted nobly, and followed like a huge bull-dog at our heels, ready to bear the brunt of the fight should the enemy come up with us. Still, as we looked at the overpowering numbers of the Frenchmen, there appeared but little prospect of our escaping. There were many speculations as to what we should do. One thing was certain, that our captain would not allow the Hercules to be taken without going to her assistance. I asked Mr Johnson what he thought about the matter.

“Why, just this, young gentleman,” he answered. “If the Frenchmen get near us, they’ll blow us out of the water, but they’ll have reason to be sorry that they ever made the attempt. They may have our bones, but they’ll get no flesh on them.”

The boatswain’s reply made me meditate a good deal. I wanted to enjoy, midshipman fashion, all the honour and glory I had gained, and I did not at all like the thoughts of being taken prisoner, and still less of being sent to the bottom with our colours flying—a very fine thing to do in theory, but practically excessively disagreeable. I hinted at my feelings to Mr Johnson.

“Very natural, Mr Merry,” he answered. “But, just think, if you were taken prisoner, how satisfactory it would be to make your escape, and if the ship were to go down or blow up, how pleasant it would be to find yourself swimming away safely to land. Follow my example. Draw nourishment from the toughest food. Did I ever tell you how I was once blown up a hundred fathoms at least, right into the air? When I came down again I plunged as deep into the sea, but I struck out and came to the surface, for I knew that I must help myself, as there was nobody who could help me. I got hold of six of my companions and towed them ashore, a couple of miles or so. Very few others escaped. Now, if I had given in, they and I would have been lost, and His Majesty’s service would have been deprived of one of the best bo’suns to be found in it. I say this without vanity—because it’s a fact.”

I found it difficult sometimes to ascertain whether Mr Johnson was really serious or joking.

The enemy were all this time chasing, and coming up rapidly with us. Even Captain Collyer looked anxious. We, however, were all ready for the fight we anticipated.

“If we can but keep well ahead of them till night comes on, we may give them the slip,” I heard the captain observe to Mr Bryan. “It may be more prudent on the present occasion to fly than to fight, but I am sure that every man will fight to the last if it comes to fighting.”

“That they will, sir. I never saw the people in better spirit,” answered the second lieutenant. “They are like a bull-dog with a captured bone. They are not inclined to yield it without a desperate tussle.”

From all I heard I began to think whether I should not go and write a letter home, to tell them that when they received it I should have fallen fighting for my king and country; but then Spellman appeared on deck. He looked so absurd with his lugubrious countenance, and the plasters still on his cheeks, that I burst into a fit of laughter; and, all my apprehensions vanishing, I was in a minute joking away with my messmates as usual.

Chapter Seven.

The Doris under all sail, with our hard-won prize in tow, kept standing to the northward, the gallant Hercules bringing up the rear, while the French fleet, like a pack of yelping hounds, followed full chase at our heels.

A stern chase is a long chase, and so we hoped this might prove, without an end to it.

Our glasses, as may be supposed, were constantly turned towards the enemy. They had not gained much on us when the sun went down, and darkness stole over the surface of the ocean. Clouds were gathering in the sky—there was no moon, and the stars were completely obscured. It was in a short time as dark a night as we could desire. The Hercules, looking like some huge monster stalking over the deep, now ranged up past us, and a voice from her ordered us to tack to the westward, and keep close to her. This we did, though we had no little difficulty in keeping together without lights, which we did not show, lest we might have been seen by the enemy.

The next morning, when we looked round, not one of the French squadron was in sight, greatly to the vexation of our prisoners, who had hoped by this time to have seen the scales turned on us. We were out of the frying-pan, but before long we had reason to fear that we had tumbled into the fire.

Two days after this, when morning broke, we found ourselves enveloped by a thick fog. There was but little wind, and the sea was perfectly smooth. Suddenly the distant roar of a gun burst on our ears. It was answered by another much nearer; a third boomed over the waters on the other side of us. Others followed; then fog-bells began to ring—louder and more distinct they sounded; and more guns were fired.

“What’s all that about?” I asked of the boatswain, who was looking out on the forecastle. “Why, that we are in the middle of a big fleet of men-of-war, and if, as I suspect, they are French, and they catch sight of us, they’ll make mince-meat of our carcases in pretty quick time,” he answered, squirting a whole river of tobacco juice overboard, a proof to me that he was not pleased with the state of affairs.

“Why, I thought it was a French fleet we escaped from only two days ago,” I remarked.

“So it was, and this is another,” he answered. “In my opinion we shall never get things to rights till we send to the bottom every French ship there is afloat, and we shall do that before long if we can but get a good stand-up fight—that’s my opinion.”

Mr Johnson was right, as subsequent events proved. The fog was so dense that we could not see a single sail, close as we were to them, and we expected every instant to run into one, or to be hailed and probably discovered. The men were sent without noise to their quarters, for of course it was resolved that we should fight our way out from the midst of our enemies.

On we glided. The dim form of a ship was seen on our starboard bow. Our course was slightly altered, but it was only to get nearer another. A Frenchman hailed. Captain Collyer answered; what he said I do not know. It seemed to satisfy the stranger. No shot was fired, and we stood on. Still there was something peculiarly solemn and awful in the feeling that any moment we might be engaged in an encounter against the most overwhelming odds.

Again the upper sails of another ship appeared. From their height she was evidently a ship which might have sunk us with a broadside. By seeing this second ship, Captain Collyer was able to ascertain in what direction the enemy’s fleet was standing. As soon as he had done this, our helm was put up, and away we noiselessly glided to the westward. The bells were soon no longer heard—the boom of the guns became fainter and fainter every minute, and at length we had the satisfaction of feeling that we were well clear of them.

“Depend on it, you have never been nearer inside a French prison or a watery grave than you have been this morning,” observed Mr Johnson to me.

“I don’t know that. When I was aboard the lugger, and floating about in the channel, I was rather nearer both one and the other,” I answered.

“You thought you were, but, as the event proved, you were not,” said the boatswain. “Depend on it, I am right, Mr Merry. If the captain had not been a good French scholar our fate would have been sealed long before this. We never know on what apparently trivial circumstances our safety depends.”

Mr Johnson, it may have been remarked, was never at a loss for an argument or a remark of some sort. His pertinacity in that respect puts me in mind of a certain kind-hearted Royal Duke with whom I once had the honour of dining—a number of naval and military officers being present.

“Captain R—,” said he, addressing one of them, “how is your father?”

“Your Royal Highness, he is dead,” was the answer.

“Oh! is he? poor fellow! Then, how is your mother?”

“Your Royal Highness, she is dead also.”

“Oh, is she? Then which died first?” asked the Duke in a tone which made it very difficult even for the best bred of the company to refrain from laughing.

Without further adventure the Doris and her prize arrived safely in Plymouth Sound.

We waited anxiously for the report of the dockyard authorities, who at length gave it as their opinion that the frigate had got so knocked about that she must go into dock to be repaired. Everybody was in a great hurry to get leave. In consequence of our having been wounded, Grey and Spellman and I obtained it at once, and I invited them to pay my family a visit in Leicestershire on their way to their own homes. I got leave also for Toby Bluff to accompany us.

“I’ll spare him to you. Mr Merry,” said Mr Johnson. “Take care you bring him back, for he will one day do credit to the service in his humble path, just as I flatter myself I do credit to it in mine, and I hope that you, Mr Merry, will one day in yours. You’ve made a very good beginning, and you may tell your friends that the boatswain of the ship says so. Let them understand that the boatswain is a very important personage, and they will be satisfied that you are a rising young officer.” We got a sufficient amount of prize-money advanced to enable us to perform our journey, which we did partly in post-chaises. The latter mode of travelling we agreed was by far the pleasantest. After we left the coach we went along very steadily for a stage or so.

“This is slow work,” observed Spellman. “I vote we make more sail.” Looking out of the window he sang out, “Heave ahead, my hearty. There’s a crown for you if you make the craft walk along.”

Although the post-boy did not understand my messmate’s language he did our gestures and the mention of the crown, and on we went at a great rate, turning up the dust as the gallant Doris was wont to do the brine, and making the stones fly in every direction.

At last one of the postillions, who entered into our humour, proposed getting a horn for us. We eagerly accepted the offer, and he said he would purchase one from the guard of a coach, who lived near the road a little way on. It was rather battered, and we paid a high price, but when we found that Toby could blow it effectually, we would have had it at any price.

Proud of his acquisition, Toby mounted the box, and, he blowing away with might and main, highly delighted, on we dashed.

I ought to have said that, before we left the ship, Grey and I had presented to us the two small flags we had nailed to the cross-jack yard in the action with the Aigle.

At the last stage we agreed that we would do something to astonish the natives, so we ordered an open barouche, which we saw in the yard, with four horses. We got out our flags, and improvised another for Spellman; these we secured to sticks, which we cut from the roadside. Toby trumpeting like a young elephant, we waving our flags and shouting at the top of our voices, up we dashed in gallant style to the hall door, and I believe did astonish them most completely.

Never, indeed, had the family of Merrys been in a greater commotion than we had the satisfaction of throwing them into by our arrival. It was the holidays, and all my brothers and sisters were at home. Out rushed my father and mother, and Bertha and Edith and Winifred, while my brothers Cedric and Athelstane, and Egbert and Edwin, hurried up from various quarters, and every servant in the house was speedily collected, and everybody laughed and cried by turns, and the post-boys grinned, and I was kissed and hugged by all in succession—Grey and Spellman coming in for their share; till I bethought me that I would create a still greater sensation; so, when good Mrs Potjam, the housekeeper, was beginning to hug me, as was her wont in days gone by, I shrieked out—

“Oh, dear! oh, my wound! my wound!”

My shipmates, seeing the effect produced, imitated my example.

“What, wounded, my dear child? What, have you been wounded?” exclaimed my mother and sisters in chorus.

“Of course I have; and do you think those deep dimples on Spellman’s cheeks—I forgot to introduce him, by the bye. Mr Spellman, midshipman of his Britannic Majesty’s frigate Doris—Mr, Mrs, and the Miss and Master Merrys and their faithful domestics—do you think that those deep dimples are natural? No indeed; a shot went through his cheeks—right through—and those are the scars. See how Grey limps—I forgot, I ought to have introduced him. Mr George Grey, also midshipman of his Britannic Majesty’s frigate Doris, and my esteemed friend and messmate; and for myself, I can scarcely yet use my arm. So you see we are heroes who have fought and bled for our country.”

In those days, as there were not so many newspapers as at present, people were compelled to be their own trumpeters more than would now be considered correct. Some also trumpeted over much, knowing that there was not the probability that there is at present of their being found out.

This statement of mine increased, as I thought it would, the respect all were inclined to pay us. Dinner was just going on the table, and when we had satisfied our hunger, all our tongues were busily employed in our peculiar styles in recounting our adventures. The butler and footmen often stopped to listen, and not a little forgot their proper duties.

One placed an empty dish before my mother, into which the cook had forgot to put the poultry; the butler filled my father’s glass with fish soy, and two of the men bolted tilt against each other and capsized the remains of a sirloin of beef over the carpet with which one of them was hurrying off after waiting to listen to the fag end of one of my narratives.

Toby Bluff was as busily employed in the servants’ hall, and from the broad grins on the countenances of the footmen as they returned to the dining-room, I have no doubt that his narratives were of a facetious character.

I never have spent so jolly a time as I did during that visit home. Our wounds did not incommode us; we had everything our own way, and all my family and friends made a vast deal of us.

At length a newspaper arrived, giving an account of the capture of the Aigle, and confirming all I had said, and when, two nights after, we appeared at a country ball, and as we entered the room the band struck up “See the conquering hero comes,” we were higher in feather than ever.

Grey and Spellman had, however, to go and see their own friends, and they enjoyed the rather doubtful advantage of again undergoing the same treatment they had received at our house. When they were gone, and the nine days of wonder were over, I found myself sinking into a rather more ordinary personage. In those good old days, however, midshipmen who had been in an engagement and got wounded were somebodies—at all events, if their fathers had fine country seats and saw a number of guests.

Time sped on. I do not think my family were tired of me, but when the Doris was reported ready for sea, they calmly acquiesced in the necessity of my rejoining her without delay, and so Toby and I found ourselves packed off in a yellow chaise, and directed to find our way back to Plymouth as fast as we could.

We made the journey without any adventure, and on our arrival on board found that Mr Lukyn had been promoted, and that Mr Bryan was the first-lieutenant. As soon as we had reported ourselves, we dived below to the berth to hear the news. Two new lieutenants had joined—the second was a Mr Patrick Fitzgerald. I need not say that he was an Irishman. He was pronounced to be a most extraordinary fish, and he positively seemed to take a pleasure in being so considered. He had a big head covered with reddish hair, which stuck out straight as if he was always in a fright, his complexion was richly freckled, his eyes small but twinkling, and his nose, though not prominent, was of ample dimensions as to width. This beautiful headpiece was placed on the broadest of shoulders. His body was somewhat short, but his legs were proportioned to bear the frame of an elephant. He was, as he used to boast, entirely Irish from truck to keelson, but certainly not of a high class type. The third lieutenant was an Englishman. This was fortunate. Mr Haisleden was a steady trustworthy man, and had a good deal of the cut of a first-lieutenant about him. It is said that, as a rule, Irishmen make better soldiers than sailors, and perhaps this is the case. If inclined to be wild they are apt to out-Herod Herod. The strict rules of naval discipline do not suit their natural temperament. Paddy Fitzgerald was a case in point, but a more amusing fellow and better messmate never lived. The ship was again almost ready for sea. Perigal, who had got leave, came on board, looking very sad at having had again to part from his wife. Spellman and Grey joined the next day. There had been no changes in our berth. Perigal ought certainly to have been promoted, but he was not. “When the ship is paid off, I suppose that I shall be,” he observed with a sigh. It was soon reported that we were ordered to the West Indies. Grey and I took an opportunity of asking Mr Johnson what sort of a country we should find out there.

“One thing I will tell you, young gentlemen, you’ll find it hot enough to boil your blood up a bit,” he answered; “as to cooking a beefsteak on the capstan-head, that’s nothing, but what do you say to finding all the fowls in the hen-coops roasted and fit for table? and all you have to do, is to hold a burning glass over a bucket of water with fish swimming about in it, and in five minutes you’ll have them all thoroughly boiled.”

Grey and I laughed.

“Well, Mr Johnson, it must be hot indeed,” said I, and, though I did not exactly put faith in his account, I began to wish we had been bound elsewhere. The boatswain saw Spellman listening with mouth agape.

“Hot, I believe you,” he continued; “did you ever sit on a red-hot gridiron with your feet under the grate, your head in the fire, and your fists in boiling water? If you ever did, you’ll have some notion of what you’ll have to go through in the dog-days out in those parts.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” exclaimed Spellman: “why we shall all be downright roasted.”

“I’ve a notion there’s some one being roasted now,” observed Mr Johnson, with a wink and a curl of his nose. “Roasted! Oh dear no: all we’ve to do, is to sit up to our necks in casks of water, and bob our heads under every now and then. To be sure, there is a fear that we may all turn into blackamoors, but that is nothing when a man gets accustomed to it. I don’t see why a dark skin should not be as good as a white one. Though they don’t all talk the same lingo, they’ve as much sense in their woolly heads as white men, that’s my opinion; and so, young gentlemen, when you get among them out there, just treat them as if they were of the same nature as yourselves, and you’ll find that they will behave well to you, and will be faithful and true.”

Mr Johnson’s remarks were interrupted by the appearance of Toby Bluff, who came to summon him on deck. Blue Peter was flying from aloft. In ten minutes afterwards the capstan-bars were manned, the merry pipe was heard, and, a sturdy gang of our crew tramping round, the anchor was hove up, the topsails were let fall, and away the Doris once more glided over the wide sea towards the far west. We had a rapid passage without meeting an enemy; indeed, scarcely a sail hove in sight. We made Saint Thomas’s, and stood across the Caribbean Sea towards Jamaica. Hot it was, but not so hot as Mr Johnson had led us to expect.

“Wait a bit,” he remarked. “It’s now winter; just let us see what the summer will be like.”

We were not destined to enter Port Royal. We had been making good progress towards it, when three sail were seen from the mast-head. As enemies of all nations just then swarmed in every direction, it was more likely that we should have to fight, than that we should meet with friends. The strangers approached. There were three ships not smaller than frigates certainly, perhaps larger. Still we knew that Captain Collyer would not dream of running away while there was a possibility of coming off victorious. If he did run, it would only be to induce the enemy to follow. The decks were cleared for action. Slowly we closed, when at length the strangers began to signalise, and we discovered that they formed the squadron of Captain Brisbane, who directed Captain Collyer to join him; except that, in case of parting company, we were ordered to rendezvous at Aruba, a small island about twenty leagues to the westward of Curaçoa, we remained in ignorance of what was about to be done, though that there was something in the wind we had little doubt. Various opinions were expressed; some thought that as the Dutch had chosen to follow Napoleon’s advice, and go to war with us, we should attack the island of Curaçoa itself, to show them that they had better have remained at peace; but the general idea was, that, as it was strongly fortified, we should not make such an attempt without large reinforcements. We did not know then what sort of stuff the commodore was made of.

On the evening of the 22nd of December, we anchored at the west end of Aruba, and we soon learned that Captain Brisbane had not only resolved to attack Curaçoa, but that he had a first-rate plan, all cut and dry, just suited to the tastes of British seamen. He had learned that the Dutch had a custom of finishing the old year by getting very tipsy; high and low, old and young, men and women, all imbibed as large an amount of schiedam as they could manage to stow away. Even ladies, young and fair, went about the streets offering glasses of the attractive liquor to their acquaintance and friends, and it would have been a positive insult to have refused it from their hands. The consequence was that the inhabitants, military and civil, had no inclination to get up in the morning, and even guards and look-out men were apt to go to sleep at their posts. Captain Brisbane formed his plans accordingly, and fixed daybreak on January the 1st as the moment for attack. We sailed again on the 24th, and had a long beat up against the trades towards the east end of Curaçoa. Our time, however, was busily employed in making scaling ladders, sharpening cutlasses, and manufacturing every bit of red cloth or stuff we could find into soldiers’ coats, as also in arranging other badges, by which each ship’s company could be easily distinguished. Each crew was thus divided into storming parties, under the lieutenants and senior mates, the captain acting as leader. The boatswains were ordered to place themselves at the heads of parties with ladders to scale the walls, and crowbars to break open the gates.

Mr Johnson was in high glee. “We shall see what we shall see, and I am very much mistaken if we don’t teach the Mynheers a lesson they will not easily forget,” he exclaimed, as he reviewed the articles under his directions.

We made the high land of Saint Barbary, at the east end of Curaçoa, before the year was an hour old, and we then had a fair wind, the regular south-east trade, to run for the harbour of Saint Ann’s, situated on the south-east of the island. Every one was in high spirits. We knew full well that the enterprise was a difficult and dangerous one, but we saw that it was planned with consummate prudence and forethought, and we felt perfect confidence that it would succeed. It was no child’s play we were about to perform, as, the gallant Arethusa leading, we stood for the harbour, with our boats in tow, ready at a moment’s notice to disembark the storming parties. We felt very proud, for we were going to show what bluejackets could do when left to themselves. I was stationed on the forecastle, and so was Grey, with our glasses constantly at our eyes. Before us appeared the narrow entrance of the harbour, only fifteen fathoms wide; indeed it nowhere exceeds a quarter of a mile in width. On our right appeared Fort Amsterdam, mounting no less than sixty guns in two tiers, capable, it seemed, of blowing us all out of the water, while there was a chain of forts on the opposite side, and at the bottom of the harbour the fortress, said to be impregnable, of Forte République enfilading the whole, and almost within grape-shot distance. Athwart the harbour was moored a Dutch thirty-six gun frigate and a twenty-gun corvette. The commodore had been ordered to diplomatise, and so he did in the most effectual way, for we all sailed in with a flag of truce flying, but with the guns run out and the men at their quarters. The Mynheers, however, were not inclined to listen to reason, but, waking up and seeing some strangers in their harbour, they hurried to their guns, and began firing away at us. Their aim was not very good, and few shots hit us. On we steadily sailed. Suddenly there was a cry of disappointment; the wind had shifted, and, coming down the harbour, very nearly drove us on shore. There seemed every prospect of our being compelled to abandon the enterprise. The men in their enthusiasm wished to tow the frigates up. Again it shifted. Our sails filled; the men cheered heartily. Once more up along the harbour, we lay till we brought our broadsides to bear on the forts and the two Dutch ships, the Arethusa’s jib-boom being right over the town. It was just dawn; a boat was despatched by the commodore for the shore; she bore a summons to the Dutch governor to surrender, promising to treat him and everybody with the utmost civility if he would; but Mynheer von Tronk was in no humour to listen to any of the more refined arguments Captain Brisbane had to offer; so the flag of truce was hauled down, and we had recourse to the argumentum ad hominem, or, in other words, we began blazing away from all the guns we could bring to bear. This fully roused up the sleepy Dutchmen, and we could see them, (Mr Johnson declared that many of them had their breeches in their hands), rushing into the boats to get on board their ships, or hurrying to the batteries, which had hitherto maintained a very ineffectual fire. We had given them just three broadsides, when the commodore at the head of a part of his crew put off from the Arethusa and pulled for the Dutch frigate. Up her sides we saw him and his gallant fellows climbing. We longed to be with them. The Dutch fought bravely, as they always do, but liquor had unnerved their arms. The conflict though short was sharp. Down came the Dutch flag, and up went that of England, but not till the Dutch captain and several of his crew had been killed and numbers wounded. The brave Captain Lydiard of the Anson captured the corvette in the same style. Still close to us frowned the forts, capable it seemed of sinking every one of our ships in a few minutes.

“We must take them, Bryan, without loss of time,” I heard our captain observe, as I was sent up with a message to him. Scarcely had he uttered the words when the signal to land was made. In a wonderfully few moments the boats were manned and crowded with small-arms men, and with ladders and crowbar bearers. I accompanied Mr Johnson with the ladder-bearers’ party. While the crowbar-men proceeded to the gates, we made the best of our way to the walls. Our chief hope was to succeed by a dash. The Dutchmen numbered ten to one of us, and they were no cowards, only slow. As yet they had not half-opened their eyes, or they might have counted our numbers, and discovered that our idlers, dressed in red coats, were not really soldiers. Mr Johnson was in his glory; the exploit was one exactly to suit his taste.

“That commodore of ours is a first-rate fellow, Mr Merry,” he exclaimed, as we pulled on shore. “If he was first lord, and I was admiral of the fleet, we should soon drive every enemy’s ship off the seas.”

On shore we sprang, and under a pretty hot fire we rushed towards the walls. The ladders were placed in spite of the efforts of the half-drunken Dutchmen to prevent this, many of them toppling over into the ditch in their attempts to shove them off. Up our men swarmed, their cutlasses between their teeth. Mr Bryan led one party, Mr Fitzgerald another; the latter with a loud shriek, which he called his family war cry,—it sounded like “Wallop a hoo a boo, Erin go bragh,”—sprang on to the walls. A big Dutchman stood ready with a long sword to meet him, and would certainly have swept off his head, had he not nimbly dodged on one side with so extraordinary a grimace, that he not only escaped free, but, swinging round his own cutlass, he cut off the head of the unfortunate Dutchman who was watching him with astonishment. Then he went cutting right and left, and putting the wide breeched enemy to flight on every side. I followed Mr Johnson; I knew that I was in good company when I was near him, and that though we should most certainly be in the thick of the fight, as long as he kept on his legs he would have an eye on me. We did not gain the top of the walls without being opposed, but the Dutchmen literally could not see how to strike. A fat bombardier, however, made a butt at me, and would have sent me over again, had not the boatswain seized me by the collar, when the bombardier went over himself and lay sprawling under the feet of our men at the bottom. Then on we went, firing our pistols and slashing right and left. A loud huzza from the sea gate announced to us that that had been forced open, and the Dutchmen finding that the day was ours, and persuaded that discretion was the best part of valour, threw down their arms, and shouted out lustily for quarter. It was gladly given them; indeed, there was no real animosity between us, and officers and men were soon seen shaking hands together in the most friendly way possible. We had taken just ten minutes to do the work. However, we had some more places to capture, so locking up our prisoners with a guard over them, out we went again, and climbed up the walls of several other minor forts in succession, the same scenes taking place at each. There was a great deal of shouting and running, but very little bloodshed. Mr Fitzgerald shrieked and shouted “Wallop a hoo a boo,” as before, and made terrific grimaces. Mr Johnson watched him with great admiration.

“Some men make their fortune by their good looks, Mr Merry,” he observed. “But to my mind, that second lieutenant of ours is more likely to make his by his ugliness. It’s a proof that the gifts bestowed on man are very equally divided. He would be nothing without that curious mug of his.”

The Dutch flag still flew defiantly from Fort République at the head of the harbour. Garrisons were left in each of the forts, and with a large body of prisoners as hostages we once more returned on board our ships. We now opened a hot fire on the fort. I observed to Mr Johnson that I heard some of the Dutch officers whom we had as prisoners declare that it was impregnable.

“Very likely,” he answered, coolly. “But you see, Mr Merry, British seamen have a knack of getting into impregnable places, as we shall very soon show them.”

Just then the order was received from the commodore to disembark the marines and a body of seamen from each ship. I was delighted again to be allowed to go. We landed under the protection of the guns of the captured frigate, and made the best of our way round towards the rear of the fort, while the ships kept hurling their shot at it in front. I rather think that the Dutchmen in the fort did not see us as we pushed on among sugar canes, and coffee and cotton plantations. We got into the rear of the fort after nearly an hour’s very hot march, and then making a dash towards the walls, we were half-way up them before the Dutchmen found out what we were about. Many of the officers indeed were quietly smoking their meerschaums, looking down the harbour, while they directed the artillerymen at the guns.

When they discovered us, dashing down their pipes, they hurried to oppose our progress, but it was too late. Our footing was obtained in their impregnable fortress, and, exulting in our success, we dashed on. Still the Dutchmen fought very bravely. As I kept by Mr Johnson’s side I observed the flutter of some white dresses just before us. They were those of ladies, I guessed, who had been sent to the fort for security, and who now, taken by surprise, were endeavouring to make their escape from us. Not knowing where they were going, they ran right in among a party of our men, who, not intending to hurt them, at all events began to treat them in a way which naturally caused them very considerable annoyance and alarm. The truth is, when soldiers and sailors take a place by storm, they become more like wild beasts than human beings, and I have witnessed scenes in my career which it makes me even now shudder to think of.

The men into whose hands the ladies had fallen did not belong to our ship. There was no officer with them; so, calling to Mr Johnson, I ran on. Three of the ladies were elderly, but there were five others, mostly young—one especially was, at least so I thought, a very pretty fair girl. She looked pale and terribly frightened.

“Let those women alone,” shouted Mr Johnson; but the men only looked defiantly at him, and seemed in no way inclined to obey, which put him in a great rage.

A boatswain has but little authority except over the men of his own ship.

“Mind your own business,” cried some of the marines. “What have you got to say to us?”

Just then the ladies got more frightened than ever. The youngest lady screamed, and, I thought, looked towards me. I sprang forward—I felt more like a man than I had ever before done.

“Let go your hold,” I exclaimed in a tone of authority, to the fellow who had his hand on the fair girl’s arm. “If one of you dares to interfere with these ladies, I will have him up before the commodore, and he’ll make short work with the matter.” The fellow still looked defiant. “Let go,” I again shouted, rushing at him with my dirk.

What I might have done I do not know, but at that moment a bullet struck him in the head and knocked him over.

It was supposed I had shot the man, and a good many, even of his party, siding with me and Mr Johnson, the ladies were released.

I made signs to the ladies, and endeavoured to assure them in French that they were safe.

“I speak English,” said the young lady. “Thank you—thank you very much.”

The Dutch soldiers had in the meantime thrown down their arms and taken to flight. The shot which had wounded the man was nearly the last fired. The Dutch flag was hauled down, and the shouts of our men proclaimed that in about four hours we had captured, with the loss of three killed and fourteen wounded, one of the strongest fortresses in the West Indies.

I was determined not to lose sight of the ladies till I had placed them in safety. I found that the youngest was the niece of the governor, and that she had a sister and her mother with her. The governor’s daughter, a buxom-looking damsel, was also of the party. I conducted them all to Captain Lydiard, who commanded the expedition, and their carriages and horses being found in the fort, he ordered that they should be conveyed back into the town under an escort. I was highly delighted when I found that I might accompany it. Perigal had command. The British flag was flying from every fort and ship in the harbour, and many of the worthy burghers, when their schiedam-steeped senses returned and they opened their eyes, as they looked out of their windows, could not make out what had occurred. We were treated with the greatest respect by everybody we met, and the ladies endeavoured to show their gratitude by every means in their power. As soon as we had seen them to their own homes we were to return on board. I found that the young lady’s name was Essa von Fraulich.

“You will come and see us very often, Mr Merry,” she exclaimed in a very foreign accent, though her phraseology was pretty correct. “We want to show how much we love you, and we make nice cake for you, and many other good things.”

The elder ladies were more demonstrative, and wanted to kiss me, which I thought very derogatory to my dignity.

I shook hands warmly with them all round, and as I began with Miss Essa, I thought it incumbent on me to finish off with her:

The townspeople were very civil as we made our way down to the boats. Indeed, they did not seem to mind at all what had happened. It was all the same to them which flag flew over the forts. The English had gained a character for justice and honesty, and they were inclined to look upon us as likely to prove good customers, and were, in fact, very glad to see us. They, indeed, probably thought that it was a pity any opposition whatever should have been offered to our entrance. Our work was not entirely accomplished. There was still a fort of some strength, a few miles from the town. A party of marines and bluejackets was marched out to take it, which they very speedily did, as the commandant offered no resistance, but, hearing that his chief had capitulated, yielded on being summoned. Thus, by noon, the whole of a rich and fertile island, containing forty-five thousand inhabitants, and well fortified, was in our possession, while the whole force we could muster among the four frigates was twelve hundred men. With these we had to man our prizes, to garrison the forts, to protect the country, and to keep the town in order.

Captain Brisbane was, I must say, a host in himself. He was a fine tall man, with very popular manners; and though he showed that he would not allow tricks to be played, he ingratiated himself wonderfully with all classes. He took great pains to conceal from the Dutch the paucity of our numbers, and hinted that as long as the inhabitants behaved themselves he would keep his troops on board instead of quartering them on the town. These troops were represented by the idlers of the different ships and occasionally seamen, dressed up in red coats and made to parade the deck. He formed also a bodyguard of all the marines who could ride, and with them at his heels he made a point of galloping about the country and visiting the outposts. He never appeared abroad without being accompanied by them. They were known as Captain Brisbane’s horse-marines. Though horse-marines are often spoken of, it was the only time I ever saw such a body either on shore or afloat. We had a very active time of it, every one doing double work, and endeavouring to make it appear as if we had double our real numbers. The lieutenants used to put on the marine officers’ undress uniforms and all would go on shore together. Fitzgerald unconsciously very nearly betrayed the trick, for his remarkable features were not easily forgotten, and on the first day he appeared in his military character, we saw the Dutchmen, as well as some ladies, eyeing him narrowly. They could not conceive it possible two such ugly fellows should be found in the same squadron.

Fortunately Mr Bryan was with us, and having plenty of presence of mind, he began to talk about Fitzgerald’s naval brother who remained on board.

Captain Collyer, however, thought it prudent to prohibit him from again appearing in a military character on shore. Mr Fitzgerald could not understand this, as he was not at all aware of the peculiarity of his own physiognomy, and declared that he was very hardly treated.

I was very anxious to get on shore, that I might pay my promised visit to Essa von Fraulich and her relatives. As bigger men were wanted on shore, and as the midshipmen were found capable of performing various duties in the ship, Grey and I and others were, much to our disappointment, compelled to stay on board. Mr Johnson also remained on board.

“I take it as an especial compliment,” he observed. “The fact is, you see, Mr Merry, that I am worth five or six men at least in the ship, and, in appearance at least, little more than one out of it, and so I am doomed to remain, while others are enjoying themselves on terra firma.”

Chapter Eight.

In consequence of so many of the officers being on shore, the boatswain had charge of a watch. He trod the deck with considerable dignity, and a stranger coming on board would undoubtedly have taken him for the captain.

I was in his watch, and as there was nothing to do, when it occurred at night, except to see that the sentries were on the look-out, that the anchors were not dragging, or the ship on fire, I always got him into conversation; and one evening, Grey and Spellman having joined us, we begged him to go on with the account of his adventures at the North Pole, of which for a long time we had heard nothing.

“I would oblige you with all my heart, young gentlemen, if I could but recollect where I left off,” he answered, in a well-pleased tone. “Let me see. Was I living on the top of an iceberg, or dancing reels with polar bears, or—”

“No, Mr Johnson, you had just found your old shipmates, and were living quietly with them in their winter quarters, waiting for a ship to take you off.”

“So I was—ah—well—” said the boatswain. “As I was telling you, when I last broke off in my most veracious narrative, after we had talked on for a week, our tongues began to get somewhat tired, and we then remembered that it would be necessary to make preparations for our departure from this somewhat inhospitable shore, for as to a vessel touching there to take us off, that event was not likely to occur. I found that my companions had commenced building a boat, but as they did not understand carpentering as I did, it was fortunate for them that I arrived in time to lend them a hand, or they would infallibly have gone to the bottom as soon as they had ventured out on the foaming waves of the Polar Sea. June was advancing, and the ice began to move perceptibly at a distance from the shore; and as the icebergs knocked and fell against each other, the crash was truly awful. I can only liken it to what we might suppose produced by a set of monster ninepins tumbled about by a party of gigantic Dutchmen. I must relate one more event, which served to convince my companions of the perfect correctness of my statements. One night, as I was retiring to rest, I heard footsteps approaching our hut, and, looking out, I saw an immense white bear, sniffing up the air as if he smelt something he fancied for supper. Rousing my companions, who had already turned in, I seized my gun, with the intention of knocking him on the head, when, as he turned his face, I recognised an expression I had met before. On his nearer approach I saw that he had but one eye, and I felt convinced that he was the identical bear I had knocked over close to the Pole and left for dead, with a steak out of his rump. He made towards me, grinding his teeth and flashing his one eye terrifically, with thoughts of vengeance; but I retreated backwards, and had just time to slam the door in his face, jamming in one of his paws, before he could grasp me in his deadly embrace. Thus he was caught in a trap, but his struggles to free himself were so tremendous that I thought he would have carried away the whole hut with him, but my friends coming to my aid, we made fast a strong rope round the lower joint of his paw and secured it to a stout piece of timber which formed part of the foundation of the structure. We then opened the door a little, when he, of course, put in the other paw, which we secured in the same way, and thus had him fast. At first he was very furious and growled tremendously, but by giving him a piece of roasted meat to suck at the end of a ramrod, we tamed him by degrees, and he must have seen that we had no evil intentions towards him. By slacking the ropes we were in a short time able to shut the door, keeping him outside. We then went to sleep, and he only now and then disturbed us by an angry growl as he felt the ropes cutting his wrists.

“By a judicious system of starvation, and by gently administering food, we so tamed him that we were able to examine him for a further verification of my suspicions. Had my companions before entertained any doubts as to the truth of my story, all such vanished when they discovered that, though the wound had perfectly closed where I had cut out the steak, the cicatrice was there, and skin perfectly denuded of hair. By our pursuing the system I have described for some time, Bruin became so tame that he would follow us about like a dog, while he exhibited his affection by every possible means. I shall never forget the grief he exhibited when he saw us working away at our boat and making preparations for our departure. Tears fell from his eyes and trickled down his shaggy breast, his bosom heaved with sighs, and he hung his paws as he stood before us, watching our proceedings in the most sentimental manner.

“When at length all was ready to make sail, we had to secure him, as we had before done, to the beam in our hut, lest he should scramble into our boat and insist on accompanying us. We knew that with his usual sagacity he could very easily release himself after we were gone. We then hurried on board, shoved off, and stood out to sea. We soon found that we had numberless dangers to encounter. Sometimes huge whales rose up and nearly capsized us, and there was always a terrible risk of running foul of icebergs. One day, indeed, there was a thick fog, and we were standing on with a fair breeze, when the bow of the boat came with such terrific impetus against one that she slid right up it for thirty feet at least, and did not stop till she sank into a deep hollow from which it seemed impossible to extricate her. There we were, like three young birds in a nest, floating about at the mercy of the winds and waves. My companions were in despair, but I cheered their spirits by assuring them that all would come right at last, as I knew it would, though, as it turned out, not in the way I expected.

“Leaving my companions to cut a channel in the ice to launch our boat, I ascended to a higher part of the berg to look out for a sail, hoping that some whaler might be in the neighbourhood. While there I heard a cry of despair, and to my dismay I beheld our boat rapidly gliding down the iceberg. She reached the water in safety, and with canvas set, which it was, I own, lubberly to have allowed, she sailed off before the wind, leaving us on our treacherous island.

“Fortunately my companions had taken the fish-hooks and other things out of the boat to lighten her or we might have perished; but we managed with the hooks to catch an abundance of fish to supply our wants. We had to eat them raw, but that was nothing. Why, once upon a time, I paid a visit to one of the South Sea Islands, where the king, queen, and all the court devour live fish; and, what is more, they are taught when brought up to table to jump down the throats of their majesties of their own accord, so as to give them as little trouble as possible. It is one of the strongest marks of devotion with which I ever met.

“When my companions saw the boat sailing away, they were in despair, and I had great difficulty in preventing them from throwing themselves into the sea, and in restoring their spirits. Certainly, an iceberg is not the pleasantest spot for a location. At length, one day, I saw something like a ship’s longboat in the distance. It approached the iceberg in the most mysterious manner. We watched it eagerly. It was not a boat after all, but a log of timber, and—you need not believe me if you’d rather not, but it’s a fact—there was our pet bear Bruin towing the timber at the rate of six knots an hour. I hurried down to the bottom of the berg to receive him. Poor fellow! he was so tired with his exertions that he could scarcely climb up out of the water, and when, to exhibit his affection, he attempted to embrace us, he fell forward on all fours, and very nearly rolled over into the sea again. As we sat by his side, all he had strength to do was to lick our hands and moan mournfully. Talk of the affection of a dog! I should think that was as strong a mark of affection and sagacity as any dog could give. Let others beat it if they can. Having loosed Bruin from the ropes and secured the log of timber, which was the one, it must be understood, to which we had secured him in the hut, and which he had dragged out with main force, we set to work to catch him a dinner of fish. This was the least we could do, and we were so fortunate in our sport that we were able to give him an abundant meal. He enjoyed it much, and quickly revived. To show his gratitude he soon began to play off his usual extraordinary antics for our amusement, such as dancing a jig, standing on his head, or rolling himself up into a ball. Suddenly it struck me that he had brought the log of timber to enable us to escape from our perilous situation. I consulted with my companions, and they agreed with me that if we harnessed Bruin to the log, he would undoubtedly tow us to a place of safety. We made signs to him, and he evidently understood our purpose, for he allowed the ropes to be thrown over his shoulders and secured to the log of timber, and when we had placed our stores on it and taken our seats, he slipped gently into the water, and, I holding the reins, off he bravely swam with his snout to the southward. It was far from agreeable work, for our feet were wet, and we were obliged to sit perfectly quiet; but still it was better than remaining on the iceberg, and we contrived to pass our time tolerably well with smoking, eating, and catching fish. The seas in those latitudes abound in fish, so that we were able to feed poor Bruin abundantly on them, or he would never have performed the hard work he had got through.

“At last a sail hove in sight, towards which I guided Bruin. I believe otherwise he would have carried us safely to some southern coast, towards which he was steering. When the people in the vessel first saw us they would not believe that we were human beings, though, after we had hailed pretty lustily in English, they hove their craft to, and told us to come on board.

“Accordingly, securing the timber astern, we three climbed up the side, followed by Bruin, and were not a little amused by hearing the mate tell the captain, who was ill in his cabin, that there were four men just picked up. He had taken the bear for a human being—there was so little difference in appearance between any of us. Ha, ha, ha! It was some time, too, before the mistake was discovered. The mate was disappointed, for they were short-handed, and he fancied Bruin would prove a fine heavy-sterned fellow for pulling and hauling. So he did when I taught him, and he would fist the end of a rope, and run the topsails up the masts with as much ease as half a dozen of the crew could together. The vessel was the Highland Lass, bound from Halifax to Greenock, where we arrived in three weeks in perfect health and spirits. One of my companions, James Hoxton, took care of honest Bruin, who, not being accustomed to a civilised country, would have been rather adrift by himself, and would scarcely have been treated as a distinguished foreigner. Hoxton carried him about the country as a sight, and used to give an account of our adventures, which very much astonished all the people who heard them. Bruin liked the amusement, for he was fond of travelling; but I was very sorry to part with him, for he had become the most amiable and civilised of bears, though on our first introduction to each other, I should not have supposed that such would ever have been the case.”

“Is that all, every bit of it, true, Mr Johnson?” asked Spellman, with mouth agape.

“Did you ever see a polar bear, Mr Spellman?” demanded the boatswain in an offended tone. “Yes,” answered Spellman, “once, at a show.”

“Then let me ask, young gentleman, why you should have any doubts as to the truth of my narrative?” said Mr Johnson, drawing himself up and casting an indignant glance at the midshipman.

“Let me tell you that a thousand things have occurred to me, a hundred thousand times more wonderful than that, during every part of my life; and some day, if you catch me in the humour for talking, perhaps I will tell you about them. I’ve only time just now to tell you of another somewhat strange adventure which befell me.

“Not finding a ship at Glasgow to suit my fancy, I went to Liverpool, where I shipped on board a South Sea whaler, called the Diddleus. She was a fine craft, measuring full six hundred tons. I won’t tell you just now some of the curious events which occurred before we reached the South Seas. Our success was not very satisfactory. We met with various accidents, and among others we lost our first mate, who was killed by a blow from a white whale’s tail in a flurry, and as the captain had the discernment to perceive that there was not a man on board equal to me, he appointed me to the vacant berth. I little thought how soon I should get a step higher. The captain, poor fellow, was enormously fat, and as he was one day looking into the copper to watch how the blubber was boiling, his foot slipped on the greasy deck, and in he fell head foremost. No one missed him at the moment, and he was stirred up and turned into oil before any one knew what had happened. The accident indeed was only discovered by our finding his buttons and the nails of his shoes at the bottom of the copper. In consequence of this sad catastrophe, I became master of the good ship Diddleus. Either through my judgment, or good luck, it does not become me to say which, we very soon began to fill our casks at a rapid rate.

“We had, of course, always our boats ready to go in chase of a fish at a moment’s notice. One day two of them were away, and had killed, dead to windward of us, a large whale, towards which I was endeavouring to beat up, when the look-out man from the crow’s nest, a sharp-sighted fellow, Jerry Wilkins by name, hailed the deck to say that there was land in sight on our lee bow. I knew very well that there wasn’t, and couldn’t be, but when I went aloft and looked out myself, I was dumbfoundered, for there I saw a dark long island, with what I took for a number of trees growing on it like weeping willows. Presently the island began to grow larger and larger, and to extend all round the horizon to leeward. I immediately ordered the lead to be hove, expecting to find that some current or other had been sweeping us towards some unknown island not down in the charts, but to the surprise of all of us there was no bottom. I now cracked on all sail I could set, to beat out of the bay, as it seemed to be, but the wind was so light that we made but little way, and as I looked out I saw the line gradually encircling us more and more, so that I must own I was altogether puzzled to know what it was.

“The whale and the boats were now about a mile off, when suddenly the island seemed to rise close to them, forming a considerable elevation. While we were watching what next would happen, the boats cast off their tow lines, and pulled like mad towards us. They had good reason to pull hard, I can assure you, for one end of what we took to be the island rose right out of the water, full fifty feet at least, and quickly approaching the whale, the mighty fish disappeared under it, and immediately the elevation sank to its former level. Directly after this, one of the crew said he saw a large fire at the end of the island, but when I took my glass, I ascertained that it was nothing more nor less than an immense eye. To give an idea of its size, I may state, with due care not to exaggerate, that I saw fish, of the size of full grown cod, swimming about in the lower lid. A short examination convinced me that what I saw was the head of some mighty marine monster, nothing more nor less than the great sea-serpent, and that the elevation I had seen was his upper jaw. The crews of the boats confirmed the opinion when they came on board, for they stated that when they were close to what they believed was the end of a coral island, they saw it open slowly, while formidable rows of teeth, every one of the size of a heavy gun, and a tongue twice as large as a whale appeared. When they saw this they thought it time to cut and run; nor could I blame them, for had they not, they would have been swallowed with the whale.

“Some slight idea may be formed of the size of the monster from its having swallowed a white sperm whale whole, with half a dozen harpoons in her, and yet it did not even blink its eyes. I confess that I did not like the position we were in, for, as I had no doubt that it must possess a very considerable appetite, I thought it just possible that it might take it into its head to swallow us up also. To my great satisfaction, however, the monster remained stationary—probably it found the harpoons in the whale’s back rather indigestible.

“I also considered that, without any vicious intention, should it take it into its head to be frisky, it might do us considerable damage.

“After consulting with my mates, it was agreed that at all events we should, if possible, avoid the jaws of the monster. We accordingly steered for the point where we believed its tail was to be found, but after standing on for an hour or more we appeared to be no nearer it than we were when we were within a mile of its head. Not only was this the case, but there could be little doubt that it was curling its tail round so as completely to encircle us.

“You, I dare say, have all heard of the dreadful passage between Sicily and the coast of Italy. On one side there are some frightful rocks, over which the sea roars like thunder. They are called the rocks of Scylla, and if a ship gets on them she is dashed to pieces in a quarter less than no time. On the other side is the awful whirlpool of Charybdis, which draws ships from miles towards it, and sucks them under the water like straws; so I’ve heard say, but, as I’ve not seen it done, I can’t vouch for the truth of the story. If you keep on one side you’ve a chance of being cast away on the rocks; if on the other, of being sucked down by the whirlpool. We were now much in the same condition. If we stood on too long on one tack, we ran a risk of sailing down the serpent’s mouth; if on the other, of getting an ugly slap with his tail—supposing that he had got a tail anywhere in the distance to slap us with.

“As I swept the horizon with my glass, his monstrous body appeared on every side of us, except dead to windward, where there was a clear opening, towards which point we were doing our best to beat up. Even that small space appeared to be narrowing. I watched it with no little anxiety—so did the mate, and so did Jerry Wilkins. Jerry was the first to discover that the serpent had a tail.

“‘I see it—I see it,’ sang out Jerry. ‘For all the world like the Falls of Niagara dancing a hornpipe.’

“It was a fact. There was no doubt of that; and what did the monster do but finish by clapping his tail into his mouth, and then he lay just like a big codfish on a fishmonger’s stall. It was a fashion we concluded he had when he wished to bask in the sun, but a very inconvenient one to us just then.

“We were, indeed, in a pretty fix, for we could not tell how long he might take to sleep; judging by his size, a year or so would have sufficed merely for a morning’s nap, and we might all be starved before we could hope to get free. We were in a complete lake, do ye see, and the Diddleus was like a child’s toy floating in the middle of it. It made us feel very small, I can assure you. I considered that the best thing we could do, under the circumstances, would be to heave-to near his head, so that, should he in his sleep let his tail slip from between his teeth, we might have time to beat round his jaws.

“When, however, we got near his head, the crew were so frightened with its terrific appearance, that I saw that there would be a regular mutiny, or that in their terror they would all be jumping overboard, if I did not bear up again pretty quickly.

“We had an old fellow on board, Joe Hobson by name, who was considered an oracle by the crew, and he added to their fears by telling them that he had often heard of these big sea-serpents before, and that, as they usually slept a dozen years or so on a stretch, we should be certainly starved before we could get out. I had, however, no fear about starving, because I knew we could catch fish enough for our support, and I had a plan by which I hoped, if he did sleep on, we might escape. To occupy the time I ran down alongside the head and shoulders, and then beat up again round by the tail end, and this survey, though we had a strong breeze, occupied fully three days.

“I now resolved to put into execution my plan, which was simply to cut a channel for the ship right through the serpent’s back. I considered that one deep enough to float the ship would be like a mere scratch on the skin to him, and would not wake him. I took, however, a precaution few would have thought of. The surgeon had a cask of laudanum, so, lowering it into a boat, with a few brave fellows as volunteers, we pulled right up to the serpent’s mouth. I had a line fast to the bung. Watching our opportunity, when the serpent lifted his jaws a little, we let the cask float into his mouth. I then pulled the line—the bung came out, and the laudanum, of course, ran down his throat.

“Now, I do not mean to say that under ordinary circumstances that quantity could have had any effect on so large a beast, for there was only a hogshead of it; but the doctor observed he placed some hopes of the opiate working from the creature being totally unaccustomed to such a dose.

“I had reason to think that it took immediate effect, for before an hour had elapsed, he snored so loudly that we could scarcely hear ourselves speak, though we were fully a mile distant from his head. I now made sail for the middle of his body, where I judged that there would be more fat and less sense of feeling. It took us a day to reach the spot; then heaving the ship to, we lowered the boats to land on the serpent’s back. It was, I assure you, nervous work at first, and we had no little difficulty in climbing up his sides, which were uncommonly slippery; but we succeeded at last, and forthwith set to work with knives and saws to cut into his back. At first we made but little progress, in consequence of the barnacles, which covered his skin to the depth of some feet, but when we got fairly through the skin we found to our great joy that there was as good blubber as we had ever cut out of a fat whale. We, therefore, made up our fires, and as we cut out the flesh we sent it on board to be boiled. So hard did we work, that in ten days we had cut a channel deep enough to admit the ship, and had besides got a full cargo of the finest oil that had ever been seen.

“We accordingly hoisted in the boats, made all sail, and ran smack on to the very centre of the serpent’s back. We had, however, not got quite over when, our keel tickling him, I suppose, he awoke partially, and letting his tail slip out of his mouth, off he went in a northerly direction, at the rate of forty knots an hour, with the good ship Diddleus on his back.

“We quickly clewed up the sails, or our masts would to a certainty have gone over the side. On we went in this way for three days, when the opium again making him drowsy, he put his tail into his mouth, as a little child does its thumb, and once more went off to sleep. The movement caused the ship to glide off into the sea outside the circle, and there being a strong southerly wind, you may be sure we lost no time in making all sail to get clear of so awkward a customer. The people set up a shout of joy when they saw him like a large island floating astern of the ship. I ordered them to be silent lest they should wake him up, and told them not to be too sure that we were yet altogether clear of him. As it turned out, I was right.

“For two days we sailed on without anything unusual happening, and the crew had begun to recover their usual spirits, when, just as it had gone two bells in the middle watch, the first mate called me up, in great alarm, to say that there were two glaring lights right astern of us, coming up fast with the ship. A strong hot wind, and an almost overpowering smell of sulphur, convinced me of the dreadful truth:—we were pursued by the big sea-serpent. I saw that there was nothing to be done but to run for it, so we made all sail, studden sails alow and aloft, and as the Diddleus was a good one to go, away we bowled with the monster in hot chase after us. And now, young gentlemen, as my watch is up, and Mr Fitzgerald will be on deck presently to relieve me, I must bring my tale of the big sea-serpent to an end for the present. What happened next I’ll tell you another night: I think you’ll agree that there are not many men afloat who have seen stranger sights than I have; and yet I don’t say, mind you, that the one I have just told you about, is the strangest by very far—ha! ha! ha! I should think not.”

When the watch was relieved, we all turned in, and, though I went to sleep quickly enough, I must own that I was all night long dreaming that I was on board the Diddleus, chased by the big sea-serpent. The next day I got leave to go on shore to pay my respects to the governor’s family. I had never been made so much of as I was by those Dutch ladies, even during my last visit home, and Miss Essa and I became more and more intimate. I thought her, indeed, the most charming young lady I had ever seen, and I do not know how affairs would have ended, had I not had cause to suspect that, though she treated me with very sisterly regard, she still looked upon me only as a young midshipman, and a mere boy. At first I was very indignant, and thought her very ungrateful; but when I told my griefs to Grey he laughed, and assured me that when I went home I should consider my own sisters very far superior. I must own he was right.

We held the whole island of Curaçoa in subjection for six months without any reinforcements, and at length were relieved by the arrival of troops from Jamaica. We sailed shortly after for that island. Having refitted at Port Royal, we were once more at sea on the look-out for enemies.

I had read and heard of so many gallant things being done, that I became very anxious also to do something to distinguish myself. I talked the matter over with Grey. He had the same feeling, and we agreed that we would seize the first opportunity of doing something, though what we would do would depend upon circumstances. Week after week passed away, and the opportunity we looked for did not occur. At last, one day, when close in with one of the numerous small islands of those seas, Mr Bryan called me up, and ordered me to take command of the second cutter, with six seamen and a couple of marines, and to go on shore to collect sand for the use of the ship. I asked if Grey might accompany me.

“To keep each other out of mischief, I suppose,” he observed. “Yes, he may go, but, remember there’s an order against taking arms with you. It is feared that you youngsters will be running your heads into danger if you have the means of fighting.”

There was nothing very romantic or interesting in prospect for us, but still it was something to get away from the ship, and to feel that, in a certain sense, we were to be our own masters for a few hours. Billy Wise, the captain’s steward, was also sent in the boat. I have not mentioned Billy for some time. He had not, however, improved in sense since he came to sea this time, but was continually committing some extraordinary blunder or other. Toby Bluff also accompanied us. The boat was manned and ready to shove off, but Grey had not appeared, so I ran up the side to call him, leaving Billy in charge. I was not gone a minute, for Grey, who was waiting for a basket to collect shells, at once joined me. The wind was light, and while the frigate, under easy sail, stood off shore, we pulled towards it.

We had not got far from the ship, when a piece of sail-cloth being kicked aside, I saw under it several ship’s muskets. I counted five of them. I found also that there was a supply of ammunition and half a dozen cutlasses. How they came there was a mystery. No one knew, at least no one would tell. Billy Wise said that all sorts of things had been handed into the boat, and that the men had told him that they were spades to dig sand. Grey and I agreed that, though we could not have ventured to disobey orders and take arms, since the muskets were there, if we should meet with an enemy, it would of course be our duty to use them. The chances, however, of our falling in with one seemed very remote.

The heat was considerable, but not quite so hot as Mr Johnson had declared we should find it. We had a long pull, however, and as the men were somewhat exhausted, I allowed them to take some rest and refreshment before they began to load the boat. Of course it was not the sand close down to the sea which was required, but that which, being constantly exposed to the effects of the sun and wind, had become fine and white. The operation of carrying it to the boat therefore took some time. Grey and I had brought some cold beef and biscuit and rum and water, and so we sat ourselves down in the shade of a clump of palm trees to discuss our provisions, and to try and get cool. Some of the men then asked leave to bathe, and I told them that they might do so, warning them to beware of sharks and not to get out of their depth.

They had been frolicking about for some time, while Billy Wise was sitting down at some little distance off, watching them. Suddenly the thought seized him that he too would have a bathe, but he fancied some rocks further away which might serve as a dressing-room. The other men now began to go on with the duty we had come on. Toby Bluff, meantime, was strolling along the shore looking for shells for Grey and me. Suddenly we heard him shouting—

“Help—help! There’s Billy Wise drowning. Some beast has got hold of him!”

We rushed towards the spot where poor Billy had last been seen. There was a considerable commotion in the water. Now a leg, now an arm appeared. We ran on. Two of the men who had accompanied us dashed into the sea, as we also did, and we all made our way up to the spot just as poor Billy had disappeared under the water. We could see his limbs, however, and, seizing hold of him, we all dragged away and brought him to the surface. The cause of his disappearance was explained. Round his right leg and arm, and indeed his neck, were entwined the long tentaculae or arms of what I fancy was a huge squid. To clear him of the horrible mass seemed impossible. Indeed it appeared as if the poor fellow was already dead. We shouted for the rest of the men, and with their assistance we dragged Billy and the creature into shallow water. The monster would not let go, and we all set to work with our knives to cut it away arm by arm, and feeler by feeler. Till this was done, there was evidently no chance of our being able to restore animation. As it was, there seemed to be very little prospect of reviving the poor fellow. At length, however, we got him clear of the horrible mass, which dropped into the sea, and none of us were inclined to stop and examine it. I never have been quite certain what it really was. The sand was hot enough to hatch a turtle’s egg, so we laid Billy down on it and set to work to rub him all over his body. After a time an eyelid moved, and then his limbs began to twitch, and that encouraged us to rub harder and harder, till at length, to my infinite relief, he breathed, and, getting rid of some of the salt water he had swallowed, he sat up and stared round him, exclaiming, “Hallo, mates, have you caught the big fish? I thought as how I’d a grip of him myself.” Billy never heard the end of his big fish. When he attempted to put on his clothes, he complained that he was stung all over, and so the men carried him just as he was to the boat. They had, however, no little difficulty in keeping him there, for when his hitherto impeded circulation was completely restored, the stinging sensation increased, and made him feel that only a plunge in the sea would cure him. This event had delayed us considerably. We ought to have taken our departure from the island even before Billy had begun to bathe, and so, when I looked at my watch, I found that we were two hours at least behind our time. At last we shoved off, but where the frigate was we could not tell. Grey thought that she must have drifted round to the other side of the island. We had been directed to keep a look-out for her, but had neglected to do so. Then it became a question to which side she had drifted. To ascertain, we lay on our oars, and found a current running to the east, and so decided that she must have gone in that direction. We now pulled merrily along, sure of soon falling in with her. Billy Wise was the only unhappy one of the party. He could not tell what was going to happen to him, till the men told him he must have fallen into a hedge of sea-nettles, and that he would soon get well again. This comforted him considerably, and so he consented to put on his clothes and sit quiet.

It was now growing dusk, when, as we rounded a point, Grey exclaimed that he saw a sail ahead. I jumped upon the seat, and made out that she was a schooner standing off the land.

“She hasn’t much wind,” Grey remarked.

“We might overhaul her,” said I.

“We ought to do so,” remarked Grey; “she may be an enemy.”

“We’ve got arms, sir,” said one of the men.

“And ammunition,” added another.

“Many a rich prize has been taken by a boat’s crew,” observed the coxswain, the oldest man in the boat.

“Well, Grey, suppose we just pull up to her and ascertain what she is,” said I.

“With all my heart,” he answered; “it’s a pity, now we have got the muskets and ammunition, if we have the chance, that we should not make use of them.”

I fully agreed with him. My only fear was that the schooner might after all not prove an enemy. The wind was dropping gradually—there was little doubt that we should get up to her.

“I suppose that the captain won’t mind much if she is an enemy and we attack her,” continued Grey. “He’ll suspect, though, that we disobeyed orders, and had arms in the boat.”

“Not if we take her,” I answered. “He’ll not ask questions. If we fail we shall get into a terrible row—we may count on that; but we must take her, and it will stick a feather in our caps, and put some dollars in our pockets too.”

We were pulling steadily on all this time. We got the muskets up, and ascertained that they were dry, and, loading them, placed them on the thwarts ready for use. The schooner held her course. There was just wind enough to fill her sails and no more. I felt convinced that she was French. I asked the coxswain, Ned Dawlish, his opinion. He agreed with me, and thought that she was a privateer.

“If so, she must be armed,” said I. “We will keep in her wake, and as in a short time she will not have steerage way, she will be unable to bring her guns to bear on us.”

The men were all highly delighted with our proposal. They must have anticipated some such chance when they smuggled the arms into the boat. Ned Dawlish took another look at the chase. “She’s a French craft, and a privateer, I’ll bet any money,” he exclaimed, sitting down again to his oar.

The crew now gave way with a will. The sooner we were up to her the better, because, of course, we knew that we must by this time be seen, and our intentions suspected.

“She carries three or, maybe, four guns on a side,” observed Ned, looking over his shoulder. “But that’s no odds, they can’t reach us.”

His eagerness and courage animated the rest of the crew. How many men the chase carried we could not tell; indeed, we did not consider. Not one of us entertained a doubt that we should take her. Our proposed plan of proceeding was very simple. We were to pull up alongside, jump on board, and, cutlass in hand, drive the enemy down the hatches, or into the sea if they would not yield.

There was still some light left, and, as we drew near, it appeared to me that the decks were somewhat crowded. I asked Grey what he thought. He agreed with me. Still it was too late to retreat. We had not got much farther when bright flashes of flame burst from the stern, and, what we little expected, a shower of bullets rattled about us.

“Give way, lads, give way!” shouted Ned Dawlish. “We’ll lick the Johnny Crapeaus in spite of that.”

The boat dashed on. We hoped to get alongside before another volley was fired. In vain. Again a leaden shower rattled round our heads. Once more Ned Dawlish shouted loudly. There was a deep groan, and he fell, with his face bent down, to the bottom of the boat. Grey seized his oar, and took his place. He had been shot in the back. Speed was everything to us now. There must be a considerable number of small-arm men on board, I saw; but even then it never occurred to me that we ought to turn tail.

On we went. Still the enemy kept up a fire at us. Toby Bluff gave a sharp cry. A bullet had hit him, but he answered me when I spoke, and kept his seat. We had the muskets ready. I let go the tiller and seized one. Grey and Billy Wise and two other men did the same, and let fly among the enemy.

In another instant we were under the schooner’s quarter. The bowman hooked on. Without asking leave, up we scrambled, and, cutlass in hand, in spite of boarding-pikes thrust at us, and pistols flashed in our faces, began to play heartily about us among the very much astonished Frenchmen.

Chapter Nine.

If the Frenchmen were very much astonished at finding us among them, we were not the less so on discovering the number of our opponents. Besides the crew, we found ourselves engaged with thirty or forty soldiers; but had there been more, it would have been the better for us, for so crowded were the schooner’s decks, that they impeded each other’s movements. By the suddenness of our rush, we had gained the after part of the vessel, and had killed or wounded half a dozen of the enemy before they knew exactly what to do. The bodies of these men served as a sort of rampart, while the bowman of our boat, having secured her, climbed up the side to our support, thus allowing us a few seconds to look about. In the centre of a group of vociferating, gesticulating, grimace-making Frenchmen, some armed with muskets, others with swords and cutlasses, and others pistols and boarding-pikes, stood a tall, gaunt, soldier officer, eyeing us very sternly, and tugging hard to get a sword out of a long scabbard, while he kept screaming to his men, as I understood, to annihilate the dogs of Englishmen, and to kick them into the sea. But though he kept shouting louder and louder, till his cries resembled the rabid howls of a wild beast, his soldiers found that though it might be easy to order them to kick five stout British seamen overboard, and two rather precocious midshipmen, it was not quite as easy for them to obey. I saw, too, that our only chance of success was to push on without further delay. Had Mr Johnson been with us I should have felt less doubt as to the result of our exploit.

“On, my lads!” I shouted, “we must drive these Frenchmen off the deck.”

Grey echoed my words, as did another faint voice, and I found that Toby Bluff, in spite of his wound, had climbed on board the schooner, and was ready to do battle by my side. On we all pushed. A sturdy French seaman, on my left, raised his cutlass, while I was engaged with another on my right. I could just see, out of the corner of my left eye, his weapon descending, and fully believed that my last moment had come, for it was impossible to ward it off. Before, however, the cutlass reached my head, there was the report of a pistol close to my ear, and my enemy tumbled over dead on the deck. Toby had saved my life, just as I had before saved the boatswain’s. We continued cutting and slashing away so furiously, that the Frenchmen no longer attempted to contend against us. Jumping aside like a troop of monkeys, as we got among them, they tumbled over each other down the hatchways, the old officer with them; whether he went of his own accord, or could not help it, I was unable to tell. All I know is, that he disappeared with most of his army, the remainder of whom lay sprawling on deck, or clinging to the bowsprit, while some of the crew had run up the rigging, and others had tumbled into the hold with the soldiers. Over these latter we took the liberty of clapping the hatches, while Billy Wise did the wisest thing he had been guilty of for a long time; he pointed his musket at the men aloft, and intimated that he would shoot the first who attempted to descend. Some of them had pistols, but they had fortunately already fired them at us, and they were afraid of throwing them at our heads, lest Billy should put his threat into execution. His adventure with the sea monster had evidently roused his wits, for he had, besides this, done good service in boarding, and several of the foe owed their fall to his sturdy arm. In less than five minutes from the time we sprang on board, Grey and I were shaking hands, as we stood on the hatch, with the Frenchmen below us.

“I hope, though, that the Monsieurs won’t blow up the ship,” he observed; “they must begin to feel heartily ashamed of the way they have allowed us to take her from them.”

“No fear of it; they are not the fellows for that,” I answered: “but it is just possible that they may attempt to take her back again, so we must keep a very bright look-out to prevent them.”

Grey agreed with me.

“I wish that I could talk to them, though,” he remarked; “I don’t suppose that one of our party knows a word of French.”

“No; we must learn, however, on the first opportunity,” said I. “It would be very convenient, and very likely useful. If the captain had not known it, we should probably have been caught by the enemy’s fleet when we got among them.”

The puzzle was now to settle how to manage with these prisoners. As we had only seven effectives, and they had more than forty, it was no slight task. Billy Wise, touching his hat, suggested that we should shoot them, or send them overboard with round-shots at their heels, to swim ashore if they could; but as that mode of procedure was somewhat contrary to the customs of civilised warfare, we declined to adopt it, though undoubtedly it would have solved our difficulties. We ultimately agreed that our best plan would be to get hold of all those on deck, and to lash their hands behind them, and then to summon a few at a time of those below to be treated in the same way. We soon had all those above deck secured. It seemed extraordinary that men should submit in so abject a manner to a party of men and boys. They appeared, indeed, entirely to have lost their wits. It shows what boldness and audacity will accomplish. However, it might have been the other way, and we might all have been knocked on the head, or tumbled down as prisoners into the Frenchman’s hold. Having accomplished this, we sent a hand to the helm, trimmed sails, though there was not much wind to fill them, and steered in the direction in which we hoped to fall in with the frigate. I must own that it was not till then that we thought of poor Ned Dawlish. We drew the boat alongside, and had him lifted on deck. We had some faint hopes that, though he lay so still, he might be alive, but his glazed eyes and stiffened limbs too plainly told us that his last fight was over, and that we should hear his cheery voice and hearty laugh no more. We then, turned our attention to Toby Bluff. He had shown himself a true hero, for though his wound must have given him intense pain, he had not given utterance to a complaint or a single groan, but had endeavoured to work away as if nothing was the matter with him. I had observed a good deal of blood about his dress, but it was not till I came to examine him that I found it had flowed from his own veins, and that his shirt and trousers on one side were literally saturated. He was looking deadly pale, and would in a few seconds have fainted, had not Grey and I set to work to staunch the blood. We had not much experience as surgeons, but we succeeded after some time.

“Thank ye, sir; thank ye,” said Toby, his voice growing weaker every moment; “I’ll be up and at ’em again directly. I wants another pistol, please, sir. I don’t know what tricks the mounseers may be up to, and they shan’t hurt you if I can help it, that they shan’t. I shot one on ’em, and I’ll shoot another.”

By this time his voice grew indistinct, and we began to be alarmed about him. We happily had some rum and water left. We poured it down his throat, and it evidently revived him. We then placed him under charge of the helmsman, and continued our other duties.

“Now, Merry, what’s to be done?” asked Grey, when we had got all who remained on deck in limbo. “If those gentlemen down there find it’s hot, which I suspect they will very soon, they will begin to grow obstreperous, and try to force their way out. When men get desperate, they are somewhat difficult to manage.”

“People cannot live without air, I fancy, and they cannot have much of it in the hold of this craft, which must naturally have a pretty strong smell of bilge-water,” I answered. “We must get them up somehow or other, so that they don’t overpower us. However, we may as well first get the dead men overboard; they are only in the way where they are.”

“We should see to the wounded first,” remarked Grey, more thoughtful and humane than I was. “If we could get below, I dare say that we should find spirits and wine, and other good things for them.”

The first man we came to had received the stroke of a British cutlass full on the top of his head, and did not require our assistance, so he was pitched overboard. The next was the man shot dead by Toby, so his body was treated in the same way. A third still breathed, but was bleeding profusely from a deep wound in his shoulder, and a shot through his side. His case seemed hopeless, but we bound up his hurts and placed him against the bulwarks, under the shade of the sail. Two more we came to were dead, and two badly wounded. When we had done what we could for them, and placed them with their companions, we saw a fourth man, whom we supposed to be dead, right forward. When we lifted him up his limbs did not seem very stiff, nor could we see any wound about him. Billy Wise was assisting us.

“Why, sirs,” he exclaimed, “the chap has got a big knife in his clutch, and those eyes of his ain’t dead men’s eyes, but maybe it will be just as well to pitch him overboard; he can’t do no harm then, anyhow.”

Billy was right, for as he spoke I saw the supposed dead man’s eyes twinkle. Calling another of our people to our assistance, we snatched the knife out of the man’s hand, and then lifting him up we seemed as if about to heave him overboard. Indeed, Billy thought that was our object. The Frenchman, however, did not approve of this, and gave strong evidence that he was alive, by struggling violently, and uttering with extraordinary volubility a variety of expletives on the matter. When we had frightened him a little, we lashed his arms behind him and placed him with the rest of the prisoners on deck. There could be little doubt that he had shammed dead, and kept a knife ready, with the hopes of releasing his companions while we were off our guard, and retaking the vessel. For this we could not blame him, so we treated him with the same care as the other prisoners—only, perhaps, we kept rather a sharper watch over him, lest he might attempt to play us some other trick.

There were some casks of water on the deck, so we served some of it out to ourselves and our prisoners on deck alike. Most of the Frenchmen looked as if they were grateful, but the sulky countenances of some of them did not alter. However, that made no difference in our behaviour, as Grey and I agreed it must have been terribly annoying to their feelings to find themselves thus hopelessly prisoners.

We had done thus much, when we heard thumping and shouts from below. This was what we expected, but we had hoped to have fallen in with the frigate before it became absolutely necessary to open the hatches. We looked round. From the deck she was nowhere to be seen, so charging Grey and our men to watch the hatches—the companion and forehatch, as well as the main, I went aloft to obtain a wider circle, in the expectation that I might thus discover her.

Not a sail was in sight. The low island with its groves of palm trees lay to the northward, and the wide expanse of the Caribbean Sea to the south. I scarcely knew what to do. I sat at the mast-head to consider, but was speedily aroused by a shout from Grey.

In a second, as the Yankees say, like greased lightning, I slid down the topmast backstay on deck. A Frenchman’s head was protruding through the fore hatchway, he having forced off the hatch, and Billy Wise, who had been stationed there, was endeavouring to drive him back—not an easy task, as others below were shoving a boarding-pike at him for the purpose of compelling him to retreat. Billy, however, stood his ground, and was working away with his elbow to get at his cutlass, while he kept his musket pointed at the man’s head.

In the meantime others were thundering away at the main hatch, and, what was still more dangerous, a party had evidently cut their way aft, and were trying to force back the companion-hatch. We knew, too, that they must have firearms, so that we were altogether placed in a very difficult position. The fore hatch must first be secured. I was running to help Billy, when I saw him whip out his cutlass, and before I could stop him, it flashed in the sun, and the unfortunate Frenchman’s head rolled on the deck.

“There, you Johnny Crapeaus, if any of you likes it, I’ll do the same for you,” he shouted, flourishing his weapon.

The body of the man fell below, stopping his companions from ascending, and though they might not have understood the words in which Billy’s liberal offer was made, they must have caught sight of the glittering cutlass sweeping over the hatchway, and hesitated about placing their necks within its influence.

I sprang forward. So excited was Billy that he did not see me, and very nearly treated me as he had threatened to do the Frenchmen—taking me for one of them.

“Lauk, Master Merry, if I had a done it,” he exclaimed, when he discovered his mistake.

I did not speak, but popping on the hatch, secured it before our captives could make a rush to get out. It was breathless work, it may be believed—indeed, I even to this day feel almost out of breath when I think of it. Leaving Billy at the post he had guarded so well, I ran back to the companion-hatch, inside of which we could hear the men working away with most disagreeable vigour.

“Oh dear! oh dear!” exclaimed Grey over and over again. “If we could but speak French, we could tell the men what we would do if they would behave themselves.”

“But, as we cannot, we must show them what we will do if they don’t,” I rejoined. “We must get them on deck somehow or other, for if we keep them much longer below they will die, I am afraid. It is hot up here—it must be ten times worse in that close hold.”

“I’ll tell you, then,” he answered. “We must keep our loaded pistols in our hands, and get up one at a time through the companion-hatchway. If more than one attempts to come, we must shoot him; there’s no help for it. It will be a long process, but I suppose those who first come will tell the others how we treat them, and they will be content to wait.”

“We must have some water, then, for they will be terribly thirsty,” said I. “And we must have a good supply of lashings ready, to secure them.”

We accordingly unrove all the running rigging that could be spared, and cut it into lengths, and then, leaving Billy Wise as sentry at his former post, we rolled two water casks over the main hatch, adding a spare sail and spars, so that there was little danger of its being forced. We all then collected round the after hatch. We slipped back the hatch sufficiently far to allow of one man passing through at a time, then, holding our pistols so that those below might see them, we beckoned to the Frenchmen to come up. At first, from having discovered probably the way that Billy Wise had treated their countryman, they were unwilling to take advantage of our invitation, which was not to be wondered at. I ordered the men to take care lest they might fire up at us, for I suspected some treachery.

“Come along, mounseers, come along; we won’t hurt ye,” said Ned Bambrick, the best man with us; indeed, there was not a better in the ship, though certain wild pranks in which he had indulged had prevented him from becoming a petty officer. “Come along, now, we’ll treat ye as if ye was all sucking babies.”

Though the Frenchmen did not understand the words addressed to them, the tone of his voice somewhat reassured them, and at last one ventured up. We immediately seized him by the arms, hauled him out, and shut to the hatch, greatly to the disappointment of those who were following. The Frenchman, who was a sailor, looked dreadfully frightened, and began to struggle violently, expecting probably that we were going to throw him overboard. We had, however, his arms very soon lashed behind him, and we then gave him water, and pointed to his shipmates sitting quietly round the side. He was once more satisfied, and we then signed to him, as well as we could, that he was to tell his companions below that no harm would happen to them. We concluded that he did so, for after he had shouted down the hatchway, another cautiously lifted his head above the coaming. He gave a cry as we seized hold of him, but we quickly had him up, and treated like the other. In the same way we got up a dozen, the last showing clear signs of having suffered most. At length a nearly bald head appeared, with a silver plate covering part of it, on which I read the word “Arcole,” and then the high narrow forehead, gaunt cheeks, and thin body of the old colonel slowly emerged from the cabin. He looked round with a confused expression on his countenance, as if not very certain what had happened; but, before he had had much time for consideration, Ned Bambrick politely took him by the hand, and helped him to step out on deck. When he found himself seized to be pinioned, he looked very indignant, and struggled to get loose, but we had the ropes round his arms in a moment. As a compliment, however, we secured him to the mainmast, with a heap of sail-cloth to sit on. He made so many extraordinary grimaces that even poor Toby, who was sitting opposite to him, in spite of his suffering, burst into a fit of laughter. Grey and I had, however, just then too much to do to laugh. There were still nearly twenty men below, enough to overpower us and to release their countrymen, so it was necessary to be as cautious as at first. From the horrible effluvium which came rushing up the hatchway each time the hatch was slid off, we might have known that the men who had to exist in it long were not likely to be very difficult to manage. In those days midshipmen, at all events, knew nothing of hydrogen and oxygen, and that human beings could not exist without a certain supply of the latter. A few more climbed slowly up. We thought that they were shamming, and treated them like the rest. At last no more appeared.

“What can they be about?” I asked of Grey. Then we heard some groans.

“What shall we do?” said Grey.

“I’ll tell you, sir, I’ll go below and find out,” exclaimed Ned Bambrick.

It was the only way of solving the difficulty. We put on the companion-hatch, and lifted off the main hatch. We were nearly knocked down with the abominable odour which arose as we did so. Notwithstanding this, Ned sprang down into the hold. He groped about for half a minute, when he sang out, “Send a whip down and get these fellows on deck, or they’ll be dead altogether.”

We lowered the end of a rope, and ran up the men one after another, as he made them fast to it. They were in a very exhausted condition; but the fresh air, though it was still very hot, and the water we poured down their throats, soon revived them, and we had to lash their arms behind them, as we had the others. During this time Billy Wise volunteered to go down and assist Ned. We had hoisted up ten or a dozen when they both declared that they could find no more, so we took all the hatches off to ventilate the vessel, not forgetting to throw overboard the corpse of the poor fellow whose head Billy’s cutlass had cut off. Billy wanted to keep the head as a trophy, but we did not approve of that, and made him pitch it after the body.

“Well, now I hope you’ll find each other,” observed Billy, with perfect gravity, as he did so.

It had certainly a very odd appearance to see our forty prisoners arranged round the vessel, with the colonel at the mainmast and the man we supposed to be the master at the foremast. We had, however, to wait on them, and to carry them water and food. Grey and I agreed that, though it was a very honourable thing to command a ship, we should be very glad to be relieved of the honour. Since we captured the vessel we had not had a moment to take any food. Hunger made us rather inclined to despond. We, however, found out what was the matter with us, and sent Billy Wise down into the cabin to forage. He soon returned with some biscuit and white cheese, and dried plums and raisins, and a few bottles of claret, but there was no honest cold beef or rum.

“It’s no wonder we licked the Johnny Crapeaus when that’s the stuff they feeds on,” observed Ned Bambrick, turning over the food with a look of contempt.

However, he and the rest stowed away no small amount of the comestibles, notwithstanding his contempt for them. When, however, he came to the liquid, tossing off the contents of a bottle, he made a woefully wry face and exclaimed,—

“Billy, my boy, we must have a full cask of this on deck—a chap must drink a bucket or two before he finds out he has taken anything. It’s vinegar and water, to my mind.”

Grey and I took a few glasses of the wine. It did not taste so bad, especially in that hot weather, but we fancied that there was but little strength in it. As the men required refreshment, we did not object to their taking as much as they fancied. Persuaded by Bambrick, Billy went below, and soon sang out that he had found a cask of the same stuff as that in the bottles. A whip was sent below. A cask was hoisted on deck, and found to contain what was undoubtedly claret. When the old colonel saw it he shrieked out something about “monsieur le gouverneur.”

“Well, Mounzeer Governor! here’s to your health, then,” said Bambrick, draining off a mugful of the claret, which had been quickly tapped. “This is better tipple than the other. Here, old boy, you shall have a glass, to see if we can’t put a smile into that ugly mug of yours.”

The old soldier seemed not at all to object to the wine which Ned poured down his throat, and he smacked his lips as if he would like some more. Fortunately Grey and I now tasted the claret, and though we were no great judges of wine, we knew enough to ascertain that it was remarkably fine and strong; and moreover we discovered, by the way Ned and Billy and the rest began to talk, that they had had enough, if not too much of it already.

“It was unwise of us to let them have any at all,” observed Grey. “How we shall keep them from it I do not know; and if they get drunk, as they certainly will if they have much more, the chances are the Frenchmen will take the vessel from us.”

“We must knock the head in,” I answered. “It is our only security. I know from experience, that if seamen can by any means get hold of liquor, they will do so at all risks, and that they are in no way particular what it is.”

“It will be better to serve it out to the prisoners,” said Grey. “If we appeal to these men’s kind feelings they will do it, and if there is more than enough we must leave the spile out.”

Bambrick and Billy, and the other men, were perfectly ready to do as we proposed. When the old colonel saw what we were doing he again shrieked out about the Governor, but this did not prevent the men from serving out the wine. It only made Bambrick turn round and say:

“All right, Mr Governor, you shall have some more, old boy.”

He took care, at all events, that the old gentleman should have enough, for he gave him the greater portion of the contents of a jug.

We waited till nearly all the men were served, and then Grey pulled out the spile, and a good deal ran out. He had to put it in before the men returned for their last supply. Still, for fear that too much might remain, he kicked away the block of wood which kept it in its place, and then rolling over the cask, it was emptied of its remaining contents. I must do our fellows the justice to say that they treated the prisoners as they would like to have been treated themselves, and gave them as much wine as they would drink. The only difference was that they would have drunk five times as much as the Frenchmen, and not have been the worse for it.

They were rather inclined to grumble when they found that there was no more. I saw that it was time to exert my authority.

“You’ve done very well, lads,” I exclaimed. “But suppose you were all to get drunk, what would the Frenchmen do with us, I should like to know? Shall I tell you? They would manage to wriggle themselves free, and heave us all overboard. If we don’t want to disgrace ourselves, let us keep what we’ve got. Not another drop of liquor does anyone have aboard here till we fall in with the frigate.”

My speech appeared to have some effect, and I took care to give all hands ample employment, that they might not think of the liquor. As it was, by the springy way in which they moved about the deck, and the harangues uttered by Ned Bambrick on every trivial occasion, I saw that they had already had quite enough for our safety. Night was now approaching, but still the frigate was nowhere to be seen. Grey went aloft, and took an anxious look round.

“Not a sign of her,” he said, as he returned on deck.

Darkness came on. All hands were naturally feeling very sleepy, but with so many prisoners to guard, even though their hands were lashed behind them, it was necessary for us to keep awake. However, Grey and I agreed that—if we were rested and brisk we could do more than if we were worn out—it would be best for us to take a little sleep at intervals, and allow one or two of the men to sleep at the same time. One man was at the helm, and two others kept walking up and down the deck, with pistols in their hands and cutlasses ready for use. Grey lay down first. He slept so soundly that I did not like to call him. The night was dark, but the prisoners were quiet, and there was but little wind; even that little had died away. I did not altogether like the look of the weather. The heat was very great, and though it was calm then, I knew that it was not far off the hurricane season, and I thought if we were to be caught in a hurricane how greatly our difficulties would be increased, even if we were not lost altogether. After a time Grey started up of his own accord. The instant I lay down on the after part of the deck I was asleep. It appeared to me that I had scarcely closed my eyes, when I was aroused by shouts and cries. I started up, fully persuaded that the Frenchmen were loose and upon us. The sounds appeared to come from the hold. As I ran to the main hatchway I heard a noise of scuffling and struggling, and a voice shouting “Oh, Master Merry, Master Grey, the ghosteses have got hold of me, the ghosteses have got hold of me.” Looking into the hold, I saw, by the light of a lanthorn, Billy Wise struggling with two Frenchmen, while, forward, Grey and one of our men were, I discovered rather by my ears than by sight, engaged with another of the prisoners, who had apparently worked himself loose. Ned Bambrick had started to his feet at the moment that I did. Together we leaped down below. We were not an instant too soon. Billy was almost overpowered, and as there were some cutlasses at hand, the Frenchmen might have armed themselves and killed us while we were asleep. Bambrick knocked one over with a blow of his fist, and the other was easily managed. Where they had come from we could not tell. They were none of those who had appeared on deck, and must have been concealed very cleverly when we sent down to search below. It was a lesson to Grey and me ever after to go and look ourselves when a search of importance was to be made. While Bambrick and Billy held the men down, I ran for some rope, with which we made them fast pretty tightly to some stanchions between decks. Grey and his companion had in the meantime re-secured the prisoner who had managed nearly to release himself, and we then made a more careful search than before through every part of the vessel. We had pretty well satisfied ourselves that no one else was stowed away below, when a loud cry, and finding the vessel suddenly heeling over, made us spring on deck. A squall had struck her. I did not expect to see her recover herself. Everything was flying away; yards were cracking, the sails in shreds fluttering in the gale; the masts were bending as if about to go over the side; blocks were falling from aloft; ropes slashing and whipping furiously; the water was rushing in through the lee scuppers half up the deck, and nearly drowning the unfortunate Frenchmen sitting there, who were shrieking out in dismay, believing that their last moments had come. Ned Bambrick sprang aft and put up the helm: the after canvas was chiefly off her; she had gathered way, and now answering her helm, she flew before it. Never had I been in such a scene of confusion, increased by the roaring of the wind, the shrieks of the prisoners, the rattling of the blocks and ropes, the cracking of spars, and the loud slush of the water as it rushed about the deck. What had become of Grey I could not tell. It was too dark now to distinguish anyone. I called: he did not answer. A horrid feeling seized me. He must have been knocked overboard. I called again in despair. At that moment it would have been a matter of indifference to me if the Frenchmen had risen and taken the vessel from us. A faint voice answered me. It was that of Toby Bluff. “He was there, sir, but just now.”

I had been standing on the weather side. I slid down to leeward, for I saw some one there. I grasped hold of the person, and hauled him up. It was Grey. When the vessel was first struck, he had been knocked over by the tiller, which he must have just taken, believing that there was to be but a slight breeze. He had been half stunned and half drowned. He speedily, however, to my great joy, recovered. I now mustered all hands, most of whom had been sent sprawling in among the Frenchmen, who kicked and bit at them, they declared, but which Grey and I did not believe to be the fact. We now set to work to get the ship to rights. We squared yards as well as we could, furled the remnant of the canvas, and set a close-reefed fore-topsail, under which the little vessel ran on very comfortably. Our chief concern was, that we were, as we thought, running away from the frigate. None of us felt disposed to go to sleep again, so we kept a bright look-out, not knowing whether we might not be hurrying directly on to a coral reef, or another island. The wind, however, soon began to go down, and I was proposing to Grey to haul up again, when Billy Wise, who was stationed forward, sang out—

“Starboard—starboard the helm—or we shall run down the frigate!”

Sure enough, in half a minute, we were gliding by close under her stern. A voice from the deck hailed us.

“What schooner is that?”

“The —, I don’t know her name—prize to the second cutter of His Majesty’s frigate Doris,” I answered. “We’ve a heap of prisoners, and I don’t know what to do with them!”

“Heave-to, and we will send a boat on board,” was shouted in return.

Day was just breaking, and the increasing light enabled us to manage better than we could otherwise have done. We had now less fear of our enemies breaking loose, so all hands were able to assist in getting some after sail on the vessel, and bringing her up to the wind.

“Now we shall catch it for all this,” said Grey, as we saw the boat pulling towards us from the frigate.

“I hope not,” said I. “At all events, we must make the best of it. There’s Mr Fitzgerald in the boat. We’ll get him to stand our friend.”

“Well, boys, this is a nate piece of work you’ve been after doing now!” remarked our handsome second lieutenant, as he surveyed the deck. “You don’t mean to say that you captured all these heroes?”

“Every one of them, sir,” said Grey, with perfect seriousness. “I hope the captain won’t be angry.”

“There’s no saying. However, we’ll see,” he answered with a smile.

We now made more sail, and ran in close under the lee of the frigate.

Perigal was sent on board the schooner to take charge of her, and the prisoners were transferred to the deck of the frigate, where the captain and most of the officers were assembled. Mr Johnson met me. He had just time to say, “I congratulate you, Mr Merry. You’ve done well. You are worthy of my teaching!” when the prisoners were summoned aft.

We had given the old colonel his sword, that he might present it in due form. He marched aft at the head of his men, and presented it to Captain Collyer with a profound bow.

The Captain then addressed him. I was afterwards told what he said. It was—

“I am surprised, monsieur, that you, an experienced soldier, who have seen much service, should allow yourself and your men to be captured by a single boat’s crew and two midshipmen.”

“Ma foi!” exclaimed the colonel, with an inimitable shrug of his shoulders, and an indescribable expression of countenance, indicative of intense disgust. “I am a brave man; I fear nothing—mais c’est ce terrible mal de mer!” (this terrible sea-sickness.)

I do not know what Captain Collyer said in return, but I fancy he did not pay the colonel any compliments on his gallantry. (I only hope that Frenchmen, on other occasions, may have their valour cooled down to zero by that terrible sea-sickness.) Grey and I were very agreeably surprised when, instead of being reprimanded for what we had done, the captain praised us very much for the daring way in which we had taken the schooner. Mr Fitzgerald had told him all the particulars beforehand. Somebody, however, was to blame for having taken the arms in the boat. All the men, however, declared that they knew nothing about it, but that the getting them in had been entirely managed by Ned Dawlish, who, being dead, could say nothing in his defence, and was therefore found guilty. The truth was, that the captain was very well-pleased at what had been done, and was ready to overlook the disobedience of orders of which the men had been guilty.

Grey and I were in high feather. We dined that day with the captain, who complimented us on our exploit, and made us give him all the particulars. He told us that the carpenter, who had been sent on board to survey the schooner, had reported favourably of her, and that he proposed to employ her as a tender, while the frigate was refitting at Port Royal.

As it was necessary to get rid of our prisoners, a course was steered at once for Jamaica, so that we might land them there. We found, after a little time, that the French colonel was not a bad old fellow. I really believe that he was as brave as most men, and that he had spoken the truth when he said that “le mal de mer had overcome him.” Probably most of his men were in the same condition. Grey and I did not forget our resolution to try and learn French, and as one of the mates, Duncan McAllister, could speak a little, we begged him to ask the old colonel if he would teach us. He replied that he would do so gladly, and would teach any one else who wished to learn. Indeed our proposal was ultimately of great service to him, for when he got on shore, and was admitted as a prisoner on his parole, he gained a very comfortable livelihood by teaching French. I afterwards heard that, when the war was over, he declined going back to la belle France, and settled among his friends the English. It is just possible, that the way in which he had allowed himself and his thirty men to be taken by us had something to do with this decision.

The colonel’s name was, I remember, Painchaud, which is translated Hotbread,—a funny name, which I never met elsewhere. We invited him into the berth to give his lessons, but we had to clear away several boxes and hampers to afford him space to stretch his legs under the table. As he sat on the narrow locker with his bald head touching the deck above, his elbows resting on the table, and his long legs stretched out to the other side of the berth, while we youngsters in every variety of attitude grouped ourselves round him, he looked like some antiquated Gulliver among a party of rather overgrown Lilliputians. At first he had a considerable number of pupils, but it was very evident that they assembled more for the sake of trying if any fun could be found, than with any serious intention of learning French. We had forgotten when we had made our proposal that books would be necessary to enable us to make any progress in the language, but not a French work of any sort was to be procured on board, still less a grammar. At length the colonel produced two from his valise. They were, I have reason to believe, not such as would have tended to our edification; but happily, in the then state of our knowledge of the language in which they were written, they were not likely to hurt our morals. As we had no grammar, the colonel made us understand that he wanted paper and pens and ink; and then he wrote out words, and intimated to us that we were to repeat them after him. He would take the hand of one of his pupils and exclaim “main,” and make each of us repeat it after him. Then he would seize an ear and cry out “oreille,” and pretty hard he pinched too. If any of us cried out, it evidently afforded him infinite amusement. We, of course, gave him the name which he always afterwards kept, of Colonel Pinchard. When any of his pupils pronounced the word wrongly, it was highly amusing to watch the wonderful way in which his shoulders went up and his head sank down between them. No English pair of shoulders could have behaved in the same way; nor could certainly any English mouth have rolled out the extraordinary expletives with which he was wont to give force to his sentiments. His great delight was, however, pulling Grey’s and my ears, which, we agreed, was in revenge for taking him prisoner. One day he wrote down nez, and asked me what it meant. I replied by a loud neigh like a horse. The rest of the party took the joke and laughed, as I intended they should; but he, not understanding the cause of this, and thinking that they were laughing at him, seized my nose and gave it a tweak, which made me fancy he was pulling it off. In the impulse of the moment I sprang on the table, and seizing his nasal promontory, hauled away at it with hearty goodwill, and there we sat, he sending forth with unsurpassable rapidity a torrent of “Sa–c–r–r–és,” which almost overwhelmed me; neither of us willing to be the first to let go. At last, from sheer exhaustion and pain, we both of us fell back. I might have boasted of the victory, for, though I felt acute pain, my nose did not alter its shape, while the Frenchman’s swelled up to twice its usual proportions. The contest, however, very nearly put an end to our French lessons. However, as our master was really a good-natured man, he was soon pacified, and we set to work again as before.

Chapter Ten.

We made wonderful progress with our French, in spite of our want of books. Indeed, I have reason to believe that information attained under difficulties, is not only acquired more rapidly, but most certainly more completely mastered, than with the aid of all the modern appliances of education, which, like steam-engines at full speed, haul us so fast along the royal road to knowledge, that we have no time to take in half the freight prepared for us. We found, too, that the old colonel knew considerably more about English than we had at first suspected, and at last we ascertained that he had before been captured, and shut up in a prison in England. He did not seem to have any pleasing recollections of that period of his existence. One day, after we had annoyed him more than usual with our pranks, and stirred up his bile, he gave vent to his feelings—

“Ah, you bêtes Anglais,” he exclaimed. “You have no sympathé vid des misérables. Vous eat ros beef vous-mêmes, and vous starve vos prisonniers.”

He then went on gravely to assure us, that when the inspector of prisons one day rode into the yard of the prison, and left his horse there while he entered the building, the famished prisoners rushed out in a body and surrounded the animal. Simultaneously they made a rush at the poor beast, and stabbed it with their knives. In an instant it was skinned, cut up, and carried off piecemeal. When the inspecting officer came back, he found only the stirrups and bit and hoofs. The prisoners were busily occupied cooking their dinners, and had already produced most delicious fricassees, so that the English officer could not believe that they were formed out of the animal on whose back he had galloped up to the prison not an hour before.

“That’s pretty well up to one of Mr Johnson’s yarns,” observed Grey to me. “I wish the old fellow could understand him; the boatswain would take the shine out of him I suspect.”

“Bah, dat is noting,” said the colonel. “I vill tell you many more curieuse tings. You talk much of de Anglish ladies. Vel, des are passablement bien; but des all get dronk ven des can. Je sais bien vy des go upstairs before de gentlehommes!—it is dat des may drink at dere ease. Ha, ha, dat is vot des do; you drink downstairs, des drink upstairs.”

“Come, come, Monsieur colonel,” exclaimed Duncan McAllister, starting up and striking his fist on the table. “Ye may tell what crammers ye like and welcome, but if ye dare to utter your falsehoods about the ladies of Scotland and England, matrons or maids, prisoner though you be, I’ll make your two eyes see brighter lightning than has come out of them for many a day; and if ye want satisfaction, ye shall have as much as ye can get out of a stout ash stick. Vous comprennez, don’t ye?”

The colonel shrugged his shoulders, and wisely said nothing. Though he did not understand all McAllister’s remarks, he saw that he had gone too far, and that it would be wiser in future, whatever might have been his belief, not to utter any remarks disparaging to the women of England among a party of English sailors.

“I dinna think that colonel ever did a bolder thing than brave a litter of young lions in their den,” exclaimed McAllister, who, for some especial reason, held France and Frenchmen in utter detestation and abhorrence, though he knew more of their language than most of us.

We did not mind the poor old colonel’s stories, for we remembered that he was a prisoner suffering from sea-sickness, and that he had no other way of venting his spleen.

At length we reached Port Royal, and our prize under charge of Perigal arrived at the same time. Colonel Pinchard begged so hard that he might stay on board while the frigate remained in harbour, that in consideration of the instruction he was affording the youngsters he was allowed to do so.

“Ah, I do like de ship ven she stay tranquil,” he exclaimed, spreading out his hands horizontally, and making them slowly move round. “But ven she tumble bout, den,” he put his hands on his stomach, exhibiting with such extraordinary contortions of countenance the acuteness of his sensations, that we all burst into hearty fits of laughter.

Indeed the colonel was a never failing source of amusement to us. From the wonderfully prolonged cackles in which he indulged, he also evidently enjoyed the jokes himself. The schooner, which required but little refitting, was soon ready for sea. It was understood that Perigal was to have the command, and Grey and I hoped to be allowed to accompany him. The captain had not as yet let us know his intentions. We should have been ready enough, probably, to have spent our time on shore; but as we should have but little chance of that, we fancied that we should prefer sailing in search of adventures on the ocean. There are few more beautiful spots on the earth’s surface than Jamaica, with its exquisite verdure, its lofty hills, known as the Blue Mountains, its round-topped heights covered with groves of pimento, its vast savannahs or plains, its romantic vales, its rivers, bays, and creeks, and its dense and sombre forests, altogether forming one of the most lovely of tropical pictures.

Entering the harbour, we had Port Royal on the starboard hand, at the end of a long spit of land called the Palisades. On the opposite side of the narrow entrance was Rock Fort, just under a lofty hill, and as the batteries of Fort Charles at Port Royal bristled with guns, while those of Fort Augusta faced us with an equal number, we agreed that an enemy would find it no easy task to enter the harbour.

The dockyard was at Port Royal, opposite which we brought up. The Palisades run parallel with the mainland, thus forming a vast lagoon, not running inland, but along the coast as it were. Towards the upper end, the commercial town, called Kingston, with its commodious harbour, is situated. Some way inland, again, is Spanish Town, the capital, where the residence of the Governor and the House of Assembly are to be found. It is a very hot place, and the yellow fever is more apt to pay it a second visit than strangers who have once been there, if they can help it.

The admiral on the Jamaica station lives on shore, at a house called the Admiral’s pen, on the Palisades, whence he commands a view of the harbour, roadstead, and the ocean. He is better off than the Governor, because he does get the sea breeze, which is the best preventive to the yellow fever. It takes an hour or more pulling up from Port Royal to Kingston, the distance being five or six miles or more. Spellman once induced me to ride round along the Palisades, but we agreed that we would never do it again; for, as it was a calm day, and the rays of the sun beat down on the white sands, we were very nearly roasted alive, and how we escaped a sunstroke I do not know. From what I have said, it will be understood that Port Royal harbour is a very large sheet of water, and what with the shipping, the towns and ports on its shores, and the lofty mountains rising up in its neighbourhood, is a very picturesque place.

We had not been there long, when yellow jack, as the yellow fever is called, made its appearance, both at Kingston and Port Royal, and all visits to the shore were prohibited. Grey and I, therefore, had to make ourselves as happy on board as we could, till we received our expected orders to join the schooner. We had not had a yarn for some time from Mr Johnson. One evening, when work was over, we found him walking the forecastle, taking what he called his sunset food shaker, in a more than usually thoughtful mood. As Grey, Spellman, and I, with one or two others, went up to him, he heaved a sigh, which sounded not altogether unlike the roar of a young bull.

“What is the matter, Mr Johnson?” I asked, approaching him. “You seem melancholy to-day.”

“I have cause to be so, Mr Merry; I have indeed,” he answered, in a tone of deep pathos, again sighing. “Whenever I look on the blue waters of this harbour, and those whitewashed houses, and those lofty mountains, I think of a strange and sad episode of my eventful history.”

Of course we all exclaimed with one voice, “Do tell it to us, Mr Johnson!” To which I added, “If it would not break your heart, we should so like to hear it.”

“Break my heart, Mr Merry!” exclaimed the boatswain, striking his bosom with his open palm, and making it sound like the big drum in a regimental band. I could not help fancying that there was a considerable amount of humour lurking in the corner of his eye.

“Break my heart! Jonathan Johnson’s heart is formed of tougher stuff than to break with any grief it may be doomed to bear. You shall hear. But it strikes me forcibly, young gentlemen, that it may be as well to finish one part of my history before I begin another. Who can tell where I left off?”

“You were just going to be swallowed by the big sea-serpent, Mr Johnson; ship, and crew, and all,” said Grey.

“It would be more correct, Mr Grey, to say that you believed we were going to be swallowed up; because you will understand that had we been swallowed up, I should not, in all human probability, be here, or ever have attained the rank of boatswain of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Doris,” said Mr Johnson, with a polite bend of the head. “However, not to keep you longer in suspense, I will continue my narrative:—

“The good ship Diddleus was bowling away under all sail, and the sea-serpent, with mouth agape, following us. It’s my opinion, and others agreed with me, that if he’d kept his mouth shut he would have caught us; for the hot wind coming out of his throat filled our sails, just as if it had been blowing a heavy gale of wind, and drove us ahead of him; but he was too eager, do you see, and thought every moment he was going to grab us. We guessed that he had been aroused at finding his back smart from the scratch we made in it. We thus ran on till daybreak, keeping ahead, but not dropping him as much as we could have wished. It was very awful, let me tell you, young gentlemen, to see his big rolling eyes, to feel his hot breath, to smell a smell of sulphur, and to hear his loud roaring. It was painfully evident that he was in a tremendous rage at the liberty we had taken with his back; and there was no doubt that had he come up with us, he could have swallowed the ship and crew, and his own fat into the bargain, with as much ease as he swallowed the whale. If it was a terrific sight to see him at night, it was still worse in the daytime. His immense jaws were wide open, showing a dozen rows of teeth, while his large eyes projected on either side; and I don’t think I exaggerate when I say that the tip of his upper jaw was fully sixty feet above the surface of the water. As you all well know, young gentlemen, I am not a man to be daunted; so I loaded our stern-chasers, and kept blazing away at the monster, to make him turn aside, but to no effect. I trained the guns myself, and every shot went into his mouth; but he just rolled his eyes round, and swallowed them as if they were so many pills. It was a fine sight, though a terribly fearful one, I own, to see him coming along so steadily and stately, with the water curling and foaming under his bows, and flying high up into the air as he cut through it. It was neck or nothing with us; so we kept blazing away as fast as we could load. I confess that every moment I expected he would make a spring and grab us, just as an ordinary fish does the bait held over him; but it was necessary that I should set an example of coolness to my crew; and, under the circumstances, I believe that mortal man could not have been cooler. I could not hide from myself the consequences, should he catch us; and yet I scarcely dared to hope that we should escape. We had expended, at last, all our round-shot, and the greater part of our powder, and we had to load with bags of nails and any langrage we could find. We had half emptied the carpenter’s chest, and, except some copper bolts, there seemed to be nothing else we could fire off, when, by my calculations, I found that we were approaching the line. Life is sweet; and so, that we might keep off the fatal moment as long as possible, we determined to fire away as long as we had a tin-tack or a bradawl to put into our guns, when, on a sudden, he uttered a fierce roar—it did make us jump—and down went his head right under the water, and up went his tail like a huge pillar, when flop it came down again, sending the sea flying over us and very nearly pooping the ship. We felt very uncomfortable, for we naturally expected to see him come up alongside; but he didn’t, and two minutes afterwards we made him out close to the horizon, to the southward. It was my opinion at the time—and I have held it ever since—that either he did not like the mouthful of big nails and bradawls he swallowed, or that he had some objection to crossing the line from not knowing the navigation on the other side. At all events, we were clear of him. We had a quick run to Liverpool, where the oil sold at a very high price, and I got a monstrous amount of credit from all who believed my wonderful narrative. As is always the case, some didn’t, in spite of the oil I exhibited in proof of the occurrence; but I treated the incredulous fellows with the scorn they deserved, and from that day to this, I’ll answer for it, no one has ever caught sight of so much as the tail of the real sea-serpent.”

“Vell, Mistre Johnson, dat is von very vondeful, vot you call it!” exclaimed Colonel Pinchard, who had joined us.

“A big, thundering bouncer!” cried a voice from behind the boatswain’s back. He turned sharply round, but did not discover the speaker. He shook his fist in that direction, however, with a comic expression in his eye, saying—

“Bouncer or no bouncer, mister whoever you are, I beg that you’ll understand clearly, that I will allow no man, whoever he may be, to labour under the misapprehension that I ever depart one tenth of a point from the strict line of truth; and that reminds me that I promised you, Mr Merry, and you, Mr Grey, to narrate an event which occurred during the next voyage I made. I wasn’t long in finding a ship, for the certificates with which the owners of the Diddleus had furnished me were highly satisfactory; in fact, merit like mine couldn’t, in those days, languish in obscurity; though, by the bye, I ought not exactly to sing my own praises; but when a man has a due consciousness of his own superior talents, the feeling will ooze out now and then, do all he can to conceal it. Things are altered now: merit’s claims are no longer allowed, or I should be living on shore now.” Mr Johnson pointed significantly at the Admiral’s pen.

“Ah! oui! I vonce read of von great man, Sinbad de Sailor, and von oder man, Captain Lemuel Gulliver. You vary like dem gentlemen,” observed Colonel Pinchard, with the politest of bows, to the boatswain.

“Sinbad! and Gulliver!” shouted the boatswain indignantly. “If there are two fellows whose names I hate more than others, they are those. Take them all in all, I consider them, without exception, the biggest liars who have ever lived; and if there is a character I detest more than another, it is that of a man who departs in the slightest degree from the truth; no one can longer have confidence in what he says: and, for my own part, I’d rather lose my right hand, and my head into the bargain, than have the shadow of a reason for supposing that the words I was uttering would run the remotest chance of not being implicitly believed.”

The boatswain’s eye kept rolling round on his auditory with a self-satisfied glance, and a twinkle withal, as much as to say, “You I care about understand me perfectly, and if there are any geese who don’t, they are welcome to swallow all they can digest.”

“Ah! I had just found a fresh ship. She was the Lady Stiggins, a fine brig, well armed, and bound round Cape Horn. We had a somewhat roving commission, and were first to touch out here at Jamaica, and one or two others of these gems of the tropics—these islands, full of sugar-candy and blackamoors.

“I was not at first a favourite with the crew, for not having had an opportunity of testing my qualifications, but having heard some of my veracious narratives, they were inclined to look upon me as an empty braggadocio, a character they very naturally despised; but I soon gave them reason to alter their opinion, when I was quickly raised to that position in their estimation which I ever after enjoyed.

“We were about a day’s sail from this same harbour of Port Royal, and were expecting to make the land next morning, when it fell calm. It was the hottest time of the year. The sun sent his rays down on our heads as if he were a furnace a few yards off, making the pitch in the seams of our decks bubble and squeak, like bacon in a frying-pan; and I remember that a basket of eggs in the cabin were hatched in a few minutes, and looking up from a book I was reading, I saw a whole brood of chickens and ducks squattering about the deck, not knowing where they’d come from, or what to do with themselves. The chickens, however, soon went to roost in a corner, for it was too hot to keep awake, and the ducks waddled up on deck, and were making the best of their way over the vessel’s side into the element in which they delight, when we turned them into a water-butt, which contented them mightily.

“But this was not the story I was going to tell you. Everyone on board felt like the ducks and chickens, overcome by the heat; so that at last, not considering the risk they ran, many of the men stripped off their clothes and jumped overboard.

“I, however, kept mine on, and so did several others. The fact was, that we had only, in that hot weather, to give ourselves a shake, and to turn once round in the sun, and we were dry through and through.

“We had frolicking and swimming about for some time, enjoying the comparatively cool water, though, for the matter of that, it was pretty well hot enough to boil a lobster, when suddenly our ears were assailed with a terrific cry of ‘A shark! a shark!’

“The outside man was a fine young fellow, Tom Harding by name. The poor fellow saw his danger, for the shark was making directly for him. I sang out to him not to be afraid, but to swim as fast as he could towards the ship, and he didn’t require to be told twice. Meantime I was making a circle round, so as to approach the beast in the rear; for, as you all know, I am a first-rate swimmer, and I never heard of the man who could keep up with me. Why, I once swam from Dover to Calais, and back again, for a wager, and danced a hornpipe on the top of Shakespeare’s cliff, to the astonishment of all who saw me—but that’s neither here nor there.”

“Vel, I vonder de shark did not eat you,” observed the colonel, with a grin.

“Eat me, mounseer! I should like to see the shark who would venture to attempt it, unless he found me snoozing on the top of a wave,” exclaimed the boatswain, in a tone of pretended indignation. “If it hadn’t been for me, however, he would have bolted Tom Harding, and no mistake. Well, Tom was swimming for dear life, and all the rest of the crew were scrambling up the side of the vessel, thinking that it was all over with both of us, when I saw the monster turn on his back, his white belly shining in the sun, as he made a grab at Tom’s leg. It was now time for me to interfere; so, striking out with all my might, I seized the shark by the tail, and slewing him round, just as he expected to make a mouthful of Tom, he missed his aim, and his jaws met with a crack which sounded like the report of a hundred muskets. Tom gave a shriek, for he thought—as well he might—that his last hour had come; but, still more from instinct than from any hope of escape, he swam on, and was very much surprised to find himself alongside the ship. In fact, when he was hauled on deck, it was some time, I was told, before he could be persuaded that he hadn’t lost both his legs, so firmly convinced was he that the shark had got hold of them.

“I meantime kept a taut hold of the fish, who was whisking about his tail, and snapping his jaws in his disappointment; and hard work I had, you may depend on’t. As he went one way I pulled the other, and acting like a rudder, brought him round again, till I worked him nearer and nearer to the ship. At last I got him alongside, and singing out for a rope, which was quickly hove to me, I passed it dexterously over his tail, and told the men on deck to haul it taut. He was thus partly secured, but the difficulty was to make his head fast, for I had no fancy to get within the power of his jaws. I should observe that he was the largest shark I ever saw. I was almost despairing of securing him, when one of the men, Bill Jones, I remember, was his name, made fast a big hook with a lump of pork to the topgallant halyards, and hove it before him. The shark grabbed it in a moment, and we had him fast. Those on deck had just before been endeavouring to pass a rope under his head, and this now slipped up and caught in his jaws. No sooner did he feel the iron in his mouth, than, darting forward, away he went ahead of the vessel. As I sprang on deck the idea struck me that I would make him of use. There was no great difficulty, for, passing another line over his jaws, we had a regular pair of reins on him. One end of the line was brought in on the starboard and the other on the larboard bow port, while the hook in the nose served to bring him sharp up, when he ran too fast. No sooner were these arrangements made than away he went at a rapid pace ahead, towing us at the rate of at least six knots an hour—I like always to be under the mark, for fear of being thought guilty of exaggeration. By hauling in, now on one side, now on the other, we managed to steer him very well on our proper course.

“The calm continued, but on we glided through the water, to the inexpressible astonishment of the crews of several craft we passed, who, of course, thought the Lady Stiggins must be the Flying Dutchman. As we entered the harbour, the surprise of people on shore was equally great; and no sooner did we drop our anchor than the brig was surrounded by boats full of people, eager to hear an explanation of the phenomenon. They could scarcely credit our assertions when we told them how we had got along, till we showed them the monster frisking about under the bows almost as tame and docile as a dog.

“I had always a wonderful knack of managing pets of all sorts, and by kindly treating Jack Shark he became very fond of me, and whenever I went on shore, he would swim after the boat, and remain frolicking about near her till my return. At last I thought I would make him of use; so, rigging a pair of short reins, I slipped them over his jaws, and then jumped on his back. He understood in a moment what was expected of him, and away he went with me at a rapid rate through the water. After that, lighting my pipe quite comfortably, I invariably went on shore on his back, and throwing my reins over a post, I used to leave him till my return. You may depend on it, none of the little blackamoors ever played tricks with him.

“There are many of the principal merchants and others at Kingston even now who would, young gentlemen, if you were to ask them, vouch for the truth of the circumstance. Just ask them, and hear what they’ll say. The curious part of it was, that though so tame with me, he would attack anybody else, and not a seaman from any of the ships dared to attempt swimming on shore as they had frequently before done. In fact he did swallow one or two; and I believe that he was voted a perfect nuisance, so that everyone was glad when we and our pet left the harbour to prosecute our voyage. Of course he followed us; and I used every morning to heave him a piece of pork for his breakfast, a few casks of which I bought cheap of a Jew on purpose. It was measly, but he didn’t mind that. And now I’m coming to the melancholy part of the history connected with my pet shark. But I have talked a good deal, and in this warm weather it’s an exertion even to use one’s jaws; so, young gentlemen, you must excuse me from continuing my veracious narrative for the present.”

“Oh, do go on, Mr Johnson—do go on,” we all exclaimed; but the boatswain was inexorable, and, as it happened, it was some time before we heard the sequel to his history of the shark.

The next day, Grey, and I, and Spellman were ordered to join the schooner with twenty hands. Perigal still kept command, and at the last moment McAllister came on board to act as his first-lieutenant, with the assistant-surgeon Macquoid, and a clerk, Bobus, as purser. Of course the schooner did not require so many officers and men to navigate her, but we hoped to take many prizes, and hands of course would be wanted to bring them home. We invited the old colonel to accompany us. With a most amusing grimace, and an inimitable shake of the head and shrugs of the shoulders, he answered,—“Ah, mes jeunes gentlemens, I do love vous va-a mosh; but de mer—de terrible mer. I do vish de verld ver von big earth and no vater.” So we had to leave the colonel and our French lessons behind; but we assured him that we would study hard during our absence. Good as were our intentions, it was not very likely that we could adhere to them, and, by the expression of his countenance, the colonel showed that he was strongly of that opinion.

We sailed at daybreak, and had the land breeze to take us out of the harbour. Our course was to the southward, towards the well-known Spanish Main. Our schooner was the Espoir. She sailed well, and carried two eighteen-pounders and six long eights, so that we had every reason to hope that we should pick up some prizes, if we did not get taken ourselves. That last contingency did not occur to us. Though it was hot, and we were rather crowded in the cabin, we had a very pleasant time on board. We naturally messed together, and had secured all the good things from the shore, in the shape of fruits and vegetables, and poultry and liquor, which we could collect. It is very well for poets and authors to make their heroes contented with hard fare. I can only say that midshipmen are not, if they know that better is to be got; and I have observed, whenever I have been in the society of poets and other authors, that, practically, they have enjoyed a good dinner as much as any class of people could do, and been very much inclined to grumble if they did not get it, too. We were out some days without sighting a single sail, but we were not the less merry, living upon hope, and the good fare our caterer, Macquoid, had collected. At length a sail was seen, and chase made. It was some time before we could make out whether the stranger was a man-of-war or merchantman, a friend or foe. She was a brig we soon discovered, and when we saw her up helm and run off before the wind, we had no doubt as to her pacific character. Still she might be English, and, if so, we should have had our chase for nothing. She was a slow sailer, for we came up with her rapidly. We had showed no colours, and had got her within range of our long guns, when up went the French ensign. A cheer burst from our throats. It would have been more hearty if we had thought she had been armed. We showed our colours in return. On we stood, firing a shot wide of her as a signal for her to heave-to. She obeyed, and we heaving-to near her, McAllister, with Spellman and a boat’s crew, was sent to take possession. The boat was sent back with several of the French crew. The prize was not a rich one, but she was too valuable to be destroyed, so Perigal directed Spellman to take her to Jamaica, allowing him four hands. Miss Susan did not at all like having his cruise cut so short, but we congratulated him on the honour of having a separate command, being ourselves very well contented to continue on board the Espoir. For two days more we stood south, when, at daybreak, another sail was descried from the mast-head. She was a schooner, and from the squareness of her yards, her taut masts, and her white canvas, we suspected that, should she be an enemy, she would prove a very different sort of customer to the slow-sailing brig we had just before captured. That she was not afraid of us was very evident, for, throwing her head sails aback, she awaited our coming. In a short time we made out the French ensign flying at her peak, and we concluded that she was a privateer, probably with a large crew, and well armed. Perigal, on this, called all hands aft. “Now, my lads,” said he, “that craft is an enemy; very likely twice as many men dance on her decks as on ours; but they are Frenchmen, and I want to show that we are English, every one, to the backbone, and see how quickly we can take her. I have nothing more to say, except to tell you not to throw your shot away, and, if it comes to boarding, when you strike, strike home.” Three hearty cheers was the response to this address. The old mate was not much given to oratory, but, when he spoke, he never failed to speak to the purpose. Arms were served out, and pistols were stuck in belts, and cutlasses buckled on; muskets were loaded, and arranged in readiness for use; powder and round-shot were brought on deck, and the men, stripped to the waist, with handkerchiefs bound round their heads, stood ready for action. They looked as grim and determined a set as a commanding officer would wish to see; but still, jokes were bandied about, one from the other, and it did not seem to occur to any of them that, before another hour of time had slipped by, in all probability several might be numbered with the dead. Ned Bambrick was at the helm, with his eye cast ever and anon at the canvas, and then at the Frenchman, as we glided on rapidly towards him, just as cool and unconcerned as if he was standing up to speak to a friend. We had the weather-gauge, and Perigal resolved to keep it. Supposing the enemy superior to us in strength, it would give us an important and necessary advantage. To a sailor’s eye it was a pretty sight to see the two schooners approaching. The Espoir was a handsome craft, and so was her antagonist. We did not at first show our colours. No sooner, however, did we hoist them than the Frenchman filled his sails and tacked, in the hope of weathering on us, firing at the same time a gun of defiance. We suspected that he had not till then known exactly what to make of us, and possibly had taken us for a friend. However, the Frenchmen were now in for it, and, like brave men, were resolved to fight it out. We were now near enough for our long eights to tell, and the very first shot, flying high, knocked away the jaws of the enemy’s main gaff, wounding at the same time the head of the mainmast. At seeing this, a hearty cheer rose from all on board. It was a prognostic of success.

“If we’d tried to do that same we could not have succeeded,” observed McAllister. “I say, Perigal, you must let me take that craft to Jamaica.”

“With all my heart, my boy, when she’s ours; but it’s ill-luck to give away what doesn’t belong to us,” answered our skipper.

“Never mind; but she will be before many minutes are over,” persisted McAllister. “Now, lads, just follow suit to that shot, and we’ll do for the mounseers in a very short time.”

By this fortunate shot we had the enemy almost in our power. She ran off before the wind, and we soon came up with her, and hung on her quarter, so that she could rarely bring more than one gun at a time to bear on us. She had fired several shots without effect, but at last, to make amends, one came flying diagonally across our deck, taking off the head of one of our men, and knocking over a second, who survived but a few moments. A few more such fatal shots would sadly have thinned our numbers. The enemy had a good number of men on deck, but not so many as we expected. Some were sent aloft to try and repair the damage to the gaff, and this, as we had got within musket range, we did our best to prevent by keeping up a fire of small-arms at them. I had seized a musket, and with others was blazing away, not very effectually, for the men continued their work, and no one appeared to be hurt, when, just as I had fired, I saw a man drop stone dead upon the deck. It was my shot had done the deed. A sickening sensation came over me. I felt as if I had committed a murder. It would have been different had I hit one of the men at the guns, but the poor fellow was performing, so it seemed, but an ordinary piece of a seaman’s duty; my blood was cool, I did not feel that he was an enemy. Perhaps the idea was foolish; it did not last long. The rest of the men aloft were soon driven on deck, and shooting ahead, we ranged up alongside, and poured in the whole of our broadside. The enemy returned our fire, but our men worked their guns almost twice as quickly as the Frenchmen did, aiming much better, and the effect was soon apparent in their shattered bulwarks, decks strewed with slain, and torn sails.

“Blaze away, lads,” shouted McAllister, as he went from gun to gun, pointing one, lending a hand to run out another, or to load a third.

Still the gallant Frenchmen fought on. They were very unlike old Pinchard and his men; but there was this difference, they were sailors, whereas the others were soldiers, and it was the mal de mer in that instance deserved the credit of the victory more than we did. This close firing soon got our blood up, and I now felt anxious to run the enemy aboard, that we might be at them with our cutlasses. I have not often found Frenchmen foolhardy: they know when they are beaten. Englishmen don’t, and so sometimes stumble against all rule into victory. Just as Perigal had ordered Bambrick to put the helm to starboard, to run the enemy aboard, the French captain hauled down his flag, and, coming to the gangway, made us a profound bow, as an additional sign that he had struck. We immediately ceased firing, and as our boats had escaped damage, one was lowered, and McAllister and I went on board to take possession. We had certainly contrived in a short hour considerably to spoil the beauty of the French schooner, and dreadfully to diminish the number of her crew. Her brave captain and most of his officers were wounded, and six men were killed and ten wounded. Her captain received us on the quarter-deck, where he stood ready to deliver his sword with the greatest politeness, as if it was really a pleasant act he was performing, and assured us that it was the fortune de la guerre, and that he had learnt to yield to fortune without a murmur.

“He really is one of the pleasantest Frenchmen I have ever met,” observed McAllister. “We must treat him with all consideration.”

Curiously enough, this remark of my messmate kept continually running in my head, and I could not help repeating it. We had plenty to do to bury the dead, wash the decks, repair the masts, and spars, and bulwarks, and to splice the rigging, and bend fresh sails. McAllister was directed to go as prize-master, and I with Bambrick, Foley and four other hands accompanied him; some of the French crew were removed on board the Espoir, but the captain, two officers, and eight men remained with us as prisoners.

Perigal had, in fact, already, more prisoners than his own crew now mustered. Our new prize was the Audacieuse, a larger vessel and better armed than the Espoir. By nightfall we had made great progress in getting the prize to rights, and as our own vessel had suffered but little, we were able to bestow all our strength upon her. Both Perigal and McAllister were very anxious to continue the cruise together. The objection to this was the number of our prisoners. Still, as McAllister argued, the commander of the prize, Lieutenant Préville was a very quiet sort of fellow, and the men left on board were orderly and well-behaved, so that he should have no difficulty in keeping them under.

“But, remember, McAllister, that crews have sometimes risen against their captors, and retaken their vessels. It will be necessary to be very careful,” observed Perigal.

“Oh, never fear, my old fellow; I should think that we seven Englishmen could keep a dozen or more Frenchmen in order,” answered McAllister, with a somewhat scornful laugh. “If we go into action, we will clap them under hatches, and they will be quiet enough, depend on that.”

At length Perigal yielded, and the Audacieuse’s mast-head having been fished, and all other damages made good, we continued our cruise together. Lieutenant Préville was a gentleman, and really a very pleasant fellow; and, to show our appreciation of his good qualities, we invited him to live in his own cabin and to partake of the delicacies which he had laid in for his own especial use, which was generous on our part; and which conduct he did not fail to acknowledge by doing ample justice to the viands. He frequently, too, would tuck up his sleeves, and, going into the galley, would cook dishes, which I doubt that any Parisian chef could have surpassed.

“Ah, ma foi,” he observed in French, when we complimented him on his success, “in my opinion a man has no right to claim the character of a civilised being, much less of a chef, unless he can produce a complete dinner from an old tom-cat and a bundle of nettle-tops. He should depend on the fire and the sources managed by his own skill. The rest of the materials are nothing. The fire brings everything to the same condition.” Certainly Lieutenant Préville managed to give us an infinite variety of dishes, to all appearance, the foundation of which, to the best of my belief, was salt pork, and beef of a very tough and dry nature. Of course, such a man would soon win his way into the good graces of far more stoical beings than English midshipmen are apt to be at present, or were in those good old days.

Chapter Eleven.

“Well, Marmaduke, my boy, we are having a jolly cruise of it,” observed McAllister one afternoon, as we walked the deck together, having just partaken of an especially good dinner, dressed by our most polite and obsequious prisoner, Lieutenant Préville. “If we could but fall in with two or three more fat prizes we should be able to set up as independent gentlemen when we get back home again, and I should be able to regain the lands of the McAllisters from the southern churl who has dared to take possession of them.”

“They are not very extensive, then, I conclude,” I observed. “A midshipman’s share of prize-money, even for the richest galleon of old Spain, would not go far to purchase much of an estate.”

“Extensive! my boy; I wish you could just come north and have a look at them,” exclaimed McAllister. “You can’t see from one end to the other, and there is the finest of fine old towers, which would be perfectly habitable, if it were not for the want of windows, and floors, and doors, and other woodwork; and as to the lands, to be sure there is a somewhat considerable preponderance of bog and moor, but oats and potatoes grow finely on the hillsides. Ah, my boy, I know well enough what’s what—the value of rich pastures and corn-fields—but there’s nothing like the home of one’s ancestors—the heathery hills of old Scotland—for all that.”

My shipmate spoke with deep feeling, though he had begun in a half-joking vein. Our prisoner joined us, and put a stop to the conversation. He offered to go down for his guitar, and, returning with it on deck, he touched the strings, and sang a light French song with much taste and with a fair voice. We complimented him on his performance.

“Ah, you like singing; I will sing to you night and day, ma foi,” he observed. “It is a satisfaction to a man of sentiment to give pleasure to his friends, and I look upon you as my friends in spite of our relative positions. They arise from the circumstances of war. We are friends—true friends—why should we be otherwise?” Then he resumed his guitar and sang again as gaily as before.

We and our consort kept close together, and as the sailing powers of the two vessels were pretty equal, there was little danger of our being separated. Two days after this it fell a dead calm. There we lay, not quite steady, but rolling gently from side to side, moved by the scarcely perceptible and glassy undulations which rose under our keels. The sails went flap-flap against the masts in the most senseless manner, till McAllister ordered them to be furled to prevent the wear and tear they were undergoing. As to the heat, I had never before felt anything like it in the tropics. We could have baked a leg of mutton almost, much more fried a beefsteak, on the capstan-head, while below a dish of apples might easily have been stewed. I remembered Mr Johnson’s account of the heat in the West Indies, and began to fear that he had not exaggerated it. It went on growing hotter and hotter, or we felt the heat more and more. The smoke from the chimney of the galley went right up in a thin column, and hung in wreaths over our heads, while that from our cigars, being of a lighter character, ascended above our noses, and finally disappeared in the blue, quivering air. The Espoir lay within hail of a speaking-trumpet, and as we had nothing else to do, we carried on an animated conversation with each other, not very dignified, but highly amusing to all concerned. We had better have held our tongues, I suspect. Any departure from discipline is bad. The Frenchmen who were on deck soon began to imitate our example, and, as they mostly spoke in a patois or jargon which we, of course, could not understand, we did not know what they were saying. I thought I saw a peculiar expression on the faces of some of them, especially when now and then they glanced round and looked at our men. At last, I told McAllister that I fancied the Frenchmen were plotting treason, and that it would be wise to make them hold their tongues. He laughed at the notion, and asked if I supposed a set of frog-eating, grinning Frenchmen would dare to lift a finger against such a crew of bull-dog Englishmen as were our men.

“I cannot say they wouldn’t,” I answered; “they fought pretty toughly before they gave in.”

“Very true, but they had a chance of victory then. Now the chances would be all against them, and they might expect to be pitched overboard if they failed,” he replied, turning away as if he did not like the suggestion. He, however, soon after hailed Perigal, to say that he thought we had had enough of that, and then, turning to the French prisoners, told them to hold their tongues. After a time a mist seemed to be rising over the water, but the heat in no way decreased.

“There is something coming,” I observed to McAllister. “What do you think?”

“Christmas, or perhaps a breeze,” he answered, jokingly; “both to all appearances equally far off. I see one thing, though, which would make me rather unwilling to jump overboard.” He pointed to a black triangular object, below which was a long shadowy form that was moving slowly round the ship. “What’s that?”

“The boatswain’s pet shark, I suppose,” said I, laughing. “I should almost expect to see the Doris coming up with a breeze from the nor’ard.”

“Just jump on his back, Merry, and see if he doesn’t carry you off up to the frigate. It would astonish them not a little to see you coming,” said McAllister.

“Thank you, I leave such wonderful performances to wonderful people like Mr Johnson,” said I.

Just then the monster, turning up the white of his undersides, made a dart at a black bottle and a wisp of hay which had been thrown overboard in the morning. Down they went into his capacious maw.

“Unpleasant sort of pill. I wonder if the glass will cut him,” observed McAllister.

I shuddered, for I could not help thinking what would have been the fate of any human being who might have happened to be overboard. The seamen had found out their enemy, and were talking about him, and watching his proceedings with suspicious glances. They have an idea that when a shark follows a vessel some one is about to die on board, and that he is waiting for the corpse. Sharks have been known to follow vessels for days together, but undoubtedly it is simply that they may feed on the offal thrown overboard. Of course if any seaman happens to die during the time, unless he is lashed up in a hammock with a shot at his feet, they are likely to be the gainers. I have, however, very often seen them following a ship when nobody has died. One example in support of a superstitious idea does more to confirm it in the minds of the ignorant than a hundred examples on the opposite side do to weaken the belief in it.

Not long after this, Perigal hailed McAllister, and, pointing round to the sky, told him that he did not like the look of things. He then signed to us to strike our topmasts, and make everything snug aloft. At the same moment the crew of the Espoir were seen swarming aloft to shorten sail. We had our sails lowered. Hands were now sent aloft to furl them carefully, and to strike upper yards and topmasts. While the hands were thus engaged, as I was standing by the compass to ascertain the direction of the schooner’s head, I saw Perigal point to the westward, and make a sign to the men aloft to hurry with their work. I did the same, though we, having less to do, were ahead in our proceedings of our consort. I saw enough to convince me that there was no time to be lost. The blackest of black clouds had gathered with a rapidity scarcely credible, and were rushing on towards us with headlong speed. It was not as is often the case when a storm is brewing; a few light clouds come first like the skirmishers in advance of an army; but the whole body came on in one dense mass, the sea below it foaming, and hissing, and curling with a noise which we could hear even before the wind reached us. A hurricane was coming, and one of no ordinary violence.

“Lie down! lie down, off the yards, all of you,” shouted McAllister. The men required no second command. A glance at the quickly changing sky and water told them what was approaching. They slid down the rigging, and in silence awaited the bursting of the tornado. The Frenchmen who were on the deck looked pale and anxious, as if they dreaded the consequences of the hurricane. Bambrick and another good hand went to the helm. A part of the fore-staysail was hoisted, just to pay the vessel’s head off. We were not kept long in suspense. With a loud hiss and roar like thunder the hurricane struck us. The schooner heeled over to the gale; I thought she was going over altogether. Many fancied so likewise, and cries of terror escaped from several of the Frenchmen. Lieutenant Préville uttered an expression of annoyance at the pusillanimity of his countrymen.

“They are brave garçons, though,” he exclaimed, “and fight like heroes with mortal foes of flesh and blood; but they are not like you bull-dog English, who fear neither mortals nor spirits, and would do battle with the prince of darkness himself, if you met him in the open seas on board any craft he might be able to charter.”

What more the lieutenant might have said I do not know, for the howling of the tempest drowned his voice. The foaming seas began to rush up the schooner’s deck, and dense masses of spray flew over her. I thought, indeed, that she was gone; but, recovering from the effects of the first blast, she rose a little when her staysail felt the force of the wind. Round went her head: another blast stronger than the first blew the canvas from the bolt-ropes, but the desired effect had been produced, and away she flew under bare poles through the ocean of seething foam; the wind howling and shrieking, and the waters hissing and roaring as we passed over them.

Till that moment, all my attention having been concentrated on our own craft, I had not thought of our consort. I now looked out for her. She was not to be found in the direction where I expected to see her. I cast my eyes round anxiously on every side. The atmosphere was now so dense with spray torn up from the surface of the ocean that the extent of our horizon was much limited. Yet I fancied that we must still be close to our consort. In vain I looked round. I called out to McAllister and told him my fears. Certain it was that the Espoir was nowhere to be seen. I felt very sad. I could not help dreading that the Espoir had been struck as we were, and being less prepared, had capsized and gone over. I thought what had become of poor Grey, my constant firm friend, and honest Perigal, and I pictured to myself how his young wife would mourn his loss, and whether, if I ever got home, I should have to go and tell her how it had happened. I remembered that huge monster of a shark, which had been swimming round the vessels, and I bethought me that he had come for them if not for us. I was not singular, for when the Espoir was missed by others, as was soon the case when they began to lose fear for themselves, I heard Bambrick observe to his companion at the helm, “I thought so; I know’d that brute hadn’t come for nothing; they always knows better nor we or the port-admiral himself what’s in the wind. He was as sartain sure as cheese is cheese that this here Harry-cane was a coming, long before we’d even a notion that it was a brewing.”

The other seaman shook his head with a grave look, as he answered, “I wonder how many of them poor fellows he’s got down his hungry maw by this time!”

Such was the style of conversation among our men. What the Frenchmen were saying I do not know. They very soon recovered their spirits and courage, and began laughing and chattering, and dancing about the deck in higher spirits than ever. Perhaps they did not always intend to move, but the now fast rising seas gave the lively little vessel sudden and unexpected jerks, which sent them jumping forward or aft, or from side to side, whenever they happened not to be holding on to anything. Still I did not feel that we were altogether free from danger. The hurricane blew fiercer and fiercer, the sea also got up rapidly, and threw the vessel about in a way which made it very difficult to steer before it. Fortunately our topmasts were housed, or they would have been jerked overboard. I asked McAllister what he proposed doing.

“Doing! Why, of course, scud on till the hurricane has blown itself out,” he answered.

“But doesn’t the wind sometimes shift in a hurricane, and blow more furiously from another quarter?” I asked.

“Of course it does, and perhaps it will, and we shall be blown back again as far as we have come,” he said, taking a look at the compass.

“But suppose it was to blow us back farther than we have come,” I observed.

“Merry, just go and bring the chart to the companion stair,” was his answer. “It will be blown away if we have it on deck, and I cannot go below just now.”

I brought the chart, at which he took a rapid glance. Eastward, as we were now driving, we had plenty of sea-room, and in a wholesome craft like ours, there was nothing to fear; but westward there was the coast of Central America, fringed by rocks and sandbanks, on which many a noble ship has been stranded since Columbus discovered the western world.

“It is to be hoped that the wind will not shift,” he answered. “It does not always. Don’t let us anticipate evil.”

Lieutenant Préville inquired what we were talking about. We told him. He shrugged his shoulders. “Patience; the fortune of war; we seamen must always be subject to such reverses,” he remarked.

“The Frenchman takes things easily,” observed McAllister. “I wish that I could do so.”

I had never before pictured to myself what a West India hurricane really was. At times I thought that the schooner would be blown fairly out of the water. How her masts remained in her was a puzzle, from the way she jerked and rolled, and plunged madly onward, struggling away from the seas which seemed every moment as if they would catch and overwhelm her. Even though thus flying before the gale, we felt as if we should be blown down, had we not kept a good grip of the bulwarks, and those forward had hard work to make their way aft. Suddenly there was a lull. The effect was curious; I can liken it to nothing but when, by shutting a thick door, some loud hubbub of angry voices is no longer heard. The schooner tumbled about just as much as before, or even more, but, instead of being driven onward, she was thrown madly from wave to wave, backwards and forwards; it seemed as if they were playing a game of ball with her. McAllister ordered me to hurry forward and to get some head sail on the schooner. Some of the lower parts of the fore-staysail remained. There was no time to bend a new one. There had been a little wind before; it now fell a dead calm; the smoke of a cigar would have ascended as it had done a few hours before. It proved but treacherous: I positively jumped from the suddenness with which the hurricane again struck the vessel, and, as we had apprehended, from the eastward. Happily the sail this time produced the desired effect, turning her head from the wind, and then away the canvas flew from the bolt-ropes far off upon the gale. Onward we drove as before, still more tossed and tumbled. Had our friend, Colonel Pinchard, been with us, he would have had some reason to complain of the mal de mer. The Audacieuse was a strong, tight vessel, or she would have sprung a dozen leaks, and gone down with all the knocking about she got. She, however, remained as dry as a bottle. Still, as we rushed on, every instant approaching nearer and nearer the rocks and sandbanks of the coast of Central America, our anxiety increased. It was vain to hope that we could heave-to, or in any way stop our mad career. We had done all that could be done, and had now only calmly to await our fate, whatever Providence had designed that should be. It is under such circumstances as this, that the courage and resignation of men are most severely tried. All action has of necessity ceased, the body is at rest, the mind has now full time for thought. Numberless acts of the past life rise up to the recollection, many a deed, and thought, and word, which must bring either pain or fear; principles undergo a test which the wrong and baseless cannot bear. Death looks terribly near. What can stand a man in good stead on an occasion like this? One thing, and one thing alone—sound Bible religion; a firm faith in Him who took our nature upon Him, and died for our sins, and rose again, that He might present us, rising with Him, faultless before the throne of Grace. I say that is the only thing that can make a man feel perfectly happy under such circumstances. I have seen many men stand boldly up to meet expected death, who have no such hope, no such confidence; but their cheeks have been pale, their lips have quivered, and oh, the agony depicted in their eyes. The soul was speaking through them, and told of its secret dread. Let no one be deceived by the outward show, the gallant bearing of a man. Too often, all within is terror, horror unspeakable of the near-approaching unknown future. We had still a long way to drive before we could reach the neighbourhood of the dreaded shoals and reefs. Most of the men probably were ignorant of the risks we were about to encounter. Happily, perhaps, for seamen, they seldom realise danger till it presents itself palpably before them. The Frenchmen, after a time gaining confidence, began to laugh and joke as before. Our men stood calm and grave at their posts. Not that they saw danger or felt fear, but that they were engaged in their duty, and knew that much depended on their steadiness and courage. Night came on; it was far more trying than the day. I felt very tired, but as to turning in, that was out of the question. Hours after hours we flew on, plunging headlong through the darkness, and often, to my excited imagination, strange shrieks and cries seemed to come out of the obscurity. Once as we flew on, as I stood watching black masses of water rising on our quarter and rolling on abeam of us, I fancied that I saw a large ship, her hull with her lofty masts towering up to the skies, close to us. It appeared as if another send of the sea would have driven us aboard her. I thought that I could distinguish people leaning over the bulwarks watching us with longing eyes. There was a gush of waters from her scuppers. I could hear the clang of the pumps; she was already deep in the water, rolling heavily; cries arose from her decks; lower and lower she sank. I watched her with straining eyes. A dark sea rose up between her and the schooner. She was no longer where she had been; the tracery of her masts and rigging appeared for an instant above the water, and then sank for ever. I uttered a cry of regret. McAllister shouted to me, and asked me why I had gone to sleep. I declared that I had been wide awake, and told him what I had seen.

“You’ve sharper eyes than any one else,” he answered. “You must have been asleep; we passed no ship, depend on that.”

I insisted on it that we had, and that he had not been looking out as I had; and from that day to this day I am uncertain which was right. I must, however, own that none of the men had seen the sinking ship; but then I hold that neither were they looking out, and it was but a few moments that she was in sight.

“Had all on board seen her we could have rendered her hapless crew no assistance,” I thought to myself, “so it does not signify.”

On we drove. I never spent a more trying night at sea. I thought the morning never would come or the gale end. The morning, however, did come, as it always does for those who wait for it. We were still driving on furiously, and as the cold grey light of the early dawn broke on the world of waters, the tossing ocean seemed more foam-covered and agitated than even on the previous day. I could see no signs of the cessation of the hurricane, nor did McAllister. Bambrick, however, observed that he thought there was less wind, and that it blew with more steadiness than before. The Frenchmen gave no opinion; indeed, most of them were below asleep. I worked my way forward to look out ahead. I stood by the side of the man stationed there for some minutes.

“The sea is terribly broken away on the starboard bow there,” I said.

“Yes, sir, I don’t like the looks of it,” was the answer, as we continued gazing. We did not speak again for some minutes. It was as I feared though.

“Breakers! breakers ahead!” we both simultaneously shouted. “Breakers! breakers on the starboard bow!”

“Starboard the helm,” cried McAllister, in a deep tone, without the slightest sign of agitation. It was doubtful if the vessel would feel the effect of the helm sufficiently to prevent her drifting bodily to leeward. On we drove. Another moment might see the vessel and all on board hurled to destruction. The stoutest vessel ever built could not hold together for two minutes should she strike on rock or sandbank with the awful sea then running dashing over her. I drew my breath short and clenched my teeth as we approached the broken water. The spray flew over our mastheads. Still we did not strike; the dreaded breakers appeared abeam. We had passed the head of a bank or reef. I saw some rocks and sand with a few trees in the distance, probably part of an island, easily discerned under ordinary circumstances above water. The danger for the moment was past, but there was no doubt that we had reached that portion of the Caribbean Sea most studded with dangers. Any moment we might again be among reefs. All we could do was to look out ahead, and pray and hope that we might escape them, as we had done the first. Half an hour or twenty minutes passed; some tall palm trees amid the misty atmosphere appeared bending to the storm on the larboard bow. It was doubtful whether reefs might not run out to the northward, and if so we could scarcely escape striking on them. The helm was, however, put to port, that we might pass as far as we could from the island. McAllister hurried forward, and, taking a steady look, declared his conviction that there was a reef to the northward of the island, and that if we could get a little sail on the schooner, we might run under its lee and ride in safety till the tempest was over. The very thought of the possibility of this renewed our spirits. The wind had certainly lessened. Rousing up the Frenchmen to lend a hand, we got a main-trysail and fore-staysail hoisted. The little craft heeled over, as once more putting the helm to starboard we brought her closer to the wind, in a way which made it seem probable that she would never recover herself; but she did, though; and now we flew on, plunging through the seas which broke on our larboard quarter, towards the island. We drove, of course, to leeward very fast, but still we had hopes that we might round its northern end before we drove past it altogether. Everybody on board stood clustered on deck, watching the island, and ever and anon casting anxious glances at the canvas. It stood now, though an hour before it would not have done so. We approached the island.

“Breakers! breakers on the starboard bow! breakers on the larboard bow!” shouted the men forward. I caught sight of some less broken water ahead. We steered towards it. In another moment our fate would be decided. We flew on; the sea broke terrifically on either hand, but the schooner did not strike. The water became calmer—the island grew more and more abeam. We flattened in the canvas, and, standing towards the land, in another ten minutes found ourselves in a sheltered bay, where, though our mastheads still felt the force of the gale, the wind scarcely reached us on deck. Our anchor was dropped and we rode in safety. I could have fallen on my knees and thanked Heaven for our merciful preservation from so many dangers, but such an act was not in accordance with our usual habits, and I was kept back from fear of what my companions would say. How miserable and contemptible is such a feeling! We are not afraid of displeasing our all-beneficent Creator, or appearing ungrateful for His mercies, and we are afraid of the ridicule of our fellow-men, or even of a sneer from the lips of those we despise the most. I dare say, if the truth were known, that McAllister, Bambrick, and others felt exactly as I did, and yet we were positively afraid of showing our feelings to each other. What a contrast did our present position exhibit to the wild tossing to and fro, and the strife of elements we had just passed through. Here (for the wind dropped rapidly) all was calm and quiet; the mist dissipated, the sun shone forth, and the blue waters of the bay sparkled as they rippled gently on the light yellow sand, strewed with numberless beautifully coloured shells; while numerous tall palm trees and shrubs of lower growth formed a bright fringe of green round the shores of the bay.

As we wanted water, and all agreed that some fresh cocoa-nuts would be very pleasant, I took a boat with four hands, two Englishmen and two Frenchmen, and, accompanied by Lieutenant Préville, pulled on shore. I also took a fowling-piece, in the hopes of getting a shot at some birds. There was no lack of cocoa-nuts, which the hurricane had blown off, on the ground, many of the trees themselves being laid prostrate. We had to hunt about some time before we found a spring. At length we came on one overshadowed by trees, where, by clearing away the ground with our spades, we could fill our casks. I with the two Englishmen was still at the spring, when the French lieutenant and his two countrymen were rolling down a cask to the boat. I followed, and when yet at some distance, I saw the Frenchmen step into the boat and begin shoving off. I ran on, and, having some bullets in my waistcoat pocket, I dropped one down the barrel of my fowling-piece, which I presented at the lieutenant’s head, ordering him to come back. He did not at first pay any attention to my threats; I hailed again, and told him that I had loaded with a bullet, and that I did not approve of the joke he was playing. I, at the same time, saw some of the Frenchmen on board the schooner making signs to him. Suddenly he turned round, as if he had only just seen me, and the boat pulled back to the shore.

“I demand a thousand pardons, monsieur,” he exclaimed, with the blandest of smiles. “I was only joking, but I am afraid from your countenance, that my vivacity carried me too far.” He went on for a considerable time in this style, till my two men came down with their cask, and then, shoving off, we returned on board. I asked McAllister if he had observed anything peculiar in the behaviour of the prisoners while I was on shore.

“I was below for a short time, and when I came on deck I found them clustering on the rigging forward,” he answered, carelessly. “I called them down, as it is against orders, and they immediately obeyed.”

I told him of the odd conduct of Lieutenant Préville, but he observed that he thought it was only the Frenchman’s joke, though it might be wise to keep a stricter look-out on the prisoners than we had lately done. We had little time however, for, pretty well worn out with the fatigues we had endured for the last four-and-twenty hours, we were glad to take the opportunity of being in a snug harbour to turn in and go to sleep. Before doing so, however, I told Bambrick, who had charge of the deck, to direct the sentry placed over the prisoners to keep his weather eye open, lest they should play us any trick. Tops are said to sleep soundly; I know from experience that midshipmen do. From the moment I put my head on the pillow it seemed but a moment that I was roused up to keep the morning watch. I found a light breeze blowing from the southward. It would not do to lose this opportunity of getting clear out to sea again; so I sent down to McAllister, who soon joined me, and agreed that I was right. The anchor was weighed, and under easy sail we ran out through the passage by which we had entered this harbour of refuge. As I looked on the rocks on either side, now showing their dark heads above water, it seemed wonderful how, with so terrific a hurricane blowing, we had safely entered. How often thus through life are we steered safely by a merciful Providence, amidst hosts of dangers which we do not at the time see, and for protection against which we are but too often most miserably unthankful. We were soon clear of the island, but it was necessary to keep a very bright look-out to avoid running on the reefs which we had before escaped. Several times we saw rocks on either hand, and breakers still dashing wildly up, showing that reefs or banks were there, and more and more astonished were we that we had passed between them in safety. Lieutenant Préville shrugged his shoulders.

“It would need a good pilot to carry a vessel in safety between those reefs as we came yesterday,” he observed. “But, after all, the best pilot is the Goddess Chance, who guided us.”

“Chance, monsieur! Chance!” exclaimed McAllister, with a vehemence in which he seldom indulged. “I do not believe that there is such a thing as chance, much less a goddess. I am not going to discuss the subject, only don’t talk to me of chance.”

The Frenchman again shrugged his shoulders, hoped that he had not given offence, and walked away, humming a tune. He continued, however, as polite and obliging as at first. He declared that we wanted a good dinner after our labours, and insisted on cooking it. He outshone himself, and with some shell-fish we had picked up, and two birds I had shot, produced some wonderfully delicious dishes. The wind held fair, but it was light, and it required us constantly to be on the look-out to thread our way among the dangers which surrounded us. Our anxiety, too, was very great for the fate of our consort. She was nowhere to be seen, and our fears were increased that she had gone down when first struck by the hurricane. We did not breathe freely till we were well out at sea, clear of all reefs and shoals. Lieutenant Préville especially complimented us on the seamanship we had displayed, and assured us that it was a great satisfaction to him to have been our shipmate through so trying an event. McAllister and I now agreed that if we did not fall in with the Espoir it was undoubtedly our duty to return to Jamaica. We accordingly cruised about for two days, and then shaped a course for that island. The next night it was my middle watch on deck. It had struck seven bells, and I was contemplating the satisfaction I should feel in turning in and going to sleep, when I suddenly found the French lieutenant walking by my side. This was against rule, as none of the prisoners were allowed to come on deck at night without the permission of the officer of the watch. He apologised, saying that he was oppressed with the heat, and knew that I would allow him to come. In a little time he professed to see a light ahead, and induced me to walk forward to look at it. Just as I was abreast of the foremast I found my arms seized, a gag thrust into my mouth, and a handkerchief bound over my eyes, so that I could neither struggle, cry out, nor see what was going forward. The horrible conviction came on me that the Frenchmen were attempting to recapture the vessel. I hoped that McAllister might be awake, as he was so soon to relieve me. The suspense, however, was terrible. I found myself secured to the bulwarks, and left to my cogitations. I augured the worst, because there was no cry; no shots were fired. There I sat, it seemed an age, listening for some sounds. I was almost sure that the Frenchmen had mastered all our people on deck, even Ned Bambrick. At length I heard one of the French seamen speaking; he was making a report to Lieutenant Préville. A loud cheer was the response, “Vive l’Empéreur! vive la France!” I knew full well by this, that they were in entire possession of the vessel. My heart sank within me. It was bad enough to lose our prize; it would be worse to be thrown overboard, or to have our throats cut. I did not, however, think that the Frenchmen would do that. They would take very good care, though, that we did not regain the vessel. Such being the case, I really felt almost indifferent as to what became of us. After all the civility we had shown Lieutenant Préville, I thought that he might as well have released me from my uncomfortable position, with my arms lashed tightly behind me, and a gag in my mouth. I heard some orders issued in French, and the blocks rattling, and yards creaking as if the sails were being trimmed, and the schooner’s course altered. Hour after hour passed by; at last I fell asleep with a crick in my neck, and the sound of a Frenchman’s voice in my ear.

“Oh, pauvre miserable!” said the voice; “why we forgot him.”

Such was the fact, not very complimentary to my importance. I had been overlooked. The speaker took the handkerchief off my eyes. It was daylight, and the schooner was running under all sail before a fair breeze. Lieutenant Préville soon appeared, and, telling the men to cast me loose, invited me, in a tone of irony, I fancied, to join my brother officer at breakfast with him.

Poor McAllister looked dreadfully cast down. We took our seats in silence. Our host, who had yesterday been our guest, was in high spirits.

“It is the fortune of war, you well know, Monsieur Merry,” he observed with a provoking smile. “Brave garçons like you know how to bear such reverses with equanimity. I can feel for you, though, believe me. Monsieur McAllister, I drink to your health, though I fear that you will not be a lieutenant as soon as you expected. Here, take some of this claret; it will revive your spirits.”

My messmate seized the decanter of wine, which it is the custom of the French to have on the table at breakfast, and drank off a large tumbler. He drew a long breath after he had done so.

“You have the advantage of us this time undoubtedly, Monsieur Préville,” he exclaimed bitterly; “but a day will come when we shall meet together on equal terms, and then, I hope, as brave men we shall fight it out to the death.”

“With pleasure, assuredly,” answered the Frenchman, with the politest of bows and smiles. “But in the mean time you must endeavour to restrain your impetuosity. At present it would be impossible to give you the satisfaction you require.”

Poor McAllister ground his teeth; the words were taunting, but the expression of the Frenchman’s countenance was more so. He would have sprung up and fought him then and there, with carving knives or any weapons at hand; but he restrained himself for a good reason. The lieutenant had a brace of loaded pistols by his side on the table, and two seamen stood on either side of us with loaded muskets, ready to blow out our brains, had we exhibited any signs of insubordination. McAllister went on eating his breakfast in silence.

The lieutenant pointed to the men and to his pistols.

“These are to do you honour,” he observed. “They are the greatest compliment we can pay to your bravery. Unless you were handcuffed, I should not think myself safe a moment.”

“We did not treat you so,” I remarked.

“No, my friend,” he said, smiling; “but you are prisoners, and I have regained command of my schooner.”

I had not a word to say, but I resolved to profit by the lesson in my future career.

We were not allowed to communicate with any of our men, who were kept under strict watch forward, and only permitted to come on deck one at a time, in charge of a sentry. McAllister and I even had no opportunity of communicating with each other. When we got on deck, an armed man walked up and down by our side, and when we approached the compass, we were ordered away, so that we could not tell what course we were steering, except by guessing from the position of the sun.

Of course, with all the care the Frenchmen took, we had very little hopes of being able to retake the schooner. Neither could we tell what was to be done with us, nor did Lieutenant Préville think fit to inform us. After all our anticipations of prize-money and pleasure on shore, to have the inside of a French prison alone in view was very galling to our feelings. McAllister could do nothing but mourn his hard fate, and mutter threatenings against France and Frenchmen should he ever regain his liberty. Our only hope was that one of our own cruisers might fall in with the Audacieuse, and that we might thus be set at liberty. Consequently, whenever we were on deck we scanned the horizon anxiously, resolved, if we caught sight of a sail, not to give the Frenchmen too early a notice of the fact. At last one day we lay becalmed, while a thick mist had settled down over the ocean. I began to fear that we were going to have another hurricane. The Frenchmen did not think so, but took things very easily. The look-out came down from aloft, and, except the man who was placed as sentry over us, all hands employed themselves in mending their clothes and in other similar occupations. The man at the helm stood leaning on the tiller, lazily watching his companions. Suddenly to the westward I saw the mist lift, and, directly under the canopy thus formed, I distinctly saw a large ship standing down under all sail towards us. I was afraid by word or sign to point her out to McAllister, and dreaded lest the expression of my countenance might draw the attention of any of the crew towards her. She could not fail to pass close to us if she continued on the course she was steering. I only hoped that the mist would lift again, in time to show the Audacieuse to those on board her. The mist seemed, much to my satisfaction, to be settling down again, when at that instant Lieutenant Préville came on deck. His quick eye instantly detected the stranger. Having uttered some forcible expletives as to his opinion of his crew’s conduct in not keeping a better look-out, he ordered the sails to be trimmed, and every stitch of canvas the schooner could carry to be set in readiness for the coming breeze, McAllister’s and my eagerness may be easily conceived. We both had an idea that the ship was English, and that she would bring up the breeze. What was our disappointment, then, when we saw the schooner’s sails rilling out. Away she glided before the breeze. The mist soon afterwards entirely cleared away, and exhibited the stranger about two miles off. By her build and the cut of her sails she was English. When she saw us, all sail was made on board her; but the Audacieuse had a fast pair of heels, and it was soon evident that she was leaving her pursuer far astern. Our hopes sank and sank, and by nightfall we had run her out of sight. When morning returned the stranger was nowhere to be seen.

Four days thus passed by. They were far from agreeable ones. Early on the sixth we found a substantial breakfast on the table, and after we had partaken of it with a suspicion that it was to be our last on board, we were ordered on deck. Here we found the schooner hove-to, and all our people assembled, while alongside lay one of the schooner’s boats, with oars and masts and sails, a water cask, and some hampers and cases of provisions. There was a tarpaulin, and the boat was fitted in other respects, as far as she could be, to perform a long voyage.

“There, my friends,” observed the lieutenant; “I wish to part with you on friendly terms. I do not desire to keep you as prisoners, as I am bound on a long cruise, and I hope that you may regain your own ship in safety. I will give you your course for Jamaica, which you may reach in a week; farewell.”

We had not a word to say against this arrangement, so, thanking the Frenchman for his courtesy, we followed our men, who had before been ordered into the boat. Even McAllister could not help putting out his hand and exclaiming, “You are brave, as are most Frenchmen, but you are honest and kind-hearted, and that is more than I, for one, will say of some of your countrymen.”

The lieutenant shrugged his shoulders and laughed as he shook our hands. He was in high good spirits, as well he might be. We stepped into the boat, and he waved his hand; we shoved off, and, bowing as politely as we could force ourselves to do, we hoisted our sails and shaped a course for Jamaica. The Audacieuse filled, and then, hauling her wind, stood away to the eastward.

Chapter Twelve.

It was satisfactory to be once more at liberty, but a voyage in an open boat across the Caribbean Sea, when it was possible that we might have to encounter another hurricane, was not altogether an exploit we should have undertaken if we had had our choice. However, as we had plenty of provisions and enough water, we had no reason to complain. We found, indeed, on looking over our stores to select some food for our dinner, that there were a dozen of claret and six bottles of brandy.

“Really, that fellow Préville is a trump,” I exclaimed, as I poured out a glass of the former, and handed it to McAllister. “We’ll drink his health, for he deserves it. Come, rouse up, my boy. It’s good liquor; you’ll not deny that.”

“I’ll drink his health and long life to him, that we may have a better chance of meeting together in mortal combat,” answered my messmate, gloomily. “To have our hard-won prize stolen out of our hands in this way—it’s more than I can bear. And to have to make our appearance on board the frigate without our vessel, and to report the loss of poor Perigal and the others, is even worse.”

I did my best to rouse up McAllister, and to make him see matters in a more cheerful light, but it was no easy matter. He was ever dwelling on the fact that the prize had been placed under his charge, and that he had lost her. I was sometimes almost afraid that, if not watched at night, he would be jumping overboard, so gloomy did he become. Bambrick entertained the same idea also, I suspected, and I was glad to see that he watched him narrowly. We also did our best to amuse him, and I got the men to sing songs and spin yarns from morning till night. Only one story told by Ned Bambrick seemed to afford him much amusement.

“You must know, sir, when I was paid off during the last peace, I joined a South Sea whaler. You’ve heard tell of Botany Bay. Well, that’s nowhere, or that’s to say, it is not the place where they send prisoners. But there’s a fine harbour near it, which they call Port Jackson, and up it there’s a town which they call the Camp, but which has now got the name of Sydney. It’s what they call a colony, that’s to say, a good number of people of all sorts, besides convicts, goes out there, and they’ve a governor set over them, who rules the land just like any king. He’s a right, real sort of a governor, to my mind, for he makes the laws and sees that they are obeyed, too. He won’t stand no nonsense, and though he doesn’t wear a wig and gown, like the judges at home, he sits in a court, and tries all them who doesn’t do what they ought. He hears both parties, and, when they’ve done, he sings out, ‘Haul in the slack of your jaw-tackle, and belay all that,’ and then he goes for to say what each party must do, and he won’t hear a word more from either of them. Well, as I was a saying, I joined a South Sea whaler. I can’t say as how I had a pleasant time aboard, but it was better than others had. Our captain was one of them chaps as always does what they choose, and he pretty often chose to do what was very bad. He had a quarrel with the doctor of the ship, who was a very decent, well-behaved young man, and not wanting in spirit. Their disputes went on from bad to worse, so what does he do one day, but call four or five hands aft, fellows always ready to do any dirty work for a glass of grog, and getting hold of the poor doctor, clap him into one of the hen-coops. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘you’ll stay there till you beg my pardon.’ ‘I’ll never beg your pardon,’ says the doctor. ‘I’ll see if I can’t make you,’ says the captain. Well, would you believe it? the captain kept the poor doctor in there, day after day, and always took his meals to him himself, cut up into little bits so that he could eat them with a spoon. When he put in the plate, he always used to sing out, ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’ just as he would have done if he was feeding the fowls. It aggravated the poor doctor, but he couldn’t help himself. No one dared to speak to the captain, who always walked about with a brace of pistols in his belt, and swore he’d shoot any one who interfered with him. You may be sure I and others felt for the doctor when the savage used to go to him, with a grin on his face, and sing out, ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’ The doctor would have been starved if he hadn’t taken the food when the captain brought it him, with his ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’

“At last one day, the doctor wouldn’t stand it any longer; so says he, ‘If you don’t let me out of this, I’ll make you sing out “Coopity! coopity!” from the other side of your mouth; so look out.’ The captain laughed at him, and went on as before. However, we had to put into Port Jackson to refit, and it came to the ears of the governor that our skipper had a man shut up in a hen-coop; so he sent some soldiers aboard, and had the doctor taken out and brought ashore. Then there was a regular trial, and the governor heard what the doctor had to say, and the skipper and we had to say, and then he says, ‘I decide that you, Captain Crowfoot, shall pay Dr McGrath two hundred golden guineas before you leave this court.’ The captain, with many wry faces, began to make all sorts of excuses, but the governor wouldn’t listen to one of them, and Captain Crowfoot had to get a merchant to hand him out two bags of guineas. ‘Count them, captain, count them,’ says the governor; and as the skipper counted them out on the table, the doctor stood by with another bag, and, as he swept them in with his hand, he kept singing out ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’ Really it was pleasant to hear the doctor go on with his ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’ Everybody in the court laughed, and, I believe you, the skipper was glad enough to get away when he had counted out all his money, and there was a regular cheer of ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’ as he rushed out of the court.” I had not seen McAllister laugh since we had lost the prize. He now gave way to a hearty peal, exclaiming, “Ha! ha! ha! I’ll make the French lieutenant sing out ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’ before the world is many years older.”

I need not describe all that occurred in the boat. We made fair way while the wind continued fair, and the weather favourable, but Jamaica still seemed a long distance off. It is a large island however, so that there was not much chance of our missing it. Four days had passed since we left the Audacieuse, when about midnight the wind suddenly shifted to the northward, and, what was worse, it came on to blow very hard. We closely reefed our sail, and hove-to, but the seas constantly broke over us, and we were obliged to keep two hands baling, or we should have been swamped. It was bad enough as it was, but it might come on worse, and then, would the boat swim? That was a question. That was a dreary night. The rain came down too—as it knows well how to do in the tropics. We had no want of water, but we unwisely neglected to fill our casks. Expecting to make a quick run, we had not stinted ourselves in the use of water. Of course the boat all this time was drifting to leeward, and we were losing all the distance we had made good during the last day or so; if the gale continued we should lose still more. At last daylight came, but the wind blew as hard as ever—half a gale at all events. Two whole days more it blew. At last it ceased, but it left us a hundred miles nearly further from our destination than when it commenced. This was bad enough, but though there was little of it remaining, that little was in our teeth. We however hauled our wind, and tried to beat up. When the sea went down we got the oars out, and, lowering the sails, pulled head to wind. It was greatly trying to the men, to know that after toiling away for hours, the entire distance gained might be lost in a quarter of the time. Still, as British seamen always do, they persevered. McAllister and I took our turn at the oars with the rest. For several days we laboured thus. The prospect of a quick run to Jamaica was over. Our provisions were running short—our water was almost expended. Hunger and thirst began to stare us in the face—things apt not only to stare people out of countenance, but out of their good looks. We at once went on short allowance, which grew shorter and shorter. As we gazed on each other’s faces, we saw how haggard our shipmates had become, each person scarcely aware of his own emaciated appearance. At last we had not a drop of water remaining. Jamaica might still be a week’s sail off, under favourable circumstances. The thirst we now endured was far worse than hunger, in that climate, with a hot sun burning down on our heads all day. Our throats got hotter and more parched every hour; we drew in our belts, and that silenced the cravings of hunger for a time, and we had some few bits of biscuit, and ham, and chocolate, but nothing we could do could allay our thirst. We dipped our faces in water, and kept applying our wet handkerchiefs to our mouths and eyes. We got most relief from breathing through our wet handkerchiefs; but it was only transient; the fever within burned as fiercely as ever. We had to work at the oars, when we could not keep our handkerchiefs wet. McAllister, like a brave fellow as he was, aroused himself, and endeavoured to encourage us to persevere. He especially warned the men against drinking salt water, telling them that it would be downright suicide, and that they might as well jump overboard and be drowned at once. We were certainly making way, and every hour lessening our distance to Jamaica. Again our hopes were raised. We had a few scraps of food to support life for two days more; but it was the water we wanted. I felt that I could not hold out another twenty-four hours. I must have water or die. The wind, however, came fair; we made sail, and ran merrily over the water—at least the boat did. Our feelings were heavy enough. Still I must say that we did our best to keep up each other’s courage. Again the wind fell. It shifted. We might be driven back, and lose all the way we had gained. Dark clouds gathered—the feeling of the air changed. “Get the sail spread out flat, and the buckets, and cask, and mugs ready, boys,” cried McAllister, “Open your mouths.”

Scarcely had he spoken, when down came the rain. Oh, how delicious were the cool streams which flowed down our parched throats, and washed the salt from our faces. As the sail caught it, we let it run off into the receptacles we had prepared. Mugful after mugful we drained. We filled our cask and buckets. The rain ceased just as we had done so, and then it fell a dead calm. But we all felt refreshed and invigorated. New life seemed put into us, and the dry morsels of biscuit and ham, which we before could not swallow, were eaten with a relish. This deliverance from immediate death gave us hope; but still we might have again to encounter all the difficulties we had before gone through, before reaching land. Could we possibly survive them? I had often read of similar adventures and sufferings, and had been so much interested and amused, that I had felt considerably obliged to those who had gone through them, and really felt that I should like to have been with them; but I found the reality very different indeed. The terrible reality was presented to me with the gilding off—the romance vanished. My great wish was to escape from my present position. I have no doubt that all my companions felt with me.

The oars were again got out, and slowly we pulled to the northward. It was soon evident, however, that our strength was totally unequal to the task. One after the other the oars dropped from the men’s feeble grasp. It was terrible to see strong men thus reduced to weakness. The calm continued. Even I began to despair. A dizziness came over me. I was nearly sinking to the bottom of the boat, but I resisted the impulse by a strong effort. “I’ll not give in while life and sense remain.” I fancied that I felt a puff of air on my cheek. I wetted my finger, and held it up. There was no doubt about it. A breeze was coming from the southward. I stood up as well as I was able, and looked astern for the expected blue line in the horizon. My heart leaped within me when my eye fell on the white sails of a vessel coming fast up with us. I shouted out the joyous news. My companions lifted up their heads, some scarcely understanding what I said. McAllister, who had been asleep, started up, and, with his hand over his eyes, gazed anxiously at the stranger. Bambrick, with a strength which surprised me, leaped up on the thwart, holding on by the mast, and, after looking for some time, he exclaimed, “She’s the Espoir, as sure as my name is Ned Bambrick.”

“The Espoir went down in the hurricane, and this craft is only some phantom come to delude and mock us,” muttered McAllister, gloomily.

“Nonsense! you don’t believe in such stuff,” I exclaimed. “If yonder craft is the Espoir, it’s plain the Espoir did not go down in the hurricane; and if the Espoir did go down in the hurricane, it is equally plain that the vessel in sight is not she.”

“No, no, yonder craft is but a mocking phantom. I’m destined never to see my bonnie home and fair Scotland again,” he answered, in a low voice, speaking more to himself than to me.

There was no use in then contradicting him. Half an hour or less would, I hoped, show that the stranger astern was a real palpable vessel, with human beings on board who would relieve our distress, and no phantom craft. Poor McAllister sank down in the stern-sheets again through weakness, but continued to gaze at the stranger, as we all did, with our eyeballs almost starting, in our eagerness, from their sockets.

The stranger proved to be a schooner; and, as she approached, she appeared to be more and more like the Espoir. There was at length no doubt about it, but McAllister still shook his head, muttering “A phantom—a phantom—but very like the craft—there’s na doubt about that.” I do not know what he might have thought when the schooner shortened sail, and glided up slowly alongside our boat. There were Perigal, and Grey, and Macquoid, and Bobus, and others, looking at us over the bulwarks. They must have known us by our uniforms to be English, but they had no idea we were their own shipmates. I guessed this by hearing Macquoid say to Bobus—

“Who can they be? Some poor fellows whose vessel must have gone down in the hurricane.”

“Hand them up carefully, now,” said Perigal to the men who descended into the boat.

We were all soon lifted on deck, for we were utterly unable to help ourselves, and we had positively to say who we were before we were recognised.

The foremost to rush forward and welcome me was Toby Bluff; and, forgetful of all the proprieties of the quarter-deck, he was very nearly throwing his arms round me and giving me a hearty hug, so overcome was he with joy at having the young squire restored to him.

“Oh! Measter Merry, they will be main glad at the Hall when they learns that after all you didn’t go down in that mighty terrible hurricane we had t’other day,” he exclaimed. “I’d never have gone back to see them—that I wouldn’t—I could have never faced them without the young measter!”

Warm and sincere, indeed, were the congratulations of all our friends. Macquoid at once took charge of us—ordered us all into our hammocks, and would not allow us to swallow more than the most moderate quantity of food, nor to listen nor talk. Owing to his judicious management, we all speedily got round, with the exception of McAllister, who had been the last to give in. His spirit and moral courage had supported him, till at length his physical powers yielded to his sufferings.

We carried on the breeze till we sighted Jamaica. Of course Perigal was very much vexed at hearing of the loss of the prize, but he did not blame McAllister, though, as he observed, it would have been wiser had we not placed so much confidence in our agreeable and plausible prisoner. The Espoir had lost sight of us in the hurricane from the first, and apprehensions for our safety had till now been entertained, and so our friends looked upon us as happily restored to them from the dead, and were not inclined to find undue fault with us. We found that they had been placed in even greater danger than we had, and had suffered more damage, but finally they were enabled to take shelter under an island more to the south than the one we gained. Here they remained for some time to refit, and thus were brought to our rescue just in time to preserve us from destruction. We were all tolerably recovered and presentable by the time we entered Port Royal harbour. Here we found the frigate almost ready for sea, and, to our satisfaction, Spellman with our first prize had arrived safely. Among those who most cordially welcomed me was Mr Johnson, the boatswain.

“We felt that hurricane even here, Mr Merry; and, thinking you might feel it too, I was anything but happy about you,” he observed, shaking me by the hand. “I was once out in just such another—only it blew a precious deal harder. Some of our hands had their pigtails carried away, and two or three fellows who kept their mouths open had their teeth blown down their throats. It was the gale when the Thunderer and so many others of His Majesty’s ships went down. You’ve heard of it, I dare say?”

I told him that I had read about it in a naval history we had on board, but that the account of the pigtails and teeth was not given.

“No, I dare say not; historians seldom enter as they ought into particulars,” he answered, laughing.

Grey received an equally friendly welcome from Mr Johnson, with whom he was as great a favourite as I was. He made us give him an account of all our adventures, and amused himself with quizzing me, without ceasing, at having been so tricked by the French lieutenant. I believed, and do to this day, that Préville was civil and light-hearted from nature, and that it was only when he found us off guard that the idea of seizing the vessel occurred to him.

McAllister did not get off as easily as I did. Wherever he went he was quizzed for having been tricked by the Frenchman and losing his prize. He unfortunately could not stand quizzing, and, taking what was said too seriously, he became at times quite sulky and morose.

As the Doris had no hands to spare, the tender was laid up, and once more the frigate put to sea in search of the enemies of our country. We knew that several of their frigates were at sea, and we hoped to fall in with one of them. If we missed them, we were not likely to object to pick up a few rich merchantmen.

Soon after I rejoined, I was invited to the gun-room to give an account of my adventures on board the Audacieuse. Thinking he was going to be quizzed McAllister would not say a word on the subject. I was not so particular, and amused the officers very much with an account of the way in which the polite lieutenant used to dress our dinners for us, and used to sing and play for our amusement. Mr Fitzgerald seemed highly entertained.

“He must be a broth of a boy, indeed! If we ever catch him, we’ll make him dress our dinners,” he exclaimed, laughing.

He was himself stranger than ever, and, with his curious performances, I used to wonder how he managed not to get into more scrapes than he did. Our captain was much of the same opinion, for I heard him remark that he really was glad to get to sea, for fear Mr Fitzgerald should do something to bring himself into difficulty on shore. The words were reported to Mr Fitzgerald, who remarked—

“Och! where there’s a will there’s a way. We’ll see what we can do, even out here on the big salt sea!”

Not long after this, during a light breeze, we chased a vessel to the southward. We came up with her hand over hand. When, however, we were about five miles off, it fell a dead calm. What she was we could not ascertain, though she did not look like an armed vessel. It was necessary to overhaul her, so Mr Fitzgerald volunteered to take the gig and six hands to board her, and Grey and I got leave to accompany him. We had a hot pull, the sun coming down full on our heads, and as we had come away without any water, the men were anxious to get on board the stranger, that they might quench their thirst. She was rigged as a barque, and she proved as we guessed; she was a Yankee, and a neutral. Though undoubtedly laden with stores for our enemies, we could not touch her. Her skipper was very civil, and invited us into the cabin, where a fine display of decanters and tumblers gave promise of good cheer, in which we were not disappointed. Mr Fitzgerald was soon deep in the mysteries of cocktail and similar mixtures. He seemed to enjoy them amazingly, for he quaffed tumbler after tumbler, till I began to fear that he was getting rather too deep into the subject. Grey and I took our share, but we both of us were from inclination very temperate. Independent of other considerations, I have always held that a splitting headache, and the risk of getting into trouble, was a high price to pay for the pleasure of tickling one’s palate, or artificially raising one’s spirits for a short time. The men were hospitably entertained forward, one or two of them finding old messmates; indeed American vessels at that period were manned principally with English seamen. We remained on board altogether much longer than we ought to have done, but at last Mr Fitzgerald, looking at his watch, jumped up, exclaiming that he must be off. We thanked the skipper for his civility, and, not without difficulty, getting the men into the boat, away we pulled towards the frigate. The men were all high in praise of the Yankees, and I have no doubt that they were all put up to run from the ship at the first American port at which they might touch.

The calm still continued, and from the lazy way in which the men pulled, it was clear that they were in no hurry to get on board. Grey and I, of course, were not; indeed Mr Fitzgerald, who was in great spirits, kept us highly amused by his stories, so full of racy humour. Our movements were, however, considerably expedited by the report of a gun from the frigate, as a signal for us immediately to return. The men now bent to their oars, and gave way in earnest. We had not pulled far, however, when another puff of smoke was seen to burst forth from the frigate’s side, followed by the report of the gun, which came booming over the smooth ocean.

“Och! the skipper’s in a mighty hurry,” muttered the lieutenant to himself. “We are making all the haste flesh and blood is capable of, with the sun boiling up our marrow at this rate.”

“Give way, lads, give way,” he shouted aloud. “The captain is in a hurry, for there’s something in the wind, depend on that.”

We were, I suspect, so completely in a position under the sun, as observed from the frigate, that we could not be seen. Presently the report of another gun struck our ears. On this Mr Fitzgerald seemed to lose all patience.

“Hand me an oar and a boat-hook,” he exclaimed, “and some rope-yarn.”

What was our surprise to see him strip off his trousers, and make the waistband fast to the boat-hook, which he secured for a yard across the blade of an oar stepped upright as a mast. Having secured some pieces of rope-yarn to the legs of his unmentionables, he stood up and began blowing away with might and main into the upper portions, stopping every now and then to gain breath, and to shout, “Give way, lads, with a will—give way like troopers—give way, ye hardy sons of Neptune, or of sea-cooks, if you prefer the appellation. Give way like Tritons. We are doing all that men can do. Who dare say we can do more? But we must not stop to talk.” Then, once more filling out his cheeks, he began to blow and puff with might and main as before.

Grey and I, though not a little shocked, were convulsed with laughter; so of course were the men, whose countenances, as they bent to their oars, were wreathed in the broadest of broad grins, while shouts of scarce suppressed laughter burst ever and anon from their throats.

“Faith, the captain can’t say it’s my fault if we don’t get aboard in time. I’ve done all that any officer in His Majesty’s service could do to expedite matters, at all events,” he observed at length, stopping to draw breath.

“And more than most officers would dream of doing, Mr Fitzgerald,” I answered, quietly, really fearing that he had gone mad.

“Och, yes, I was always celebrated for my zeal,” he answered. “There’s nothing like zeal, Mr Merry. When my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty think fit to promote one of their own nephews over the heads of any lot of us poor fellows who don’t happen to have any interest in high quarters, it’s always on account of zeal—they are such very zealous and promising young men. They don’t say what they promise. I could never learn that. I once posed the First Lord by simply asking the question. I went up just to ask for my promotion—for there’s nothing like asking, you know, youngsters. The First Lord received me with wonderful civility. He took me for another Fitzgerald, and I was fool enough to tell him which I really was, or I believe he would have handed me out my commission and appointment to a fine brig I had in my eye, there and then. I saw by his change of countenance that I had made a mistake, and, as I was in for it, I determined not to be abashed. With the blandest of smiles he remarked, ‘Undoubtedly, Mr Fitzgerald, I will keep you in sight, but I have on my list so many zealous and promising young officers, that I fear you will have some time to wait.’ His cold eye told me he’d do nothing for me, so says I, ‘My lord, I should just like to have an example of this zeal, that I may learn to imitate it; but as to promises, faith, my lord, I should like to see any man who can beat me at making them.’ I put on a face as I spoke, and he couldn’t help laughing, but he told me, when I made my bow, that I might be sure he wouldn’t forget me. Whether he has or has not, I can’t say; but here am I, a descendant of Brian Boroo, and I don’t know how many kings and queens of ould Ireland besides, nothing but a humble lieutenant, standing with my breeches off, and endeavouring to fill this epitome of a boat’s sail with all the wind in my mortal body. I must stop talking, though, youngsters; it’s setting you a bad example,” and he began to puff away again.

We were now drawing so near the frigate that I felt sure, if any glasses were turned towards us, his extraordinary condition could be seen. I was anxious to prevent his getting into disgrace, so I asked—

“Wouldn’t it be better, sir, if you were to put on your breeches, and let the men pull up alongside in proper style?”

“What, youngster, and lose this magnificent opportunity of exhibiting my zeal?” he exclaimed, indignantly. “I shall request the captain to write an official letter to the Admiralty, that a proper record may be made of it.”

“But Grey and I will bear witness to the truth of your statement, if you think fit, to-morrow, to make a report of the proceeding,” I observed. “You must allow, sir, that officers do not generally come alongside a ship with their breeches off, though of course it is very laudable to make use of them as a boat’s sail, or in any other way, for the good of the service; but, if you have any enemies, a wrong construction may be put on the matter.”

He did not appear to be listening to what I was saying, but continued puffing out his cheeks and blowing as before. As I was steering, I told Grey to look through the telescope we had with us at the ship.

“I see several glasses turned this way,” he answered, “and there are numbers of men in the rigging.”

I made no remark, but Mr Fitzgerald soon afterwards lowered the oar, and, without saying anything, quietly put on his breeches. We were soon alongside; the boat was hoisted in, and a light breeze having sprung up, which had long been seen coming, all sail was made in chase of a vessel to the eastward.

Mr Fitzgerald then made his report.

“You seemed to be carrying some sail,” observed the captain. “You had but little wind, though, to make it of use.”

“There was all the wind I could make,” blurted out the lieutenant, who had now got sober, and was as much ashamed of himself as it was in his nature to be. “However, Captain Collyer, you know my zeal for the service, and there isn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for its good.”

“Even to make use of your breeches as a sail, and compelling your mouth to do duty as Molus,” said the captain, gravely. “However, Mr Fitzgerald, though I never like making mountains of molehills, don’t let your zeal, or your love of a joke, carry you so far again. Discipline would quickly vanish if the officers were to forget their dignity, as you did just now. No officer should ever appear in public without his breeches.”

“I’ll make a note of that, Captain Collyer, and take care that it never again occurs,” answered Mr Fitzgerald, with inimitable gravity, but with an expression on his comical features which made our good-natured skipper almost burst into a fit of laughter.

Two or three nights after this, while it was Mr Fitzgerald’s watch, in which I was placed, it being very dark, the frigate, without any warning, was struck by a heavy squall, which threw her in an instant on her beam ends. I thought that she was going down. There was a loud crash—the fore-topmast had gone over the side. Lightning flashed from the sky; the thunder roared. A loud clap was heard overhead—the main-topsail had split, and, rent in fragments, was carried out of the bolt-ropes, lashing itself in fury round the yard. All seemed confusion. Everybody on the first crash had rushed on deck, mostly in very scanty costume. The captain had slipped on his coat, which, with his shirt and slippers, formed his costume. There he stood, his shirt tails fluttering in the breeze, while with his deep-toned voice he was bringing order out of seeming chaos. When the main-topsail went the frigate righted. We had work enough to do to clear the wreck of the fore-topmast and all its hamper, and it was broad daylight before the captain could leave the deck. When the ship was put a little to rights, and those officers who had appeared in limited costume had gone below to don the usual amount of dress, Mr Fitzgerald walked up to Mr Bryan, the first-lieutenant, and said—

“I wish, Bryan, that you would ascertain what are and what are not the regulations of this ship. Two days ago the captain told me that it was against his express orders that any officers should appear on the quarter-deck without their breeches, and now he appears himself without his, and so do Haisleden and the master, and some other fellows besides.”

“There are some occasions when it does not do to stick at trifles,” answered Mr Bryan, who found it very necessary to humour his eccentric brother officer.

“Well, at all events, the captain cannot find fault with me after that,” said the second lieutenant; “I am always saying the same—I never stick at trifles.”

“No, indeed you do not; but sometimes it is just as well to look at them, and ascertain if they are trifles,” observed Mr Bryan.

It was found that the frigate had received so much damage that it was necessary to put back to Port Royal. It was a matter of very little consequence to us midshipmen. We were chiefly interested because we knew that we should get a supply of fresh meat and vegetables, which we preferred to the salt pork and weevilly biscuits served out to the navy in those days, and for very many days later; indeed, where is the naval officer, under the rank of a commander, or I may say a lieutenant, who does not tap every bit of biscuit on the table before he puts it into his mouth? He taps mechanically now, but he learned the habit when it was necessary to knock out the weevils.

We soon had the ship as much to rights as circumstances would allow. In the evening Grey and I went below, and found the boatswain seated on a stool in his cabin, with his legs stretched out at full length before him.

“Ah, young gentlemen, I know what you’ve come for,” he exclaimed when he saw us. “You’re curious to hear some more of my yarns. It’s natural, and I’ll not baulk you. There’s one thing you may depend on, it will be a long time before I shall spin them all out. You needn’t tell me where I left off. I was telling you about my pet shark and the dreadful event connected with it. It’s a warning to people not to have pet sharks, as you’ll say when you hear more. But come in, young gentlemen, and make yourselves comfortable. Ah, Mr Gogles, I’m glad to see you here; you’ve not heard any of my veracious narrative, but now you shall hear something to astonish you, I guess.”

Gogles was a young midshipman, the son of a planter at Jamaica, who had joined us when we were last there. His countenance exhibited a large capacity for imbibing the wonderful and improbable, a fact which had not escaped Mr Johnson’s acute observation.

By the time Toby Bluff had brought the boatswain his usual evening glass of grog, and he had cleared his throat, and, as he remarked, brought up his thoughts from the store-lockers of memory, a large audience was collected in and outside the cabin.

“Listen then, and let no one doubt me,” continued Mr Johnson. “I told you the Lady Stiggins was bound round Cape Horn. We were running down the coast of America, when somewhere to the southward of the latitude of Demerara it came on to blow very hard from the north and west. The clouds came rushing along the sky like a mass of people all hurrying to see the king open parliament, or a clown throw a summersault at a fair, or anything of that sort, while the wind howled and screeched in the rigging as I have heard wild beasts in the woods in Africa, and the sea got up and tumbled and rolled as if the waves were dancing for their very lives. You need not believe it, but the foam flew from them so thick that it actually lifted the ship at times out of the water. We had sent down our topgallant yards, and had just furled the courses, and were in the act of lowering our main-topsail to reef it close, when a squall, more heavy than before, came right down upon us. I was at the helm at the time, and heard it roaring up astern. The main-topsail yard had just reached the cap, and the fore-topsail was the only sail showing to the breeze. The blast struck us; a clap, as if of thunder, was heard, and away flew our fore-topsail clean out of the bolt-ropes, and clear of everything. Off it flew, right away to leeward, down upon the breeze. I kept my eye on it, and observed that instead of sinking, from the strength and buoyant power of the wind, it retained precisely the same elevation above the sea that it had done when spread to the yard. I did not mention the circumstance to anyone, but took care not to lose sight of the sail. This was a hint to us not to set more canvas, so the main-topsail was furled, and away we scudded, under bare poles, right in the wake of the fore-topsail. Instead of abating, the wind increased till it blew a perfect hurricane. I, however, kept at the helm, and explaining to the captain the occurrence I had observed, begged to be allowed to remain there. At first he would scarcely believe me, and declared that it was a white cloud ahead of us, but I was so positive, that at last he let me have my way. Well, we steered straight on all that day, and when night approached I took the bearings of the sail that we might follow it as before. The wind did not vary, and in the morning there it was, exactly in its former position, only I think we had gained a little on it. On, on we ran, tearing rather over than through the foaming ocean, but still we did not come up with the fail. At last I was obliged, from very weariness, to let a careful hand relieve me at the helm, and, desiring to be called if we neared the sail, I turned in and went to sleep. Now you will want to know, young gentlemen, why I was so anxious to come up with the sail? The fact is that I had taken a notion into my head, which I will tell you presently. Well, I was so weary that I slept for five-and-twenty hours without turning, and I could scarcely believe that I had been in my hammock more than an hour, for when I came on deck everything was exactly as I had left it. Feeling much refreshed, and having swallowed two dozen of biscuits, a leg of pork, and a gallon of rum and water, I took the helm, resolved to carry out my intentions. It wasn’t, however, till the next morning, when the sun broke out from behind the clouds, that it shone directly on our fore-topsail, now not the eighth of a mile ahead of us. For some reason or other, which I have never been able satisfactorily to explain, we were coming rapidly up with it. I now saw that the moment was approaching for carrying my plan into execution. Accordingly I sent the people on to the fore-yard, and also on the fore-topsail yard, which was hoisted right up, some with palm needles and others with earings and lashings. It was a moment of intense interest. I kept the brig’s head directly for the sail. We approached it rapidly; it was over the bowsprit end. My eye did not fail me, and, to my inexpressible satisfaction, we shot directly up to the sail. The men on the yards instantly secured it, and in five minutes it was again spread aloft as if it had never left its place. There, young gentlemen, if you ever see anything done like that, you may open your eyes with astonishment. I gained some credit for my performance, though there are people, I own, who do not believe in the fact, which is not surprising, as it isn’t every day in the week that a ship recovers a topsail which has been blown away in a gale of wind.”

There was a considerable amount of cachinnations along the deck outside, while a gruff voice grunted out, “Well, bo’sun, that is a jolly crammer;” at which Mr Johnson looked highly indignant, and we were afraid that he would not continue his narrative, but a glance at Gogles’s deliciously credulous and yet astonished countenance, as he sat with his eyes and mouth wide open, staring with all his might, seemed fully to pacify him. I never met a man who enjoyed his own jokes, though certainly they were of the broadest kind, more thoroughly than did Mr Johnson.

Chapter Thirteen.

On the evening of which I was speaking in my last chapter, Mr Johnson was evidently in the vein for narrating his veracious history. I saw this by the twinkle of his eye, by the peculiar curls round his mouth—which poets speak of when describing Euphrosyne, or any charming young lady of mortal mould, as “wreathed smiles,” but which, in the boatswain’s case, could not possibly be so called—by the gusto with which he smacked his lips, after each sip of grog, and the quiet cachinnations in which he indulged, that there was no fear of his breaking off for some time, unless compelled by his duties to do so. I was right. After stretching out his legs, folding his arms, and bending down his head, as if to meditate for a few minutes, he looked up with his usual humorous expression, and taking a fresh sip of grog, recommenced—

“Some of you young gentlemen have been in a gale of wind, and a pretty stiff one too, but except the little blow we had the other day, you, Mr Gogles, have no practical experience of what a real downright hurricane is,” he continued. “Why, I once was in a ship where, after we had carried away our masts, we were obliged to run under a marlinespike stuck up in the bows, but even that was too much for her, and we were obliged to send the carpenter forward with a sledge-hammer to take a reef in it by driving it further into the deck. It must blow hard, you’ll allow, when it becomes necessary to take a reef in a marlinespike. In the same gale, the man at the helm had all his hair blown clean off his head; the cook, as he looked out of his caboose, had his teeth driven down his throat, and one of the boys, who was sent on deck to see how the wind was (for we were obliged to batten down and get below), had his eyelids blown so far back that it took all the ship’s company to haul them down again. You don’t know what a gale of wind is till you have seen it.”

Some loud shouts of laughter were heard outside the berth, but Mr Johnson, without heeding them, continued:

“But, by the bye, I was describing my voyage round the Horn in the Lady Stiggins, and now I am coming to the melancholy part of my history. No sooner had we recovered our topsail than the gale abated, and nothing of moment occurred till we hauled up to the westward to round the Horn. For some days we had light winds and fine weather, but those who have doubled that Cape know well that it blows there pretty hard at times, and we soon had to learn this to our cost. Soon after noonday it came on to blow, and such a sea got up as I had never seen before. That was a sea. Sometimes we were at the top of one wave, while my pet shark, who had faithfully followed us, would be in the trough below, looking no larger than a minnow in a millstream, and sometimes when we were at the bottom we could see him looking lovingly down upon us, high above our topgallant-mast-head. At last we were driven back right in upon the coast of Patagonia, and had we not found a harbour in which to take shelter, we should have lost the ship and our lives.

“The land of Patagonia is bleak and barren, and, as you all know, the few scattered inhabitants make up for the scarcity of their numbers by their personal stature, for they are, without exception, the tallest people I have ever met. I felt quite a pigmy alongside them. They have large rolling eyes, long shaggy hair, and thick snub noses: indeed, they are as ugly a race as I ever set eyes on. Perhaps, for certain reasons, I might have been prejudiced, but of that you shall judge.

“We anchored the brig in a snug cove, where she lay completely sheltered from the tempest which raged without, and we were thus enabled to go ashore to procure wood and water, of which we stood much in need. For two days we saw no signs of inhabitants, and thus we incautiously strolled about without arms in our hands to stretch our legs. I was always of an inquisitive turn, fond of exploring strange countries; so one day, having parted from my companions, I walked on into the interior. I was thinking of turning back, for the day was far advanced, when my attention was attracted by a column of smoke ascending from among a grove of trees in a valley at no great distance from me, and being curious to ascertain the cause of it, I proceeded in that direction.

“On reaching a hill which overlooked the spot, I perceived several human beings seated round a large fire in front of a rude hut, and busily employed in cutting slices from an ox, which was roasting whole before it, and which they transferred to their mouths, smacking their lips to signify their high relish for the feast.

“I was very hungry, and certainly felt an inclination for a piece of the savoury morsels, the odour of which ascended to where I stood, but prudence advised me to retire, for I could not tell what the disposition of the savages might be. For what I knew to the contrary, they might spit and roast me as their dessert.

“There appeared to be a family group. There were an old man and woman whom I took to be the father and mother, three younger females, whom I judged to be daughters, and two sons. All of them were dressed in skins, and I was enabled to distinguish the females by their having petticoats, and their hair braided in long plaits, which reached to the ground. Their personal appearance was not prepossessing, and their voices were so loud that I could hear every word they uttered, though of course I could not understand their language. I was on the point of retreating, when one of the young ladies, turning her head, perceived me watching them, and, with a loud cry, rising from her seat, she ran towards me. I had not before remarked the height of the savages, but as they all stood up, I now perceived that she was full ten feet high, and yet the shortest of the party. Although not afraid, for fear was a stranger to my bosom, I yet did not relish the thoughts of having to encounter such formidable-looking personages, and therefore set off towards the shore as fast as my legs would carry me, but I soon found, by the shouts astern, that the young giantess had made chase, and, turning my head over my shoulder, I saw that she was coming up hand over hand with me. I was on the top of the hill and she was at the bottom, but that made little difference to her, for on she bounded, like a kangaroo or a tiger, and I felt convinced that on flat ground I should have no chance of escape; I therefore suddenly brought up, tacked about, and faced her with my arms expanded, to make me look of more considerable size. She was coming on full tilt. I did not think she was so near, and the consequence was, as she was stooping down, I found my arms round her neck, with my feet off the ground, while I clung to her in a very affectionate embrace. She uttered some words which I could not understand, and, covering my face with kisses, ran back with me towards her companions, just as a young lady does a little child she has run after, laughing with pleasure.

“Here I was fairly caught, but I argued from the behaviour of the young lady that I was not likely to be very severely treated by the rest. When she got back to her family with me in her arms, she introduced me in form to them, and made me sit down by her side, while the rest examined me minutely from head to foot. After they had gratified their curiosity, and satisfied themselves that I was a human being, she, observing my eyes turned towards the roasted ox, cut off a slice and handed it to me. The animal was of prodigious size, and would beat a London prize ox hollow. The meat was of delicious flavour, though rather too fat for my taste, but in cold climates such is generally preferred. I found, however, that that is not the usual food of these people, but is considered a great delicacy, as they live for most part of the year on whales and seals, which they catch with much ingenuity with a rod and line. A whale, however, requires, they told me, great skill and patience to kill, as it is apt to break the tackle. The savages, with my slight assistance, having picked the bones of the ox almost clean, washed down this repast with huge flagons full of a liquor which smacked of a taste remarkably like the best schiedam. It was, however, far more potent, as I found to my cost, for the effect was such that I fell fast asleep. In fact, I was dead drunk; I don’t say that I didn’t take a good swig of it, but still it must be strong stuff to capsize me. How long I slept, or what happened during that time, I’m sure I don’t know: when I awoke the scene was completely changed. I found myself at the mouth of a cavern, lying on the ground and wrapped up in bears’ skins, with wild rugged rocks rising on every side around me. I tried to rise, but to my dismay I discovered that my limbs were bound, and as I gazed on every side I saw not the sign of an outlet by which I might make my escape. In my rage I bawled out lustily, when I heard a step approaching, which might, by its sound, have been the foot of a young elephant. It was, however, that of the young lady who had made me prisoner. When she saw that I was awake she sat herself down by my side, and taking my hand slobbered it over with kisses, and when I rated her pretty roundly for what she’d done, she almost drowned me with her tears. They came down in whole buckets full, like a heavy shower in the tropics: it wasn’t pleasant, I can assure you. What was the matter with the woman I could not tell; in fact, I’ve found very little difference in ’em from one end of the world to the other; they are complete mystifications; when you wants ’em to love you they won’t, and when you don’t want ’em they will. What I now wanted was to get my legs and arms loose to be able to run away. After making a number of signs to the lady, she comprehended my wishes, and to my great satisfaction cast off the thongs of hide with which I found she had bound me to prevent me escaping, should I awake during her absence. She then asked me my name, when she let me understand that hers was Oilyblubbina, which, I afterwards learned, means, in the Patagonian tongue, softener of the soul. I heard her pronouncing my name over and over again to herself, so I repeated hers, Oilyblubbina, Oilyblubbina, Oilyblubbina, several times, which pleased her mightily. She then produced from a basket a few rounds of beef and some loaves a yard long, of which she pressed me to partake. I did so gratefully, for I was in want of my breakfast. She next pulled out a bottle of schiedam, but I remembered the effects of what I took the day before, and was cautious. Having satisfied my hunger, I made signs to her that I was anxious to wish her a very good morning, and to return to my ship, but not one of my hints would she take. I shook her warmly by the hand, told her that I was much obliged to her for her hospitality, and then walked away, but wherever I went she dodged my steps and would not let me out of her sight for a minute. I did my best in every way to escape, but it was no go; in fact, young gentlemen, I found myself the slave of this monster of fat and ugliness, for I am sorry to say that I cannot speak in more flattering terms of the fair Oilyblubbina. Seeing that for the present it was hopeless to attempt to escape, I pretended to be reconciled to my lot, and offering my arm in the politest way possible, walked quietly by her side, though, I confess, that I had to put my best foot foremost to keep up with her. She was evidently pleased with my altered behaviour, and smiled and ogled me most lovingly. How her eyes did roll!

“The effect, however, was very different to what she intended. I dare say her heart was as tender as that of women of more moderate dimensions, but I cannot say that I liked those ogles of hers. Well, on we walked, talking a great deal all the time, though I don’t pretend I understood a word she uttered, nor do I suppose she did what I said. She told me, however, a very long story, which by her actions I judged intimated that she had lost some one, and that I was to supply his place. All I know is that, after weeping a great deal, she finished by taking me in her arms and covering me with kisses. I had before suspected, from the absence of any of that bashful timidity found in a young girl, that she was a widow, and such I learned from her father was the case.

“We were now close to the hut where I had first seen the savages, and there her father and two brothers appeared before us, while I found the old mother and two sisters had been stowed away in the brushwood, watching our proceedings. Instead of appearing angry, the father took me by the hand, and warmly pressing it, placed it in that of his daughter, and then he rubbed our noses together, which I found was a sign of betrothal, and then all the family came and hugged me, one after the other. In fact, I found that I was become one of the domestic circle, and was to supply the place of a lost husband to the young widow. It was by no means pleasant, let me tell you, that hugging and kissing, for the oil and fat those people consume give them a very unpleasant odour, and it was some time before I could get it out of my nostrils. These considerations, with my anxiety to proceed on my voyage, determined me not to yield tamely to my fate, for, as to having to spend the rest of my days in the society of Oilyblubbina, that was out of the question. I had, however, no reason to complain of my treatment by them, for they would not allow me to do any work, but brought me the best food, and did everything for me. Yet, notwithstanding all her tenderness, the charms of the loving Oilyblubbina could not move my flinty heart; but I was obliged to hide my real sentiments, for I had no fancy, unarmed as I was, to fight the father and two brothers, not to speak of having to contend against the rage of the disappointed lady and her female relatives.

“Three not over agreeable days had thus passed, and I was beginning to fear lest my shipmates, giving me up for lost, might have sailed away without me, though I knew that they valued me too much to desert me till all hopes were gone. That day the family dinner was composed of a large mess of whales’ flesh and blubber, boiled in a cauldron, and washed down as usual with huge beakers of schiedam; but I watched my opportunity, and each time the cup was passed to me I emptied it by my side unperceived by the rest. I all the time made them suppose that I was drinking more than usual, and appearing to be perfectly drunk, pretended to fall off into a sound sleep. When it grew dark the young lady, as was her custom, carried me into the cavern, and bound my hands and feet to prevent my running away, but as she was fastening the thongs I contrived to slip my hands out of them. While I thus lay I looked out carefully through my half-opened eyelids, and observed all the family retiring to their different roosting-places. It was an anxious time; one after the other they dropped asleep, and then, to my great satisfaction, commenced a chorus of snoring which sounded more like the roaring of a hundred bulls than anything I had ever before heard. The moon was fortunately high in the heavens, and there was light enough for me to see my way, which I had been careful to note well. Crawling therefore out of my skins, I put a block of wood where my head had been and rolled them up again to make it appear that I was still there, and then cautiously crept away in the direction of the cove where I had left my ship. As soon as I was out of hearing I set off and ran as fast as my legs would carry me, up hill and down dale, through woods and across moors, without stopping to look behind me, for I knew that when a man is running away from an angry lady he must put his best foot foremost.

“I had just reached the top of the hill, whence, to my great joy, I beheld my ship floating calmly in the bay below me, when I heard a loud cry in the rear. I looked round—it was the loving Oilyblubbina. She came on at a furious pace, tearing up the young trees as she passed, in her eagerness to catch me. I dashed down the hill—I flew rather than ran—I rushed through rivulets, I jumped down precipices, nothing stopped me—I made light of a leap of a hundred feet. I have run very fast at times, but I never ran so fast before or since; she, however, was gaining on me; in a few minutes more she would be up with me. It was very awful. A high cliff was before me; without hesitation I threw myself over it; death was preferable to slavery—and such slavery. I reached the shore in safety, but, horror of horrors! she came after me, and alighted unhurt on the shore. The ship was at some distance, but I plunged into the sea to swim on board. I now thought myself safe, for I had no idea that she could swim, but she could, and after me she came, blowing like a grampus. It takes my breath away even now to think of it. I struck out boldly, the water bubbled and hissed as I threw it aside. I told you I was a good swimmer, but so was she. On she came, and every instant I expected to feel my foot in her grasp. If a man can have any reason for being afraid, I surely then had one. We had swam a mile, and the brig was some way off. I hallooed to my shipmates, but they did not hear me. Louder and louder grew the blowing of the lady as she spluttered the salt water from her mouth she was within a few yards of me, and in another minute I should have been captured, when a dark object passed close to me—it was my pet shark. There was a loud scream and a gurgling noise. A dreadful thought occurred to me—it was too true! I was safe, but the loving Oilyblubbina had been swallowed by the monster. She must have been a tough morsel, for after his performance he lay some time on his back utterly unable to move. A revolution had taken place in my feelings I did not wish her death, I only wanted to run away from her, and I mourned her untimely fate. I, however, considered that my lamentations could not restore her to her afflicted family, so, as soon as the shark had recovered, I placed myself on his back, and made him convey me alongside my ship. It was time for me to be off, for as I was throwing my legs across him I saw by the light of the moon the whole family rushing down the hill to plunge into the sea after me, and I doubt if he could have swallowed any more of them.

“Thus I was delivered from one of the greatest dangers it has ever been my lot to encounter. When I got on board, my shipmates welcomed me warmly, and sincerely congratulated me on my escape. The gale had abated, and as old Blowhard had been only waiting for my return to put to sea, we instantly made sail and stood out of the harbour with our faithful shark in company. I dare say to this day the Patagonian chief fully believes that we carried off his daughter; so, in a certain sense, we did, but not exactly in the way he supposes. Poor man, it was better that he should not. It was very dreadful.”

Jonathan was silent; he took a long pull at his tumbler, and gave a deep sigh, which sounded not unlike a peal of thunder along the decks. Gogles’ eyes had been growing larger and larger, and rounder and rounder, and his mouth had been gaping more and more.

“What a dreadful thing!” he exclaimed, drawing his breath. “I wonder you could bring yourself to sit on the shark’s back after what he’d done.”

Mr Johnson did not answer; he only sighed. He was meditating on the tragic fate of his loving Oilyblubbina.

We again began to be afraid that, overcome by the recollections which he had been conjuring up, he might not continue his narrative.

“That was, indeed, a dreadful way to lose your intended wife,” observed Grey, wishing to rouse him up.

Mr Johnson’s eyes twinkled.

“It was—it was,” he answered emphatically. “Poor Oilyblubbina! I would rather have found a pleasanter for her sake, but it was sure. There was little chance of her coming to life again. Dreadful! I believe you, it was dreadful. I was not sorry when we lost sight of the high land of Patagonia, so full of painful recollections to me. For two or three days the weather was fine, but our ill-luck had not deserted us, for another gale sprang up and drove us back again very nearly into the very harbour near which the family of Oilyblubbina resided. I never felt so uncomfortable in my life lest I should fall into their hands, and they might insist on my marrying another daughter. To do her justice, my poor lost Oilyblubbina was by far the best looking of the female members of the family. However, we managed to keep the sea, and at length recovered our lost ground. Once well round the Cape, we steered north, putting into several ports, but nothing extraordinary happened. Our pet shark followed us and always kept watch round the ship. I invariably used to ride him about the harbours, just as if he had been a sea-horse, and astonished the Dons not a little, I calculate. In fact I had some thoughts of having a high saddle made to fit his back, so as to keep my feet out of the water. In calms he was very useful in towing the ship in and out of harbour. By the bye, I omitted to tell you of an occurrence which took place while we were on the eastern coast. One night when I had charge of the deck, feeling that there was no use keeping the men out of their hammocks, as they had been hard worked lately, and I could do as much any day as half the ship’s company, I told them to turn in. You’ve all heard, of course, of the Pampeiros of South America. They are heavy squalls which come off the Pampas of that extraordinary country. For an hour or more I stood at the helm, admiring the stars and thinking of the number of strange things which had happened to me, when on a sudden, without the slightest warning, I found my teeth almost blown down my throat, and, before I could sing out to shorten sail, over the vessel went on her beam ends with such force that even the sea didn’t stop her; but while I hung on to the wheel for dear life, down went her masts perpendicularly, and up she came on the other side, and to my infinite satisfaction righted herself with a jerk, which sent everything into its place again. So rapid was the movement that nothing was washed away, nor were any of the people awakened. Indeed, they would not believe what had happened even when I told them, till they found a turn in the clews of their hammocks, for which they could not otherwise account. Many of my old shipmates in the Lady Stiggins are still alive, and will vouch for the truth of my statement.”

“Are you certain, bos’un, that you did not take the turns yourself while the people were on deck and then get them all to go to sleep that you might make them believe your story?” asked some one outside in a feigned voice.

“Wouldn’t it be easier, stupid, to invent the story from beginning to end, if I wanted to impose on any one?” asked Mr Johnson, with pretended indignation. “However, as I have more than once observed, I have an especial objection to be interrupted by cavillers and doubters; so I’ll thank you, Mr Dubersome, to keep your notions bottled up in the empty skull which holds all the wits you’ve got. Ho! ho! ho! I generally contrive to give as much as I get. But I must, I see, proceed with my veracious narrative.

“We at last left the coast to visit some of the islands in the South Pacific. The first place we touched at was the island of Pomparee. It was then governed by a king and queen, who had an only daughter, the Princess Chickchick. The ship wanted some repairs, and as we hove her down here, I had plenty of time to become acquainted with the people. Everything in that island was made of coral. In the first place it was coral itself, then the reefs which surrounded it were coral, and the rocks were coral, and the sand was composed of bits of coral. The palace of the king was built of coral, and so were the houses of the people, only his was red, which is scarce, and theirs of plebeian white. It had a very pretty effect, I can assure you. The chairs and tables would, I doubt not, have been made of coral, only they did not use them; in fact, their notion of furnishing a house is very different to ours. A few mats, and baskets, and pipkins are all they require. Their garments are somewhat scanty too, but the weather is all the year round so warm that it would be absurd for them to dress up as we do. The king’s dress on grand occasions was a crown of gay-coloured feathers, and a sort of Scotch kilt of the same material, with a cloak over his shoulder. The queen also wore a petticoat, and so did little Chickchick, but not a rap else, nor did they seem to think it was necessary. The king’s name was Rumfiz, and her majesty was called Pillow. They were an amiable couple, and remarkably fond of each other. When I observed that everything in the island was made of coral, I did not mean to say that there were no trees, for there were a great many very beautiful ones, bread-fruit trees, and cocoa-nuts, and palms, and many others. I made the acquaintance of his august majesty after I had been on the island a few days. I was one evening walking by myself some little way inland, when I found myself almost in front of the king’s palace. He had been snoozing after eating his dinner to get an appetite for supper, when he was awoke by hearing his courtiers cry out that a white man was come among them. He jumped up, rubbed his eyes, and addressed me in the following harangue:—

“You Englishman, why you come now?—Come by-by, eat supper plenty.”

“By this I understood that his majesty was inviting me to supper, which was the fact. I accordingly lighted my pipe, and sat down under a tree to smoke, while the king got into his hammock again and went to sleep. Presently a number of courtiers came and spread mats in the shade near where I was sitting, and others brought baskets filled with bread-fruit, and cocoa-nuts, and grapes; and the King Rumfiz got up, and came and sat down with Queen Pillow and the Princess Chickchick, and several other lords and ladies. They all looked as if they were waiting for something, and presently they set up a loud shout as a number of slaves appeared with large baskets on their heads, dripping with water. I watched what was to be done, when I saw the king lean back, and a slave pull out a live fish from the basket, which he clapped into his majesty’s mouth. The fish wriggled his tail about a little, and the king rolled his eyes with delight till it slipped down his throat, and then he rubbed the region to which it had descended, as if it had afforded him the highest satisfaction.

“The queen’s turn came next, and I thought she would have been choked with the size of the fish, which went wriggling all alive down her throat. The courtiers were next allowed to enjoy the same luxury, while little Chickchick and the ladies-in-waiting amused themselves by letting handfuls of prawns playfully skip down their throats. After a little time the king made signs that he was ready for another fish, which in like manner was let down his throat, and in this way he consumed two or three dozen live fish (I like to be under the mark), and the queen and courtiers nearly the same number each. In that country it is the royal prerogative of the king to eat more than any of his subjects. They were all much surprised to find that I could not eat the live fish, for as they thought me a superior being to any of themselves, they fancied that I could do more than they could. I did try to swallow a few prawns, but they stuck in my throat, and made me terribly husky for all the rest of the evening. I, however, soon learned to eat live fish as well as the best of them, and before I left the island I could swallow one as large as a tolerable-sized salmon; but then, of course, they had no spikes on their backs. I once saw the king swallow a conger;—I don’t think I could have managed one myself, but you never know what you can do till you try.

“After supper the maids of honour and the courtiers got up to have a dance, and I toed-it and heeled-it with the princess to her heart’s content. Didn’t I come the double-shuffle in fine style! No man could ever beat me in dancing, and when I got a princess for my partner it was the time to show off. The king was delighted, and asked me at once to come and put up at his palace, and to bring a few bottles of rum, and some pipes and baccy with me. This I did as soon as the duties of the ship would allow me. Well, I soon became great friends with the king and queen, and I used to go up to the palace every day and sit and smoke a pipe with his majesty in a cosy way, and frequently the queen would come and take a whiff out of my pipe, till she learnt to smoke too, and I then taught her to chaw baccy. She was very fond of a quid, let me tell ye, and we became as friendly as two mice. All the time little Chickchick used to sit up in a corner by herself, making a mat or a straw hat, or some such sort of thing, looking up at me with her beautiful eyes, and listening to all I was saying, though, for the matter of that, she could not understand much of my lingo. At last I caught the dear little thing at it, and I thought she would like to learn to smoke also, so I taught her, and I was not long in finding out that she had fallen desperately in love with me. Of course, I could not do less than return the compliment, and told her so, which pleased her mightily. In fact, the king and queen and I, with the princess, had a pleasant life of it, with nothing to do and plenty to eat and drink.

“‘Now,’ said the king one day to me, as we were sitting over our pipes and grog, ‘you won’t go away in big ship—you no go—you stay marry Chickchick—be my son—moch better. Enemy come, you fight; friend come, you talk.’

“By this I concluded he wanted me to become his prime minister—a sort of first-lieutenant kings have to do all the work for them.

“‘I’ll think the matter over, your majesty,’ I answered, ‘and if I can manage it, I’ll stay.’

“This answer seemed to please him mightily, and little Chickchick came up laughing and singing to me soon afterwards, and told me she was so glad of that; she should like to be my wife above all things. It was a little bit of unsophisticated nature which pleased me amazingly. I then arranged with the captain to remain there while he went cruising among the other islands, and he was then to come back and take me to the South Polar Sea, where we were bound on a whaling cruise. The ship sailed away, and so did my pet shark, who I afterwards heard pined and grew thin, and wouldn’t even take his food when he found I was not on board. It was a mark of affection which touched me sensibly.

“I thus became, by my own intrinsic merits, a prime minister and son-in-law to a king. I had not an unpleasant life of it altogether; the princess was very fond of me, and the people were easily governed. The secret was to let them do exactly what they liked. I used, also, to make them huge promises, which, though I never kept, served to amuse them for the time, and I always had the knack of wriggling out of a scrape, which is the secret of all government. The first thing I did was to tell them that I would advise the king to abolish all taxes which were made on bread-fruit, and when by this means I became very popular as a liberal minister, I published an edict, ordaining that every man should send twice as many cocoa-nuts to the imperial treasury as before. The people had enjoyed a long peace, and had become unwarlike, so when they cried out that it was useless trouble making spears and bows and arrows and building war canoes, I let them have their own way, which made me still more popular. I took the precaution, however, of keeping my own musket ready in my house in case of accidents, as it was the only fire-arm in the kingdom. There were numerous islands in the neighbourhood, and on some of them King Rumfiz had in his youth inflicted a signal chastisement, which they had never forgotten nor forgiven.

“They had, in the meantime, knocked over two or three of their own kings, and had established what they called a republic. From what I could make out, one half of the people were trying to become governors, and the other half trying not to be governed. They had for some time past been eating each other up, but having got tired of that fun, and wanting a change of diet, they thought it would be pleasanter to attack some other people. I discovered that they had already a large expedition on foot, and numerous canoes—ready to transport them, though it was pretended that these forces were to attack another island to the eastward of them. A spy, however, brought me the intelligence of what they were about, so I endeavoured to make preparations to give them a warm reception; but the people would not hear of it, and said it was a great deal too much trouble to make bows and arrows, and build canoes to guard against a danger which might never arrive.

“There were several fellows among them, some of whom, I verily believe, had been bribed by the enemy, who persuaded them that it was much wiser to make mats and hats and cloths to sell to the merchantmen than to think of fighting.

“Such was the condition of the country, when one morning, as I was walking on the sea-shore meditating on the affairs of state, I observed a large fleet of canoes pulling towards the island; I ran back to the palace to tell the king, and sent messengers in every direction to warn the people. All was now hurry, and confusion, and dismay. The first thing they did was to tumble the peace counsellors into the sea with lumps of coral round their necks, and they then set to work to string their bows and to point their arrows and their spears. All the generals had plans of their own; some proposed letting the enemy land, while they defended the king’s palace; some to meet him half-way, others to capitulate, while I collected as many men as I could and marched them down to the beach. I had my musket and ammunition concealed in a bush for a last effort, should the day be against us. The king came out in his best dress, and harangued his army to the following effect:—

“‘We much fine fellows—much brave—much good; de enemy great blackguard—much coward—much bad—much beast; shoot arrow, kill plenty.’

“On this the army cheered and waved their spears and bows. We reached the beach but just in time to receive the enemy, who were mightily disappointed, expecting to land without any trouble, and to make a fine feast of our carcases. On seeing us they set up a terrific shout, in the hopes of frightening us away, but it was no go, and then they began to pepper us with their arrows, which came as thick as hail about our ears. Under cover of this shower they pulled into the beach. Our warriors were brave, but they were long unaccustomed to fighting, and many were killed and driven back by the enemy. I trembled for my father-in-law’s throne, when I considered that the time had arrived to bring my musket into play. The first fire astonished them not a little, but when they found that this patent thunder-maker (as they called it) knocked over two or three fellows every time it spoke, they thought it was high time to turn tail and be off. As soon as the enemy began to retreat, the mob came forward in crowds to attack them, shrieking and swearing, and abusing them like pickpockets, though they had, while there was any danger, kept carefully out of the way. I continued firing on the retreating foe as long as they continued in sight, for my gun could carry farther than any other in existence. It was made under my own directions, and was a very extraordinary weapon. If it had not been for that gun, I believe King Rumfiz would have lost his kingdom. He was very grateful to me, as, to do them justice, were all his subjects; and I found that I was unanimously elected as the heir to the throne. My honours did not make me proud, for I felt that I deserved them, and I became, for some time, more popular than ever. A neighbouring island, however, which had been for centuries attached to the dominions of King Rumfiz, gave me much trouble, for though many of the inhabitants were descended from his own people, they insisted on making themselves independent (as they called it), and having a king of their own. They were great cannibals, and used to eat each other up without ceremony, and as for hissing, hooting, and swearing, few people could match them. The name of the island was Blarney Botherum. When I first visited them, I thought, from their own account, that they were a nation of heroes kept in chains by King Rumfiz for his own especial pleasure and amusement, and that if I could make them free they would set a bright example to the rest of the world of intelligence, civilisation, and all the virtues which adorn human nature. I soon, however, discovered that the people of Blarney Botherum were the greatest humbugs under the sun. They had got a set of people among them whom they called medicine men, who told them that there was a big medicine man in a distant part of the world, whom they were to obey instead of King Rumfiz, and that, provided they told him the truth, and gave them cocoa-nuts and breadfruits, they might tell as many lies as they liked to the king, and might rob and cheat him as much as they pleased. Whenever, therefore, the little medicine men wanted cocoa-nuts and bread-fruits, they used to tell the people the big one required food, and their whole occupation was to throw dust in the eyes of King Rumfiz (as the Turks say), so that he might not find out their knavery.”

Chapter Fourteen.

Mr Johnson leaned back in his seat, when, slowly stooping down for his tumbler, he brought it deliberately to his mouth, and took a prolonged sip. Then shaking his head, he observed, “Politics are awful things to meddle with—the very thought of what I endured, turns my throat into a dust-hole.” Again he sipped, and again he shook his head. “Young gentlemen,” he said solemnly, “if ever any of you rise to the top of the profession, and I hope you may—and should his Majesty, King George, send for you, and offer to make you a Prime Minister, take an old man’s advice, and respectfully decline the honour. Say that standing at the helm of one of his ships, and fighting her as long as there is a shot in the locker, is one thing, and standing at the helm of State, and being badgered by friends and foes alike, is another. You may quote me as an authority. Well, I was telling you how I managed when I was Prime Minister to King Rumfiz, and of the trouble caused me by certain personages in the island of Blarney Botherum.

“I was not long in discovering the tricks of these medicine men, and of their friends who lived on a trade they called patriotism, but the difficulty was to catch them. I at last, however, found a few tripping, and having hung them up, the rest were very soon brought into a state of implicit obedience to my commands.

“As soon as I had restored peace to the country, I thought that it would be advisable to reform the constitution. I had some slight difficulty in comprehending its principles, especially as I only as yet imperfectly understood the language. My notions were, however, so opposed by the sages of the country, and so great was the commotion created, that it was with no slight satisfaction I saw the Lady Stiggins approaching the island under full sail, as I was one morning sitting on the beach cutting ducks and drakes with oyster shells over the calm blue water of the bay.

“I have a good strong voice of my own even now, but then I could make myself heard three or four miles off at least, and sometimes, when I was in tone, much farther. The only other man I ever met at all equal to me was a Frenchman, the master of a privateer; and we once carried on a conversation together, he sitting on the shores of Calais, I on the cliffs of Dover. Well, I stood up, and hailing the Lady Stiggins, waved my hat over my head. My former shipmates heard me, though for a long time they could not tell where the voice came from. Another old friend, however, was more quick of hearing, and sight too. I saw a commotion in the water, as if an arrow was passing through it, so fast did it draw near. Presently a black fin appeared, and then there was a tremendous rush, and then who should pop his head out of the water till he ran himself almost high and dry on the beach, but my pet shark? In his delight at seeing me he almost got hold of my leg, which, in a fit of joyful forgetfulness, I believe he would have bitten off, had I not jumped out of the way.

“Well, as I was saying, the shark did not bite off my leg; the delay would, at all events, have been inconvenient had he done so. I stroked his cheeks, and he looked up most lovingly into my face with his piercing eyes, and then, after he had floundered back into the water, I got on his back and away we went out to sea towards my ship. My companions were delighted to see me; the wonder was how they got on without me. When we dropped our anchor, King Rumfiz and Queen Pillow, with my wife the Princess Chickchick, came off in a canoe to the ship, and very much surprised they were to see me on board, not knowing that my pet shark was in company. My little wife, indeed, thought I was a ghost, and in her fright jumped overboard, when she was as near as possible sharing the fate of poor Oilyblubbina, and would have done so had I not leaped after her and saved her. Not to disappoint my pet, we gave him afterwards half a dozen fat hogs, which he infinitely preferred. The captain was so generous with his liquor, that he sent my royal father and mother-in-law on shore roaring drunk. They were so happy that they insisted on having a ball at the palace, for which purpose I issued a decree summoning all the principal people of the island; and a jolly night we had of it too, the old king toeing-it and heeling-it away right merrily in the centre of a circle of his admiring subjects. Everything must have an end, so had my residence in the island. As I had begun to get rather tired of the monotony of my life on shore, I determined to make a voyage for the benefit of my health.”

“Did you take your wife with you?” asked Gogles, who had swallowed every word uttered by the boatswain.

“My wife? Oh no; I left her on shore for the benefit of hers. Poor thing, she cried very much when I went away; it was the last time I saw her.”

“How was that, Mr Johnson?” enquired Grey, “you seem to have been unfortunate with your wives.”

“Yes, indeed, I was,” replied the unhappy widower; “I have had ten of them, too. When I came back, I found that the island had been attacked by the savages, who had carried off my wife and eaten her. It’s a fact. If they had had a reform, and kept me and my gun among them, it wouldn’t have happened—of that I’m certain. Having taken in a supply of wood, water, and provisions, the Lady Stiggins once more made sail for the southward.”

“I wonder you survived all your misfortunes, Mr Johnson,” observed Spellman, who, next to Gogles and Toby Bluff, seemed to place the most perfect belief in the boatswain’s veracious narratives, as he was pleased to designate his amusing inventions.

“Why, do you see, Mr Spellman, I’m tough—very tough!” he answered, with a hoarse laugh. “I doubt if even the head cook of the monarch of the cannibal islands—King Hoki Poki—could ever make me tender. So you see I’ve held out through them all; and there’s one thing I may say, trying as they may have been, they have never taken away my appetite. Now, young gentlemen, you’ve had a good long yarn, and my throat feels like a dust-hole with talking, so I must knock off.”

“But you’ll tell us the end of your adventures some day, Mr Johnson; won’t you now?” said Gogles, imploringly.

“I’ll continue them, perhaps, young gentleman,” answered the boatswain, laughing. “But let me tell you it will take a mighty long time before I ever get to the end of them. They’re inexhaustible—something like the mint, young gentlemen, where the King has his guineas struck which he pays to us seamen for fighting for him. We should be in a bad way if his shiners were to come to an end; and one thing I may promise you, as long as I’ve got a brain to think and a tongue to wag, I shall be able to continue my wonderful and veracious history.”

Gogles and Spellman, and even Grey, looked puzzled. I had long suspected that the origin of Mr Johnson’s history was derived from a source considerably removed from fact; and from the peculiar way in which he screwed up his mouth, and the merry twinkle of his one eye—for the other he shut with the comic twist of his nose—I now had not the slightest doubt of the matter. I cannot say that his narratives were exactly instructive, but they were at all events highly amusing to us youngsters. The watch being just then called, an interruption was put to his narrative. Toby Bluff, and some of the other boys, who had been listening outside, were scuttling along the deck, spluttering out their laughter, while the young gentlemen whose watch it was hurried on deck, and the rest retired to the berth. We left Mr Johnson chuckling complacently at his own conceits.

I went to the berth, now magnificently lighted by two purser’s dips, which stood on the table, dropping fatness, in company with a bread-barge of biscuit, some tumblers, earthenware and tin mugs, a bottle of rum and a can of water, and surrounded by most of the members of the mess not on duty. Gogles followed me, and took his seat. The can of water and the biscuit was shoved over to him. He eyed the black bottle wistfully.

“No, no; that isn’t good stuff for babies,” said Perigal, shaking his head; “if we had some milk you should have it, Gogles.”

“I wish we had; why don’t we keep some cows on board?” whispered Gogles.

“What would you feed them on?” asked Grey.

“Grass and hay, when we could get them, of course,” answered Gogles, sagaciously.

“Not at all,” remarked Bobus. “Carpenters’ shavings are the things. On board a ship to which I belonged, we had two goats and a cow to feed our captain’s baby, and whenever we ran short of hay or grass, what do you think the captain did? Cut their throats and eat them? No, not he. Why, he was a very ingenious man, and so he had some pairs of green spectacles made, which he used to clap over their eyes, and then when the shavings were chopped up fine, they used to eat them greedily, believing they were grass. He first gave them all the old straw hats he could collect, but that was an expensive way of feeding them.”

“I should think so, Bobus,” observed McAllister, who did not like joking himself, and had an especial antipathy to Bobus’s jokes or stories, or to Bobus himself. “May I ask what ship that was in?”

“What ship? why, the old Thunderer, to the best of my recollection,” answered Bobus, seriously.

“Everything wonderful happened on board the old Thunderer,” observed McAllister. “Bobus having been left drunk on shore, is the only survivor of her crew, and there is no one to contradict him.”

“I wasn’t drunk; I was sick, and you know that perfectly well,” exclaimed Bobus, getting angry. “I won’t have my veracity called in question. I’ve the feelings of a gentleman, and my honour to support, as well as others.”

“But you shouldn’t support it by telling crammers,” said McAllister, who took a pleasure in irritating poor Bobus.

“Order!” cried Perigal, who was always a peacemaker. “Come, Mac, let Bobus spin his yarns, and do you spin yours; and now just go on with that story about the Highlands which you had begun the other evening, when the squall struck the ship.”

McAllister was soon in the midst of some wonderful Highland legend, while attempting to listen to which I fell fast asleep.

We were once more at anchor in Port Royal harbour. Several other ships of war were there. On one occasion I had the honour of dining with Captain Collyer, when two or three captains and several lieutenants and midshipmen were present. Among the captains was rather a fine-looking man, a Captain Staghorn, commanding the Daring frigate. He was an Irishman, and though I thought our boatswain could beat any man at pulling the longbow, I must say Captain Staghorn equalled him. He poured forth the most astounding stories with wonderful rapidity and self-assurance. I observed that all the other officers bowed politely at the end of each, no one questioning any of his statements. Even Captain Collyer let him run on without differing from him in the slightest degree. I took a dislike to him from the first from his overbearing manner at times. Still he was certainly amusing, and everybody present laughed very much at his jokes. He talked incessantly, and did not scruple to interrupt anybody speaking. Among his stories was an account he gave of his own prowess, when a lieutenant in command of a schooner. He was sent in search of a piratical craft. He came up with her, and running alongside, sprang on board, expecting his men to follow. The vessels, he declared, separated, but he laid about him with such good will that he not only kept the pirates at bay, but drove them below before his own schooner again got alongside. Captain Collyer, politely bowing, observed that he had often heard of his having taken a piratical craft in a very gallant way, which, in fact, he had, but not, as he asserted, alone; he had a dozen stout hands to back him, which makes all the difference. The name of a cousin of mine, Captain Ceaton, was mentioned. I had just before received the news from home that he had been appointed to the command of a corvette which would very probably be sent out to the West Indies. He was only a lieutenant when I came to sea, and had not long been a commander. I had seen but little of him, but I knew him to be a thoroughly brave honest fellow. What, therefore, was my surprise and annoyance to hear Captain Staghorn open out roundly on him, and abuse him in no measured terms. One of the other captains asked why he did so.

“Why?” exclaimed Captain Staghorn, “five years ago or more he was a lieutenant of a ship I commanded. On his being superseded, at length, the lieutenant who succeeded him asked him what sort of a person I was, and he had the impudence to say that I was a very good sort of fellow, but used the longbow pretty frequently. I won’t say how this came to my ears, but I made a vow, and I’ll keep it, that I’ll force him to go out with me, and I’ll shoot him.”

The other captains tried to convince Captain Staghorn that Ceaton could not have intended to offend him, as he was a man who would never offend anyone. Captain Staghorn muttered within his teeth, “I will, though.” I was very much induced to say “But you do draw with the longbow, and Ceaton only spoke the truth.” I restrained myself, however, wisely; for though the other captains might be convinced that I only said what was the case, they would very much disapprove of a midshipman expressing himself freely about a post-captain. Coffee was soon handed round, and we midshipmen, according to wont, retired. We repaired to the quarter-deck, where the master, as he occasionally did in harbour, had taken charge of the watch, the rest of the lieutenants not dining in the cabin being on shore. He was a very worthy man, but we had no great respect for him, and we took liberties on which we should not have ventured with Mr Bryan or the third lieutenant, or even with Mr Fitzgerald. For some time the influence of the cabin was on us, and we behaved with sufficient dignity. One of the midshipmen of the Daring walked the deck with me, and opened out confidentially with regard to his captain, whom, however, he held in great awe. He told me that he was very brave, and had done all sorts of wonderful things; that he did not seem to set value on his own life or on that of anyone else; that he was very quarrelsome, and a dead shot; that he had killed three men in duels, and wounded half a dozen more; and that he never forgot or forgave what he considered an insult or an injury. My friend continued, “When we dine with him, he tells us the most extraordinary stories, and if we do not laugh at the right place and pretend to believe them, we are sure to get mast-headed, or punished in some other way, before many hours are over.”

“A very unpleasant character,” I observed, though its hideousness did not strike me so forcibly in those days as it does now. “I shouldn’t like to serve with him.”

“Nor did I at first,” said my friend, “but I have got accustomed to his style; and some of our fellows have taken a leaf out of his book, and boast and quarrel as much as he does.”

I thought to myself of the old saying, “Like master, like men,” and adapted it, “Like captain, like midshipmen.”

“I would rather serve under Captain Collyer,” I remarked. “He does not quarrel with or shoot his companions, and I do not believe that there is a braver man in the service.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a chase after poor Gogles, whom Spellman and others had started up the mizen-rigging, giving him a minute’s start. If they caught him he was to receive a cobbing; if he escaped he was to give them one, if he could. Poor Gogles had certainly made but a bad bargain. All the rest of the youngsters, including the Daring’s midshipman and me, soon joined in the chase—not all, however, to catch Gogles, but rather to impede his pursuers, and to give him a better chance of escape. Although he had not an over allowance of wits, he was very active, and had great tenacity of grip—qualities more valuable to skylarking midshipmen, rope-dancers, and monkeys, than brains.

Up went Gogles valiantly to the topgallant mast-head, and, waiting till Spellman had got close up to him, under pretence of being tired, he slid down the lift on to the yard-arm, and running in on the yard, had descended to the cross-trees, leaving all his pursuers above him. In similar ways he contrived to evade his pursuers, I and others helping him by pulling at their legs, or getting above them and stopping their way up. He had, I considered, fairly won the right to cob all the party; but, grown bold by his success, he descended by the lift to the topsail yard-arm, and was about to stoop down to traverse the brace to the mainmast, when, from hearing Spellman’s shout, he looked up, and, missing his grasp, over he went headlong into the water.

I was at the time on the cross-jack yard. I ran to the end. Though Gogles could swim, he was, I at once saw, stunned by the fall. I did not stop to consider whether there was danger or not, but, slipping off my jacket, which I threw in board, and kicking off my shoes, I plunged in after him, fortunately not losing my breath in my fall. I looked about for Gogles. He was just sinking. I swam towards him, for there was a current running which had drifted him already to some distance. No sooner did I reach him, however, than like a squid he threw his arms about me, and made it impossible for me to strike out. I entreated him to free me, but he evidently did not understand what I said. The dread that we should both be drowned came over me. I kicked my legs about as much as I could, but I could not shout out for fear of filling my mouth with water. I thought of sharks—indeed of all sorts of horrible things. We appeared to be drifting farther from the ship.

Preparations were being made to lower a boat, but I felt that before it could reach me I must sink. Just then I caught sight of the boatswain’s long nose over the hammock nettings, and the next instant he had slid down a rope overboard, and was striking out towards me. “Shout, boy I shout, my son! and kick away—kick away,” he kept exclaiming, as with sturdy strokes he clave the water, in his progress making himself all the time as much noise as possible.

I guessed the reason of his cries, for I saw a black fin in the distance. Had I been alone when I saw that ill-omened fin I believe that I should have quickly sunk; but the feeling that I had my messmate to support, and that the honest boatswain was coming to my help, kept me up. I did as Mr Johnson directed me, and kept kicking with all my might, and shouting too, whenever I could get my mouth clear of the water. Still I got more down it than was pleasant. I saw something gleaming in Mr Johnson’s hand. It was a long Spanish knife.

Gogles had been quiet for some time, but just then he began to struggle, and again clasped me round the neck. I felt as if I was sinking, and was earnestly wishing that Mr Johnson was a few yards nearer, when I saw him suddenly turn aside and strike off to the left. My eye followed him with an intensity of interest such as I cannot describe. It caught the gleam of his knife, and then what was my horror to find that he had disappeared. It was but for a moment. Directly afterwards he rose again, surrounded by a circle of crimson, and a huge black body floated up near him, lashing the water. He darted forward, and, seizing Gogles, released me from his grasp.

“Swim on, Mr Merry, swim on,” he shouted, shoving me before him. “Here comes the boat.”

The men bent to their oars, and the brave boatswain swam on with all his might. With a jerk he threw Gogles into the boat, and gave me a shove up as I was climbing in, which very nearly sent me over on the other side; he then sprang after us with surprising agility, turning as soon as he had got his feet out of the water, and striking with all his might at a huge creature which followed close at our heels. I saw the flash of the monster’s white throat.

“Habet,” shouted our third lieutenant, who was—a rare thing in those days in the navy—somewhat of a scholar. Mr Johnson had inflicted a mortal wound on another shark, who was immediately surrounded by his amiable brethren, eager to devour him as they had missed us. It is not difficult to conceive what would have been our fate had we remained another minute in the water, after the boatswain had killed the first shark.

“You indeed did that bravely, Mr Johnson,” said Mr Haisleden, as we returned to the frigate. “I never saw anything like it. Where did you learn that trick?”

“In the south seas, sir,” answered the boatswain in a quiet tone, very different from his usual boastful manner. “I was once wrecked on an island, where I saw the natives swim off and attack sharks with their common knives; and I said to myself, what a savage does an Englishman can do, if he takes time and practises. So as I had little chance of getting away for many months, or it might be years, I set to and learned to swim like the natives, and then to fight the sharks. It was no easy matter, and at first it was trying work to see one of the monsters making towards me and the native who accompanied me; but after I had seen the way in which he managed, I was no longer afraid, and soon became as expert as any of them. No man knows what he can do till he tries. I’ve been the means of saving the life of more than one shipmate by thus knowing how to manage the brutes.”

“Why, you’ve ridden on a shark, Mr Johnson,” said Gogles, opening his eyes.

“Gammon!” answered the boatswain, twisting his nose. “I am speaking the truth now.”

By this time we had reached the side of the frigate. Captain Collyer was on deck. He warmly thanked Mr Johnson for his gallantry in jumping over to save us, and we received the congratulations of our friends at our escape, but I found that it was generally supposed I had fallen overboard as well as Gogles; nor did I feel inclined to explain matters. “I should have mast-headed the youngsters for sky larking on board the Daring,” observed Captain Staghorn to one of our officers, as he took a sharp and hurried turn on the quarter-deck.

“I’m glad I don’t belong to your ship, my jewel,” thought I, as I overheard him.

Gogles and I were sent below to our hammocks, and Mr Johnson followed us to put on dry clothes.

“I’ll set all to rights, Mr Merry,” he observed, in a kind tone; “I saw how it all happened, and the brave way in which you jumped after the other youngster; but I wouldn’t say anything before that strange captain. I know him well. He’s a pest in the service, and always was. Had it not been for him I should have been on the quarter-deck. However, I must go and shift myself. Turn in and take a glass of grog; you’ll be all to rights to-morrow morning.”

Now the excitement was over, I felt very weary and uncomfortable, and was not sorry to follow his advice. As Mr Johnson had predicted, the next day I was not a bit the worse for my adventure; but poor Gogles took several days to recover from his fright, and the quantity of salt water he had imbibed.

I found that Captain Collyer treated me with more than his usual kindness, nor was I long in discovering that this arose from the account the boatswain took care should be conveyed to him of my conduct. I felt, however, that I was far more indebted to Mr Johnson than Gogles was to me. I had jumped overboard from impulse, he with forethought and deliberate coolness. The circumstance cemented our friendship more closely than ever, and I am certain that he loved me as a son. With his rough exterior, loud voice, and bravery, his heart was as gentle as a woman’s. I have seen tears trickle down his rough cheeks at a tale of sorrow, while with purse and sympathy he was ever ready to relieve distress, and I am convinced that he never wronged man, woman, or child in his life.

Two days after this, the signal was made that the Pearl corvette was in the offing. As soon as she entered the harbour, I got leave to pay my cousin Ceaton a visit. He was an admirer of my sister Bertha, if not actually engaged to her, which I thought he might be by this time, and I was anxious to get news from home, as well as to see him. A kinder, better fellow never breathed. His manners were most gentlemanly, and gentle, too, and, though brave as a lion, he had never been known to quarrel with a shipmate or any other person. He received me as a brother, and very soon told me that, on his return to England, he hoped to assume that character. He had a great deal to tell me about home, and said that I must stay on board and dine with him.

Our pleasant conversation was interrupted by the announcement of Major O’Grady. The name made me feel uncomfortable, for he was one of the soldier officers who had dined on board the Doris, and appeared to be on very intimate terms with Captain Staghorn. He was just that stiff, punctilious-mannered, grey-eyed person, for whom I have had always a peculiar antipathy. He hummed and hawed, and looked sternly at me, as if he could have eaten me up, and thought my presence especially impertinent; but budge for him I would not, till desired by my cousin to do so. At last he had to say, “I beg your pardon, Commander Ceaton, but the business I have come on cannot be discussed in the presence of a youngster.”

“Go on deck, Marmaduke,” said my cousin.

Unwillingly I obeyed. My worst apprehensions were confirmed. Captain Staghorn was resolved to carry out his diabolical intentions. What could be done? I felt that Charles Ceaton had never fired a pistol except in open warfare, and as to practising for the sake of being the better able to kill a fellow-creature, I knew that was abhorrent to his nature.

I hurried on deck as ordered, but as the skylight was off, and Major O’Grady spoke in a loud, and it seemed a bullying voice, I could hear nearly every word he said, nor did I consider myself wrong in drawing near to listen.

“I am not at all aware of ever having made use of the words imputed to me,” said my cousin, calmly.

“That is as much as to say, Commander Ceaton, that you consider my friend capable of uttering a falsehood,” answered the Major, in a deliberate tone.

“Not at all, sir. I am simply stating the fact, that I cannot clearly recall having uttered the expressions you mention,” said my cousin.

“Then you do not deny that you said something of the sort; indeed something to afford my friend Captain Staghorn sufficient ground for demanding an ample and perfect apology?” said the Major, in his former slow way.

“I shall deny nothing,” said my cousin, at length nettled beyond endurance. He must be, too, I was certain, well aware of Captain Staghorn’s reputation as a dead shot, and on that account resolved to go out and fight him. In those days, for an officer of the army of navy to refuse to fight a duel, however thrust on him, was to be disgraced in the eyes of his professional brethren, poor weak mortals like themselves. They forgot that the code of honour by which they chose to act, was not the code by which they were to be tried in another world.

“Then, Commander Ceaton, you cannot, of course, refuse to give Captain Staghorn the satisfaction he demands?” said the Major.

“Certainly not,” answered my cousin.

“You, of course, have a friend with whom I may settle preliminaries,” said the major. “The sooner these affairs are got over the better.”

“Undoubtedly,” said my cousin, with unusual bitterness in his tone. “My first-lieutenant wid act for me. He is a man of honour and a friend. I have perfect confidence in him. I will send him to you.”

I moved away from the skylight. My cousin came on deck, where he was joined by Mr Sandford, who, after a minute’s conversation, went into the cabin. He and the major very quickly came on deck, the latter bowing stiffly as he descended to his boat alongside. I felt very much inclined to walk up to him, and to say, “If your friend shoots my cousin, and brother that is to be, I’ll shoot you;” but I did not. I, however, watched with no friendly eyes the soldier officer, as he sat in his boat stiff as a ramrod, while he returned to the Daring. I pondered how I could prevent this duel. I felt that it was not fair that one man who had never held a duelling-pistol in his hand, should be compelled to fight another who could snuff a candle at twelve paces without putting it out. I wanted to find out when and where they were to meet.

My cousin returned to the cabin with Mr Sandford. The latter remained with him for some time, and when he returned on deck he looked very grave and sad. Never more clearly were the evils of duelling brought home to me. Here was a man in the prime of life, who might long be useful to his country and mankind, about to be murdered, simply because he would not apologise for expressions which he could not recollect having uttered. My poor sister Bertha, too—how miserable his untimely death would make her.

I walked the deck feeling more unhappy than I had ever before done. The midshipmen of the corvette kept aloof from me, fancying that my cousin had communicated some ill news, or perhaps that I was in disgrace. I don’t know. I was glad that no one came and spoke to me. The dinner hour at last arrived, and I went into the cabin. Of course I was supposed not to know anything about the contemplated duel, and I tried to appear as cheerful as before. Besides Mr Sandford, the purser dined in the cabin, and no allusion even was made to the major’s visit. My cousin endeavoured to keep up the conversation, and smiled at the purser’s bad puns, which he had probably heard a hundred times before. I talked whenever I could about home—the dear old hall—my sisters and brothers, and my father and mother. I observed that a shade of pain passed over his countenance whenever I mentioned my sisters. I was unwise in doing so, unless it could have had the effect of shaking his resolution, and inducing him to send to Captain Staghorn, and to tell him that of men the world might say what they chose, but that he would not go forth to break the law of God, to take his life or to lose his own. But why do I say that? I now know that nothing but the love of God, and of God’s law implanted in his heart, would have induced him thus to act. Abstractedly he knew that he was about to do a wrong thing, but had he been really making God’s law the rule of his life, he would not have hesitated one moment, but the moment Major O’Grady had opened the subject, he would have told him plainly that he feared God more than man; that if he wronged Captain Staghorn, even though unintentionally, he would make him all the amends in his power, but that fight he would not. His conduct, however, very clearly showed—brave, and honest, and generous, and kind-hearted as he was, a man to be esteemed and loved—that he feared man, and what man might say, more than God, and how God would judge. Numbers act thus; but numbers perish of a plague. That there are many, does not save them.

It must be understood that I did not think thus at the time. I was only a little, less careless and thoughtless than those around me. I was very sorry, though, that my cousin was going out to fight with a man who was a dead shot, because I was afraid he would be killed, and that my sister Bertha, whom I loved dearly, would be made miserable. It did occur to me, as I looked at his open and intelligent countenance, his broad chest and manly form, how sad it was that, by that time the next day, he might be laid in the cold grave.

Dinner progressed slowly. Under other circumstances he would have thought me especially stupid, for there was a feeling in my throat and a weight at my heart which effectually stopped me from being lively. After coffee had been taken, I mechanically rose with the rest, and went on deck. I had not been there long, before it occurred to me that I ought to have wished him goodbye, as a boat was alongside to carry some liberty-men on board the Doris. I desired the sentry to ask if I might see him, and was immediately admitted.

“I am glad that you are come, Marmaduke,” he observed. “We cannot tell what may happen to us in this climate. Yellow Jack may lay his fist on us, or a hurricane may send our craft to the bottom; so, you see, I have thought it better to do up a little packet, which, in case of anything happening to me, I wish you would give to Bertha from me. I don’t wish to die, but in case I should, tell her that my last thoughts were about her, and my prayers for her welfare. Oh! Marmaduke, she is one in a thousand. Cherish her as the apple of your eye. You do not know her excellences.”

He went on very justly praising Bertha for some time, till there was a tremulousness came into his voice which compelled him to stop, and I very nearly blubbered outright. At last he told me to return to the Doris, and come and dine with him the next day.

“That is to say,” he added, “if Yellow Jack has not got a grip of me in the meantime.”

With a heavy heart I went back to the frigate. I took two or three turns on deck, considering if I could do anything, when it occurred to me that I would confide the matter to Mr Johnson, and get his advice, and, it might be, assistance. I found him as usual, when the duties of the day were over, seated in his cabin, reading a book by the light of a ship’s lantern. He put down his book when I entered, and seeing by my countenance that something was wrong, said—

“What is the matter now, Mr Merry? I’ll do what I can, depend on that.”

I told him all I knew, and asked him if there was any way of preventing my cousin being shot. He looked grave and thoughtful.

“And these men pretend to have sense in their heads!” he muttered. “Sense! they haven’t ten grains of it. Haven’t they a chance, every day of their lives, of having their brains knocked out all in the way of duty, and they must needs try and kill each other very contrary to the way of duty. I never really wished to be a Lord of the Admiralty, but if I was, and had my way, I would break every officer who called out another, or accepted a challenge, or acted as second.”

“Then you’d have those hung who killed their men?” I exclaimed, entering into his views.

“No, I would not. I would leave them to the just punishment their own consciences would inflict ere long,” he answered gravely. “But I would not allow men like Captain Staghorn to retain His Majesty’s commission, and to ride roughshod over his brother officers, just because he fears God’s wrath less than they do. But you ask me how this duel is to be prevented? If you were to let the admiral himself know, he would not interfere. The only way I can think of, would be to shoot Captain Staghorn first, and that wouldn’t be quite the thing. Even if we could give him a settler, we must never do evil that good may come of it; I know that. The fact is, I am at fault, Mr Merry. If either of them were living on shore, something might be done; but it’s no easy matter, and that you’ll allow, to get hold of two captains of men-of-war living on board their own ships.”

I agreed with him with a heavy heart. We twisted and turned the matter over in every way, but did not succeed in seeing daylight through it. Perhaps if we had known how and where to seek for assistance, we might have found it. It was my first watch. After our supper of biscuits and rum and water, I went on deck, and when my watch was over, turned into my hammock with cruel apprehensions as to the news I should hear in the morning.

I was somewhat surprised to find myself sent for, as soon as I was dressed, into the captain’s cabin. I felt anxious, for I thought that it must be something about my cousin. The captain, however, wanted simply to tell me to take a note on board the Daring, and to return with an answer.

It was a lovely morning; the water was as smooth as glass, the sky pure and bright, and the distant landscape which I have before described looking romantic and lovely in the extreme. As I shoved off from the frigate I saw a boat from the Pearl; the captain’s gig I guessed, cross our bows and pull towards the shore of the Palisades some little way up the harbour. I was soon alongside the Daring, and as I crossed the quarter-deck with the note in my hand, I saw that Captain Staghorn, who was in full uniform, was about to go on shore. The officers on duty were ranged on either side of the gangway in the usual manner. Major O’Grady, stiff and sour, was by his side. There was a terrible savage look, I thought, in Captain Staghorn’s grey evil eye. I stepped across the deck to deliver my note. Before I gave it, I heard him say as he walked along the deck, “I only intend to wing the fellow, major. I swore long ago I’d punish him, and I will keep my word.”

The major made a grim face, and muttered, “The brain is the best billet.” I handed my note.

“Wait, youngster,” he said, sharply, “I shall be back presently, I’ll send an answer then;” and crumpling up the note, he put it in his pocket.

As he was just stepping down the gangway ladder, he turned, and said aloud to his first-lieutenant, “Should the admiral and Captain so-and-so arrive before I return give my compliments and say that I was compelled to go on shore, but shall be back immediately.” I found that Captain Staghorn had invited a large party to breakfast with him on that morning, and that their arrival on board was every minute expected. “Ay, ay, sir,” answered the first-lieutenant; and Captain Staghorn and Major O’Grady took their seats. The oars fell with a splash into the water, and the gig darted away in the direction taken by the Pearl’s boat. I watched the two boats pulling up the harbour as long as they continued in sight. I had never in my life felt so anxious and grieved. From what I had been told of Captain Staghorn, and of his wonderful skill as a shot, I did not for a moment doubt that my poor cousin’s life was completely in his power, and from the words uttered by that evil-visaged major, I had a dreadful apprehension that he would exercise his skill to my relative’s destruction. My grief was not only on his account, but on that of my dear sister Bertha. I thought of the bitter sorrow she would suffer when she heard how he had died. Had he been killed in action with the enemies of his country, she would have mourned his loss long and deeply; for time, I knew, would soften such sorrow; but to hear that, weakly yielding to an abominable custom, he had died infringing the laws of God and man, would prove to a person with a mind and opinions such as hers almost unsupportable. “It will kill her, it will kill her!” I kept exclaiming to myself, and I could scarcely help wringing my hands and giving way to tears. I have often since thought, that if boys and men did but reflect more than they are apt to do of the sorrow and suffering which their acts may cause to those they leave at home, whom they love dearly, and on whom they would be really unwilling to inflict the slightest pain, they would often pause before they plunged into sin and folly. I fancied that no one would know what the two captains had gone about, and was walking the deck in solitude, meditating, as I have said, on the cruel event about to occur, when I was accosted by the midshipman who had paid the Doris a visit a few days before, and invited down to breakfast.

Chapter Fifteen.

I was ushered with due form into the midshipmen’s berth of the Daring. A large party were assembled, discussing an ample supply of food prepared for breakfast. They seemed a very free and easy set, and it was no fault of theirs if I did not find myself at home; but I was far too anxious to do justice to the good things placed before me, nor could I keep my mind from dwelling on the sad work I believed then going forward. I soon found that the object of the captain’s visit to the shore was no secret. He had been boasting the evening before of what he had done in the duelling way, and congratulating himself on at length being able to reap the revenge he had so long sought, swearing at the time that he would shoot Captain Ceaton through the head, as he would any man who dared to impugn his veracity. Was, then, his remark, that he would only wing him, the result of some momentary compunction of conscience, to be banished by the counsels of that Mephistopheles-like major? I feared so. The midshipmen did not know that Captain Ceaton was my relative, and though some seemed to feel for my anxiety, others only laughed, and told me that I might as well begin to pipe my eye, for by that time my cousin would have a hole drilled through him, I might depend on it. They seemed, indeed, to be proud of their captain’s performances in that way, and anxious to imitate him. Two or three of them boasted of having fought duels with midshipmen of other ships, though, as they used not over sharp cutlasses, there had been no fatal results. I was very glad that I did not belong to the ship, for a more boastful, quarrelsome set of fellows I never fell among. The sort of things Mr Johnson said in joke, they uttered in grave earnest, and they were excessively angry if they were not believed. However, I managed to keep my temper, and at last to eat some breakfast, in spite of my anxiety about my cousin. As soon as I could, I returned on deck, where I was joined by my former acquaintance. He begged that I would not mind what had been said.

“You see,” he observed, “the captain sets the fashion and the greater number follow it. If we had had a different captain, these same fellows would have had very different ideas.”

I have often since then had occasion to make the remark, that, as a rule, drinking, swearing, profligate captains turn out officers of the same character. A brave, virtuous, and good commander cannot make all those under him like himself; but his example will induce imitation among some, and act as a curb to vice among others. Great, indeed, is the responsibility of a captain of a man-of-war; indeed, of any ship where there are officers and men looking up to him. We had not been on deck long when the admiral came off in his barge from the shore, and three or four captains arrived in their gigs, as well as some military men in shore boats. The first-lieutenant made Captain Staghorn’s apologies, saying that affairs of importance had taken him early on shore, but that he would be off immediately.

The admiral walked up and down the deck rather impatiently, and looked annoyed, as if Captain Staghorn was not treating him with proper respect. He was also very hungry probably, and he kept continually pulling out his watch and replacing it hurriedly in his fob. The captains and other officers, aware, probably, of Captain Staghorn’s eccentricities, were less annoyed; but even they at times gave signs of impatience. At length the signal midshipman announced that the captain’s gig was coming off down the harbour. My heart beat quick. I never felt so anxious. Some midshipmen were in the main chains. I joined them, eager to ascertain if my cousin’s boat was also coming down the harbour. I borrowed a glass. After a time I thought that I could distinguish my cousin’s boat coming down. Had he escaped; or had the duel been prevented? I made out two officers seated in the stern, but the boat passed at a distance from the Daring, and I was uncertain who they were. I had been so eagerly watching the Pearl’s gig, that I had not observed the Daring’s, which now approached. A murmur ran through the ship—there was something solemn in the sound. I looked down with an indefinite feeling of dread. Still, I expected to see Captain Staghorn sitting upright, with his disagreeable companion by his side. The major was there, but a human form lay in the stern-sheets, with a boat’s flag thrown over the face, to keep off the buzzing flies which were clustering above it. The murmur increased into unmistakable accents; the captain was dead—shot through the heart. I hurried to the gangway, round which the admiral and officers and men were assembling. The captain had returned at the hour he promised; but how differently! The flag fell from his face as the corpse was being lifted on deck. The eyes were open and staring horribly; the teeth were clenched, and the mouth wore that same bad, disagreeable expression it had worn two short hours before, when, full of life and strength, and confiding in the firmness of his nerve and his correct eye, he had stepped carelessly down the companion-ladder, determined grievously to wound or to take the life of a fellow-creature. The doctor went through the form of examining him to ascertain that he was dead. He lifted up a hand; it fell heavily on the deck.

“There’s no doubt about it,” observed the major, coolly. “You never saw a man alive with a hole drilled through him like that;” and he scientifically pointed out the course the bullet had taken.

The admiral and other officers collected round, and he continued, “I never saw anything more unexpected. He walked to the ground with the air of a man going to a ball, laughing and joking the whole way. Not a muscle shook as he took the pistol and placed himself in position directly I had measured off the ground. I must say that Commander Ceaton behaved with courage and as a gentleman; but it was evident that neither he nor his second had the slightest notion of how to conduct affairs of the sort. Commander Ceaton placed himself with his full front facing his antagonist; and when I remonstrated with his second, as he was not thus giving himself a fair chance, he said that his captain chose to stand in that way, and that he would not change his position. I then returned to my principal. I naturally asked where he intended to hit his opponent. ‘In the head,’ he replied; ‘his very look annoys me.’ I retired to give the signal. Which pistol went off first I do not know; but instead of seeing Commander Ceaton drop, as I expected, I saw my principal leap into the air and fall flat to the ground; while Commander Ceaton stood unmoved. I never saw a man so cut up about a thing. I should have supposed that he had killed a friend, instead of a deadly enemy. We had positively to send the doctor to him to prevent his fainting. And poor Staghorn here, he never expected such an ending.”

“But never was one more richly deserved,” muttered the admiral, turning away with a look of thorough disgust at the major’s cold-blooded indifference to his friend’s awful death.

However, the admiral and other officers retired into the cabin to discuss the breakfast prepared for them, though their host was not present, with what appetite I cannot say. As I could not get an answer to the note I had brought, I returned to the Doris to report what had occurred.

“He has met his deserts; and yet how awful,” said Captain Collyer half aloud, as I told him of Captain Staghorn’s death.

All in our berth were eager to hear what I had to tell them about the duel, and I could not help observing how different the remarks of my messmates were from those which had been uttered in the Daring’s berth. Hearty satisfaction was also expressed that my cousin had escaped. I was eager to go on board the Pearl to congratulate him and to take him back Bertha’s package, as I now knew why he had given it to me. I could not, however, go till the evening, when Mr Bryan gave me leave to take the dinghy. I sent down my name, and was told to go into the cabin. I found Captain Ceaton seated at a table, with a book before him. He lifted up his head from his hand, on which it had been resting, when I entered. I had never seen so great a change in any person in so short a time. His countenance was pale and haggard, his eyes sunk, and his whole look would have made me suppose that he had undergone a year of the most severe mental suffering, or some painful illness of still longer duration. I was going to congratulate him on having come off the victor, but I could not bring out the words I had intended to use. I merely murmured out, “I am so very glad you are alive. I have brought back the package for Bertha. I know now why you gave it to me.”

“Keep it still, Marmaduke,” he answered gloomily. “I feel that I shall soon be summoned hence. God’s wrath rests on the willing homicide, and I have sent that man without an evil deed repented of into the presence of his Maker. I was too eager to fire. Almost before the word was given I had lifted my hand to do the accursed deed. I would far, far rather have been shot myself. Let my misery be a warning to you. Never on any account lift your hand against the life of a fellow-creature, unless you are fighting for your country or attacked by assassins. The world may gloss over the deed as it will; the conscience cannot gild a crime.”

He said a good deal more in the same style. I tried to comfort him as well as I could, and talked about my sister and the future.

“What, unite a spotless hand to that of one stained with the blood of a fellow-creature!” he exclaimed. “No, Marmaduke, when she knows the truth, she will shudder at the thought.”

I now saw that he was altogether unnerved, and I hoped that, if his surgeon was a sensible man, he might do him more good than I could with any arguments at my command. After a time I went on deck, and finding the surgeon walking by himself, I went up to him and told him what I thought.

“Very sensible, youngster. Some soothing draught is what he wants. I’ll get him to take it,” he answered. “Your relative, let me tell you, had a narrow escape. Did he show you where the bullet grazed his head and took off the hair?”

“No, indeed. I did not know even that Captain Staghorn had fired,” said I.

“Ay, but he did though, and he aimed at your cousin’s brain,” said the surgeon. “Mr Sandford tells me that, as he looked at his antagonist’s evil eye, he never expected to hear the captain speak again. He’s unhappy now, and shocked; very natural for a man of fine feeling; but he’ll get over it, don’t be afraid.”

“Then the wretched man took the advice of his evil counsellor, and resolved to kill my poor cousin,” I thought to myself. I was afraid, however, that the fact would be no comfort to him, but would rather aggravate his suffering when he thought that the last feeling which had animated the bosom of the man who had been so suddenly sent to his dread account was that of bitter animosity and revenge. I instinctively felt this, and so, when I returned to the cabin before leaving the ship, I refrained from touching on the subject. I did not know at the time, nor did anyone else on board, I am afraid, in a position to speak to him, where alone he could seek for comfort and consolation in his wretchedness, for wretched he was, and almost hopeless.

However, I must not longer dwell on the subject. I returned to the Doris, but I got leave on most days to visit my cousin. I did not see any great change in him for the better. An enquiry took place with regard to the duel, but the evidence in his favour was so strong, and Captain Staghorn’s character was so notorious, that he was acquitted of all blame in the matter. I was truly glad to find that we and the Pearl were to sail together and cruise in company for some time, in search of some of the enemy’s privateers, which had been committing havoc among our merchantmen. The day before we sailed we received a visit from old Colonel Pinchard, and we invited him down to dinner. He seemed in high feather, having got as many pupils as he could manage to instruct in French, and, moreover, as he told us, he had hopes that he had softened the heart of a Creole lady, who, though somewhat weighty herself, was outweighed by the bags of doubloons of which she was the owner, not to speak of a number of male and female slaves, who acknowledged her as their mistress. “Ah, you see, vary good, vary good,” he added. “You see, moch obliged to you for take me prisoner. I drink to de santé of all de young gentlemans of de Doris.” The old colonel certainly contrived to make himself very happy, and we sent him on shore singing alternately the Marseillaise hymn, some Royalist tunes, and God Save the King, while he kept occasionally shouting out “Vive Napoleon!”

“Vive l’Angleterre!”

“Vive la France!” exhibiting in his cups the real cosmopolitan feelings which inspired him—the feelings of most old soldiers of fortune. They start probably with some vague notions of seeking honour and glory, but, finding the objects at which they aim thoroughly unsatisfying, they in most cases become intensely selfish, and think only how they can make themselves most comfortable under any circumstances in which they are placed, or how they can secure the largest amount of plunder. This was the last time I saw Colonel Pinchard, but I heard that he married the Creole widow, foreswore France, and settled in Jamaica.

We were all glad to get to sea again, as we had little pleasure from being in harbour, for, though the West Indies has many charms, and at some seasons no fault can be found with the climate, yet Yellow Jack is an unpleasant customer, whose visits we were happy to avoid. I have not named any of my messmates for some time. Poor McAllister was the only one much changed; the climate certainly affected him, but he got a great deal of badgering from the officers of his own standing in the service, and especially from the mates of other ships, for having been outwitted by the Frenchman, and for losing his prize. He took his bantering ill in public, and brooded over the subject in private, till he began to believe that his courage was doubted, and that he must do some very daring deed to retrieve it. But I must do old Perigal the credit to say that he never bantered him, though Spellman did whenever he thought he could give a sly hit with impunity. I did what I could to comfort him, and the liking for me, which he had always entertained, evidently increased. I was in his watch, and, as we walked the deck together, he would talk to me by the hour of Scotland, and the estate of his ancestors, which he hoped one day to recover. Suddenly he would break off, and in a tone of deep melancholy, exclaim, “Ah, but those are dreams—all dreams—never to be realised. I am never to see bonnie Scotland again; her heathery hills, and blue, blue lochs, and my own Mary; but I’ve never told you of her. She’s been the pole-star to me since I came to sea. She was but a young girl then, but when I had returned from my first voyage, she’d grown into the fairest maiden for many a mile round, and soon she promised to be mine, when I should get my promotion. I won’t talk more of her, though; but you’ll undertake, Merry, when you go home, should I lose the number of my mess, to go and find out the poor girl, and tell her all about me.” And so he ran on. Of course I promised to do all he wished. Midshipmen always do promise each other all sorts of things of a similar nature, and intend to fulfil their promises faithfully, though I am not prepared to assert that they always do so.

By the bye, it is rather curious that at least half my messmates who confided their attachments to me were in love with young ladies of the name of Mary. Sometimes, I suspect, they were myths, but they did equally well to talk about. To a sailor’s ear there is something very attractive in the name; certainly I have known several most charming Maries, and one especially—but I am not going to make confessions.

The Pearl sailed well, and kept easily in company with us. After getting clear of Jamaica we stood to the eastward, to run down among the French islands, where we might have a chance of falling in with some of the privateers starting on their cruise. We had before long done a good deal of mischief among them; we captured three, sunk one, burnt another, and drove two on shore. At last, one morning at daybreak, a large schooner was reported in sight, standing to the southward. Both we and the corvette made all sail in chase. There was no doubt that she was an enemy, as she spread all the canvas she could set for the purpose of escaping. The wind was light, which was to her advantage, and from the first it seemed very doubtful that we should overtake the chase. Still, while there was a chance, Captain Collyer was not the man to give it up. The wind was about abeam. The corvette was ordered to keep well to windward, to prevent the schooner from hauling up, and thus escaping; while there was no doubt that, should she attempt to escape before the wind, fast as she might sail we should come up with her. Our aim was to jam her down on the land, as we had done other vessels, when we should drive her on shore or capture her.

During the morning I was several times on the forecastle, where I found McAllister with his glass eagerly fixed on the chase.

“I am certain of it,” he exclaimed. “As true as I’m a Highland gentleman, and my name is McAllister, that craft ahead of us is the Audacieuse. I know her by second sight, or, if you don’t believe in it, by the cut of her canvas, even at this distance. I’m certain of it. I would give my patrimony, and more wealth than I am ever likely to possess, to come up with her. I’ll make Lieutenant Préville pay dearly for the trick he played us.”

Though I thought very likely that the schooner in sight was our former prize, I could not be certain. Neither were the men who had been with us, nor were the crew of the Espoir at all certain as to the vessel in sight. As Ned Bambrick observed, “She might be her, or she might not be her; but one French schooner, at the distance of seven or eight miles, looked very like another, and that’s all I can say, do ye see, sir, for certain. The only way is to overhaul her, and then we shall know.”

Perigal was inclined to side with McAllister, from the satisfaction which the so doing afforded him; indeed, he now appeared in far better spirits than he had done since our mishap.

At last the breeze freshened, and we rose the land, the coast of Cuba, beyond the chase. Her chance of escape was consequently much lessened, unless she could haul up along shore, or there was any harbour up which she might run for shelter. We were now clearly gaining on her, and as we drew nearer McAllister became more and more certain that she was the Audacieuse, while others also agreed with him. I, of course, hoped that he was right.

“We will make Préville cook for us. He shall be employed in dressing ragouts all day long,” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. “But I hope he won’t yield without fighting. I wish it would fall calm, and I may be sent in command of the boats to take him. That would be the most satisfactory thing.”

I agreed with him in the latter point, but argued that the Frenchmen had only treated us as we should have attempted to treat them under similar circumstances, so that we had no reason to complain, while they had also behaved most liberally to us when giving us a boat to reach Jamaica. My poor messmate was, however, far too excited to listen to reason.

The day wore on. Nothing would induce McAllister to leave the deck. We sent him up some cold meat and biscuit for dinner, but he would scarcely touch the food, continually keeping his eye on the chase. The day was advancing, and we were drawing in with the land. It was still uncertain whether we should catch her, as she might more easily escape us during darkness. We were about two miles from the land, against the dark outline of which her sails appeared shining brightly in the rays of the sun, just sinking into the ocean. The wind was dropping. If the land breeze came off, we might not be able to work up to her, though she might anchor, and then McAllister’s wish would be gratified.

I had returned to the forecastle, where a good many of the officers were assembled, watching the chase. The sun had sunk below the horizon. The gloom came down with a rapidity unknown in northern latitudes. There was the schooner. Our eyes were on her. Suddenly she disappeared. McAllister stamped with his foot, and I thought would have dashed his glass on the deck, when he could no longer discover her. So unexpectedly had the chase vanished that some began to pronounce her the Flying Dutchman, or a phantom craft of that description. The master, however, very soon appeared, and announced the fact that inside of us was a strongly-fortified harbour, and that of course the cause of the chase being no longer seen was that she had run up it, and rapidly furled her sails.

We now hauled off the land, and hove-to, and Captain Ceaton coming on board, it was agreed that an attempt should be made to cut out the schooner, and any other vessels which might be in the harbour. The plan was very simple. The marines, with a party of seamen, were to land and attack the forts in the rear, while the ships’ boats, manned by all the blue jackets who could be spared, were to take possession of the vessels in the harbour, if they could.

The harbour was reported as strongly fortified, and it was important, therefore, if possible, to take the enemy by surprise. The captains consequently resolved to put off the attack till another night. This did not suit poor McAllister’s impatience. He was eager to commence the undertaking without delay.

The two ships now stood off to such a distance that they could not be seen from the shore, and we then hove-to. All those to be employed were busily preparing for the work in hand. It was understood that it would be far more severe than anything in which we had yet engaged. Captain Ceaton begged leave to lead the expedition, and, Mr Bryan being ill, Mr Fitzgerald was to be second in command. The land forces were led by Lieutenant Fig of the marines. Though his name was short, he was not; and he was, moreover, a very gallant fellow. The second lieutenant of the corvette had charge of the boats for landing the soldiers. In such exploits it is seldom that the senior captain himself commands; indeed, they are generally confided to the lieutenants who have their commissions to win. McAllister, to his great satisfaction, got command of one boat, with Grey as his companion; and Mr Johnson, whom I accompanied, took charge of another. We were to have three boats from the frigate, and two from the corvette, the rest being employed in landing the soldiers. My cousin was unwell, and in the evening his surgeon sent on board to say that he was utterly unfit to accompany the proposed expedition, the command of which was therefore claimed by Mr Fitzgerald.

“If it was daylight, his phiz would go far to secure us the victory,” observed Perigal, who did not hold our eccentric second lieutenant in high estimation. “However, he can shriek, and that is something.”

As soon as it was dark, we once more stood towards the land, but the night wind came off, and we worked up at a slow rate, which sorely tried our patience. The hours of darkness passed by; still, we had night enough left to do the work. The ships hove-to, and the boats were piped away. My heart beat high. I longed almost as much as McAllister to regain possession of the Audacieuse, should the schooner prove to be her. There was no time to be lost, lest daylight might surprise us. We shoved off, and away we went right merrily, with muffled oars, the men bending their backs to them with a will.

There was supposed to be a little cove outside the chief harbour, and here the soldiers were to land and form. A rocket sent up by our part of the expedition, as soon as we were alongside the schooner or discovered by the enemy, was to be the signal for the soldiers to advance and storm the works. At some little distance from the harbour’s mouth we parted from the land forces, and now still more rapidly we advanced. On a hill overlooking the harbour we could distinguish the outline of a formidable-looking fort, or rather castle; while close under its guns lay, not only the schooner, but rising up, with the tracery of their spars and rigging pencilled against the sky, appeared a large three-masted ship, either a heavy corvette or a frigate, with three or four more vessels moored head and stern of her, while the schooner lay more out, with her guns pointing down the harbour—so that, to get at her, we should have to pass under the fire of all the rest, while the guns from the fort above could plunge their fire right down upon us.

The tide was running strong out of the harbour, and the grey streaks of dawn were already appearing in the east. These circumstances might be to our advantage, if we were once in possession of the schooner, but were at present very much against us. What other officers might have done in a similar case I am not prepared to say; but Paddy Fitzgerald was not the man to turn his back on an enemy till he had crossed blades with him. So on we pulled, rather slowly though, against the current. I hoped that the enemy had not discovered us, for it seemed as if no watch even was kept on board the vessels, and that all their crews were wrapped in sleep.

“Don’t be too sure of that,” whispered Mr Johnson. “They are not like heavy-sterned Dutchmen or Russians; these Frenchmen always sleep with one eye open.”

Whether he was right or not I do not know, but just as the boats, all keeping close together in beautiful order, had got abreast of the lowest vessel, our eccentric leader, either by accident or on purpose, for the sake of giving the enemy a better chance of knocking us to pieces, sent up the rocket right over their heads. The first whiz must have startled the sleeping watch, and in a few seconds drums were heard beating to quarters, and officers bawling and shouting, and lights gleaming about in all directions. The crew of the schooner, too, gave evidence that they were on the alert, for several shots came flying down the harbour over our heads. They had not got the range, but they would soon. Mr Fitzgerald’s voice was heard shouting—

“We’ve awoke them up. Erin go bragh! Hurra, lads! push on!”

A deep voice was heard joining the shout, “For the schooner! The schooner’s our aim!” It was that of McAllister.

On shore, too, and in the fort, there was a great commotion; drums there also were beating, and officers calling the garrison to the ramparts, while bright flashes and the rattle of musketry showed that those of the land expedition were well performing their part of the undertaking.

We dashed on as fast as we could urge the boats against the current, right under the broadsides of the corvette and other vessels, which began pouring in on us a terrific fire of great guns and small-arms, which soon made fearful havoc among our crews. Still we pulled on. Three men in the boatswain’s boat had been struck, one of whom was killed, when a shower of grape-shot came plunging down directly into her, killing another man, and tearing right through her sides. She filled rapidly. A cry arose from our poor fellows, as they found themselves sinking. We were close to another boat. Mr Johnson, seizing one of the wounded men, and telling me to follow him, and the coxswain grasping the other, we all leaped into her. We found she was McAllister’s. Two men in her were killed, and poor Grey lay in the stern-sheets badly hurt. McAllister was all excitement, utterly regardless of the shot like hail flying round him, and urging the men to pull towards the schooner. We had nearly reached her, when Mr Fitzgerald, who had hitherto been cheering on the men, fell back wounded, giving the order, as he did so, to retreat. It was too evident that success was no longer possible; one quarter of the party were either killed or wounded, and many more must be lost before we could ever gain the deck of the schooner. McAllister thought differently; the object for which he had so long been wishing seemed within his grasp. He sprang forward, and in the grey light of morning I could see his figure as he stood up, and waving his hand, shouted—

“My name is McAllister, of ancient lineage, and the rightful owner of a broad estate in the Highlands, and it shall never be said that I turned my back to the foe. On, lads, and the Audacieuse will be ours!”

Scarcely had he uttered the words, when a round-shot struck him on the breast and knocked him overboard, before anyone could grasp him. Instantly Mr Johnson sprang up, and shouted—

“My name is not McAllister, and I haven’t an acre of land in Scotland or elsewhere, and so give way, my lads, with the starboard oars, and back with the larboard ones, and let us get out of this as fast as we can, or not one of us will have a whole skin to cover his bones.”

The men obeyed. I was very glad they did, for I had had quite enough of the work, and getting the boat round, the current soon carried us out of the hottest part of the fire. Still the shot came whistling after us, and when I considered the terrific fire to which we had been so long exposed, I could only feel thankful at finding myself and any of my companions still in the land of the living. As it was, two of our boats were knocked to pieces and sunk, and fully half those who had formed the expedition were either killed or wounded.

My attention was now turned towards my friend Grey, who lay in the stern-sheets groaning with pain. I was stooping forward to bind my handkerchief over his arm, when a round-shot flew by, which Mr Johnson told me would have taken off my head had I been sitting upright. For his sake, and that of the wounded men, I was very anxious to return on board, but I found that we had first to go in and cover the embarkation of the soldiers, in case they had been defeated and followed, or to give them notice of our failure should they still be persevering in the attack. On getting into the little harbour, no one was found on the beach, and I was therefore despatched to direct Lieutenant Fig to retire. It was an undertaking of no little hazard, for I might be made a prisoner by the enemy, or lose my way and be unable to return to the harbour.

Toby Bluff, who had stowed himself away in one of the other boats, entreated that he might be allowed to accompany me. I was very glad to have a companion. Two people can often carry out an object in which one may fail.

Off we set, having taken the supposed bearings of the fort, as fast as we could manage to get along through the gloom. The first part of our path was through sand, with rocks sticking up here and there, over which we stumbled several times, and broke our shins, but we picked ourselves up as well as we could, and not having time to give them a rub, hurried on. We were soon among maize fields, and then some coffee or other plantations, but fortunately there were no tall trees near yet further to darken the road. The path was somewhat rough, but I believed that it was the only one leading to the fort. The firing had entirely ceased. I could not, however, tell whether this was a good or a bad sign; whether our marines had entered the fort, or had been driven back. Eager to ascertain, and to deliver my orders, we continued to push on. Suddenly, as we were passing a narrow place, with thick bushes on either side, some large hands were laid on my shoulders, and a rough negro voice said—

“Qui êtes-vous, jeunes gens?”

“Amis, j’espère,” I replied readily, summoning to my aid a large proportion of the French I had learned from Colonel Pinchard.

“Où allez-vous donc?” was next asked.

This was a puzzler, for I could not remember the name of the fort, or, indeed, of a castle in French. Another big negro had caught Toby Bluff, and, of course, could elicit no information from him. They both laughed, as I fancied, at my attempts to speak French. I wanted to escape, if possible, without fighting; but when I found that we were discovered, I put my hand to my belt to draw a pistol. It was immediately grasped by my captors, and wrenched out of my hand, exploding at the moment, though fortunately without injuring me. The negro was lightly clad, and possessed of three times my strength, so that I in vain struggled to free myself from him. Toby also was completely overpowered, and they now began dragging us along up the hill.

I felt very uncomfortable. We had failed in the object of our expedition, and I thought we should either be knocked on the head by our captors, or perhaps be shot for spies by the French, while, at all events, if allowed to live, we should be kept as prisoners for months or years to come. Worked up to desperation by these ideas, I struggled violently to get free, calling to Toby to do the same. In my struggles, I fortunately gave my captor a severe kick on the shins, when he, instinctively stooping down to rub them, let go his hold. At the same moment, on my telling Toby what I had done, he imitated my example, and also getting free, off we set at full speed, pursued by the negroes. Where we were going I could not tell, except that we were not running towards the shore. The negroes, having stopped for a few moments to rub their shins, came along almost as fast as we did, shrieking and shouting out to us all the time to stop. The louder they shouted the faster we ran, till we were brought up with the point of a bayonet, and the challenge of:—

“Who goes there?”

“Friend—Doris!” I answered, recognising the voice of one of our marines.

The negroes, hearing an Englishman speak, bolted off through a plantation to the right, tumbling over each other, and had we been quick about it, we might have made them both prisoners. The marine told us that his party was a little farther in advance, that they had been defeated in the attempt to storm the fort, and that Lieutenant Fig was waiting for further orders. We hurried on. Daylight was making rapid strides, and as the French would soon discover the smallness of our numbers, we should have their whole force down upon us, and we should be cut to pieces or taken prisoners.

As soon as I had delivered the order to the marine officer, he gave the word, “March—double-quick,” and off we set at a pretty smart run. Drums and fifes were sounding in the fort, and as we crossed a ridge, I saw from the top of it a large body of troops coming out of the gate in pursuit of us. We could not proceed faster than we were marching, on account of the wounded, who were carried by the bluejackets in the centre of the party. As it was, I perceived that many of the poor fellows, from the groans to which they gave vent, were suffering dreadfully. Still it was impossible to leave them behind, for though the French might have treated them with humanity, the negroes would probably have murdered them, had they fallen into their hands. Daylight was increasing, of course exposing us more clearly to the enemy. I never before had had to run away, and I cannot say that I liked the feeling, still there can be no doubt that in this instance discretion was the best part of valour. It would have been folly to stop and fight, as at any moment parties might appear, landed from the vessels we had attacked, and who might cut us off. The lieutenant of the Pearl, who commanded the seamen, had been killed in the attack, so that the entire command devolved on Lieutenant Fig, and, to do him justice, he behaved with great judgment.

The enemy, in strong force, were now rapidly approaching us. At length we came in sight of the boats: the wounded were sent on, while the rest of the party faced about to encounter our foes. On they came, but the steady front exhibited by the marines made them halt. Once more they advanced. We received them with a hot fire, and stood our ground, driving them back to some distance, but only for a few minutes, for as we were about to continue our retreat, again they came on, expecting by their greatly superior numbers to overwhelm us. Again and again they charged us. Several of our men had fallen, and it was too evident that they would soon cut us to pieces. Should we be once thrown into disorder, we should be destroyed before we could reach the boats. I found, too, that our ammunition was almost expended. Again the enemy came on, when, at the same moment, a loud huzza was heard in the rear, led by a voice which I recognised as that of Jonathan Johnson, and on he came at the head of some twenty bluejackets, flourishing their cutlasses like a body of Highlanders, and shouting at the top of their voices. This timely support encouraged our men, and charging at the same moment, we drove the enemy headlong before us.

I had picked up a musket, and charged with the rest, and was carried by my ardour, or from not knowing exactly what I was about, ahead of my companions. I felt excited and highly delighted. The Frenchmen, however, as they retreated, faced about every now and then, and fired. As I was cheering lustily, a shot struck me, and I fell. I thought no one had noticed me, as I heard Lieutenant Fig give the order to retreat. The enemy at the same moment halted, and encouraged by the arrival of another officer, they again came on. It seemed all up with me, but my faithful follower, Toby Bluff, had seen me fall, and, springing forward, he threw himself in front of me, shouting—

“If any on you Johnny Crapeaus dares to hurt the young measter, now he’s down, I’ll have the life out of you!”

Struck by Toby’s bravery, the Frenchmen for a moment hung back, but they were again coming on, and would soon have overpowered him, when, on looking up, I saw Mr Johnson stooping over me. In a moment he had lifted me, as if I had been a baby, on his left arm, and, telling Toby to run, with his cutlass in his right hand, he kept the Frenchmen who pressed on him at bay.

Thus fighting and retreating we reached the boats, and one of them having brought her bow-gun to bear on the enemy, loaded with grape, kept them at a respectable distance, while the rest of us embarked. They did not, indeed, approach the shore till we were fairly off, and though they peppered us with musketry, only one or two men were slightly hurt. However, altogether our expedition had been more disastrous than any in which I had ever been engaged.

With heavy hearts we pulled on board. Mr Johnson, with the gentleness of a woman, bound up my wound. Poor Grey lifted up his head as he saw me placed by his side in the stern-sheets, and said—

“What, Merry, are you hurt too? There will be no need of shamming this time, to deceive Macquoid.”

“I am afraid not,” I answered faintly. “But still I hope that we may live to fight the Frenchmen another day.”

“No fear of that, young gentlemen,” said Mr Johnson, who had overheard us. “Keep up your spirits; young flesh and sinews soon grow together, and there are no bones broken in either of you, I hope.”

We all got at length safely on board, when the wounded were without delay carried below, and placed under the surgeon’s care. He repeated the boatswain’s advice to Grey and me, and told us that if we followed it we should soon be well. Two or three of the poor fellows brought on board alive, died of their wounds that night. We heard that Captain Collyer and Commander Ceaton were very much cut up at the failure of the expedition, and the loss of so many officers and men. I was especially sorry for McAllister’s death. Though eccentric in some of his notions, he was every inch an officer and a gentleman.

We at once made sail, I understood, from the fatal spot, but the general wish was that we might fall in with the schooner elsewhere, or return and take her.

Before many days had passed, I received a visit from my cousin. Sorrow had worked a sad change in him, and I felt grieved as I looked up at his countenance, at the bad report I should have to give of him to poor Bertha.

It was fortunate for Grey and me that we kept at sea, for the weather was tolerably cool, and our hurts rapidly healed.

The Doris had now been nearly four years in commission, so that we expected, as soon as the cruise was up, to be sent home. We had all had enough of the West Indies, and we looked forward with eager satisfaction to the time when the white cliffs of Old England should once more greet our eyes. One sorrow only broke in on our anticipations of pleasure. It was when we thought of our gallant shipmates who had been cut off, who had hoped, as we were doing, once more to be united to those they loved so dearly at home. I should have been more sorry for Perigal than for anybody else, had he been killed, but happily neither bullet nor fever seemed to hurt him, and I hoped that he might once more be united to his wife. I thought, too, of poor McAllister’s Mary, and of the sad news I should have to convey to her. However, I cannot say that I indulged in these, or other mournful reflections, for any length of time. I was more thoughtful than I had been when I came to sea four years ago, but that was only at times when some occurrences made me think. Generally I spoke of myself as Merry by name and merry by nature, and was, I fear, still but a harum-scarum fellow after all.

As may be supposed, the general subject of conversation in the berth or during the night-watches, was home. Those who have never been from home, can scarcely understand the pleasure seamen experience, who have been long absent, in simply talking about returning home. There they expect to find peace, and quiet, and rest, those who love them, and can sympathise with them, and listen to their accounts of all their exploits, and dangers, and hardships. Such at that time were my feelings, and those of my friend Grey, but I am very certain that they cannot be the feelings of those who have given way to vicious habits, and whose only expectation is to enjoy their more unbridled indulgence. The thought of a pure and quiet home can afford no joy to them; they lose, I may say, one of the chief recompenses which those obtain whose duty calls them away from home, and all the loved ones there.

Still our hope was deferred. We were, however, the gainers, in one respect, by this, for we took some of the richest prizes captured on the station, so that even we midshipmen began to feel that we were persons of boundless wealth. At length our orders arrived, and the shout ran along the decks—

“Hurrah, we are homeward-bound!”

Chapter Sixteen.

To England we with favouring gale,

Our gallant ship up Channel steer;

When running under easy sail,

The light blue western cliffs appear.

How often and often have those cheerful lines been sung by young, and light, and happy hearts, beating high with anticipations of happiness, and thoughts of the homes they are about to revisit after long years of absence. Such was the song sung in the midshipmen’s berth of the Doris, as once more our gallant frigate entered the chops of the Channel, and we were looking forward to seeing again those western cliffs which often and often we had pictured to ourselves awake, and seen in our dreams asleep.

I will not dwell on the feeling with which “Sweethearts and wives” was drunk on the last Saturday evening in the midshipmen’s berth as well as in every mess in the ship; not that the young gentlemen themselves had any one who could properly be designated as one or the other, but they might hope to have, and that was the next thing to it.

I thought of poor McAllister, cut down in his early manhood, and of his poor Mary, and I resolved if possible to fulfil his request, and to go and tell her about him. It was a task I would gladly have avoided. Then again, what an unsatisfactory account I must give to Bertha of poor Ceaton. His expectation of dying soon might be mere fancy, but it was very evident that his spirits had never recovered the shock he had received when he killed Captain Staghorn, and he felt himself branded with the mark of Cain.

I was far from recovered from my last wound, and, altogether, my anticipations of pleasure were tempered with many causes for sorrow. However, I do not wish to appear sentimental, though I do wish to hint that midshipmen, even when returning home, must not expect to find unclouded happiness.

We had still some leagues to traverse, and it was possible that we might fall in with an enemy, and have another battle to fight, before we could reach home. Not that any one had any objection to so doing; on the contrary, no one expected for a moment that we could meet an enemy without coming off the victor, and being able to sail into Portsmouth harbour with our prize. A sharp look-out was accordingly kept on every side, as we sailed up Channel, but by that time few French cruisers remained daring enough to show themselves near the British coasts, and the Needle Rocks at length hove in sight, and with a leading breeze we ran up inside the Isle of Wight, and anchored at Spithead among a large fleet there assembled.

After waiting two days, uncertain as to our fate, we received orders to go into harbour to be paid off. I need not describe the operation, nor the scenes which took place after it. Each man received a considerable sum, and I believe that before many days were over, half the number had spent, in the most childish way, the larger portion, and some, every shilling of their hard-earned gains, and were ready again to go afloat.

Most of the officers had gone on shore, and Spellman, and Grey, and I, and other midshipmen, were preparing to take our departure, when we went to bid farewell to Mr Johnson.

“Mr Merry, I hope that we shall not part just yet,” he said with great feeling, taking my hand. “The ship is to be left in charge of the gunner, and I have obtained leave to go up to London to visit my wife, and for other reasons. Now it will afford me great pleasure if you and Mr Grey will make my house your resting-place on your way home, or rather I should say my wife’s house, for, as I told you, she is a lady of independent fortune. Indeed, Mr Merry, friends as we are afloat, I know the customs of the service too well to ask you, a quarter-deck officer, to my house under other circumstances.”

“Don’t speak of that, Mr Johnson,” said I, feeling sure that he would be pleased if I accepted his invitation, and wishing perhaps a little to gratify my own curiosity. “I shall be delighted to go to your house. You forget how much I am indebted to you for having several times saved my life, and that puts us on an equality on shore, if not on board; besides, remember I know all about your wife, and I do not think that I ever returned you the letter you gave me for her when you thought you might be killed.”

“All right, Mr Merry; don’t let’s have any protestations; we’re brother seamen and shipmates, and thoroughly appreciate each other, though some of the incidents I mentioned in my wonderful narratives might shake some people’s confidence in my veracity,” he remarked, again grasping my hand.

“However, that is neither here nor there. You understand me, and that’s enough. If you and Mr Grey like, we will take a post-chaise between us, and post up to town. I am impatient to be at home, and you will have no objection, I dare say, to whisk as fast along the road as four posters can make the wheels go round.”

Grey and I willingly agreed to Mr Johnson’s proposition. Spellman was not asked, and had he been, we concluded that he would not have accepted the invitation, so we said nothing about it to him. We had a jolly paying-off dinner, with the usual speeches, and compliments, and toasts. After the health of the King was drunk and all the Royal family, and other important personages, Mr Bryan got up and said—

“Now, gentlemen, I have to propose the health of a shipmate, of, I may say, a brother officer of mine, Lieutenant Perigal, with three times three.” Saying this, he pulled out of his pocket one of those long official documents, such as are well-known to emanate from my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty.

“Come at last! hurrah!—well, it will make my dear wife happy,” were the first words the delighted Perigal could utter. I honoured him for them. Faithful and honest, he was a true sailor. I afterwards had the pleasure of meeting his young wife, and she was worthy of all the eulogiums he had delighted when absent to pass on her. He had picked up a fair share of prize-money, otherwise his half-pay of ninety pounds a year was not much on which to support a wife and to keep up the appearance of a gentleman. I was in hopes that Mr Bryan would himself have been promoted, but he was not. Mr Fitzgerald, however, very shortly afterwards received his commission as a commander. Bobus declared that it was because he had stood on his head before the King and made him laugh, or because he had amused some other great person by one of his wonderful stories. I met him one day, and congratulated him.

“Ah, merit, merit does everything, Mr Merry, next to zeal,” he exclaimed, with a chuckle.

“You always were a zealous officer; and now I think of it, you are the very midshipman who took off his trousers and blew into them, when no other sail or wind was to be had for love or money, and the captain was in a hurry to get your boat back. I’ve often told the story since of you, and set it all down to your zeal.”

“Well, let this be your consolation, if others do not recognise your services, I will when I am one of the Lords of the Admiralty.”

“Well, sir,” said I, “I hope that you will make haste to climb up into that honourable position, or the war will be over, and I shall not have secured my commission.” I did not think that it would be polite to have replied, I thank you for nothing, but certainly I did not expect ever to benefit much by his patronage.

To return to the paying-off dinner. I wish that I could say that all present retired quietly to their respective inns and lodgings as sober as judges; but, with the exception of Grey and me, I believe that not one could have managed to toe a plank, had they been suddenly ordered to make the attempt. I speak of things as they were in those days, not as they are now. Happily at the present day it is considered highly disgraceful for an officer to be drunk; and not only is it disgraceful, but subversive of discipline, whether he is on or off duty, and thus injurious to the interests of the service, and prejudicial to his own health and morals. Taking the matter up only in a personal point of view, how can a man tell how he will behave when he has allowed liquor to steal away his wits? what mischief he may do himself, what injury he may inflict on others? In the course of my career I have seen hundreds of young men ruined in health and prospects, and many, very many, brought to a premature grave by this pernicious habit of drinking.

“But what is the harm of getting drunk once in a way?” I have heard many a shipmate ask.

I say, a vast deal of harm. How can you tell what you will do, while you are thus once-in-a-way drunk? I, an old sailor, and not an over strait-laced one either, do warn most solemnly you young midshipmen, and others, who may read my memoirs, that numbers have had to rue most bitterly, all their after lives, that once-in-a-way getting drunk, or, I may say, taking more than a moderate allowance of liquor. Many fine promising young fellows, who have at first shown no signs of caring for liquor, have ultimately become addicted to drinking, from that most dangerous habit of taking a nip whenever they have an opportunity.

“But why call that a dangerous habit?” shipmates have asked me. “A nip is only just a taste of spirits, raw it may be, or perhaps even watered. It’s a capital thing for the stomach, and keeps out cold, and saves many a fellow from illness.”

So it may, say I. But it is the nip extra I dread, with good reason; the nip when no such necessity exists, or rather excuse, for a man may pass years without positively requiring spirits to preserve his health. However, not to weary my readers with the subject, I will conclude it, by urging them to be most watchful, lest they take the first step in this or any other vice. How many fall, because they think that vice is manly. Which is the most manly person, he who yields to his foes, or he who, with his back to a tree, boldly keeps them at bay? No greater foes to a man’s happiness and prosperity than his vices—or sin. No man can expect to escape being attacked by sin, and those who are its slaves already cry out, “Yield to it; yield to it. It’s a pleasant master. Just try its yoke; you can get free, you know, whenever you like.”

Never was a greater falsehood uttered, or one more evidently invented by the father of lies. The yoke of sin is most galling; it is the hardest of task-masters. The people who talk thus do their utmost to hide their chains, to conceal their sufferings, which giving way to sin has brought upon them. Do not trust to them, whatever their rank or character in the world. I would urge you from the highest of motives, from love for the Saviour who died for you, not to give way to sin; and I would point out to you how utterly low, and degrading, and unmanly it is to yield to such a foe—a foe so base and cowardly, that if you make any real effort to withstand him, he will fly before you. Don’t be ashamed to pray for help through Him, and you are not on equal terms unless you do. That’s not unmanly. Sin has got countless allies ever ready to come to its support. By prayer you will obtain one—but that One is all powerful, all sufficient. It is my firm belief that He, and He alone, is the only ally in whom you can place implicit reliance. Others may fall away at the times of greatest need. He, and He alone, will never desert you; will remain firm and constant till the battle of life is over.

Now some of my readers, perhaps, will exclaim, “Hillo, Mr Midshipman Marmaduke Merry, have you taken to preaching? You, who have been describing that extraordinary old fellow Jonathan Johnson, with his veracious narratives, and wonderful deeds. You’ve made a mistake. You’ve taken it into your head to write some sermons for sailors, and you’ve got hold by mistake of the manuscript of your own adventures.”

Pardon me, I have made no mistake, I reply. When I was Midshipman Marmaduke Merry, I did not preach; I did not often give good advice as I do now. I wish that I had, and I wish that I had taken it oftener than I did. What I do now is to afford the result of my experience at the close of a long life; and it is that experience by which I wish you to benefit. I quote the Scriptures, and I believe in the Scriptures for many reasons. One of them is—that I have ever seen Scripture promises fulfilled, and Scripture threats executed. Now let me ask you what would you say to a man whose father, or some other relative, had been storing up gold or other articles of value, and which, when offered to him, he should refuse to accept, on the plea that they cost much trouble, and occupied so many years to collect, that they must be useless? You would say that such a man is an idiot. Yet is not experience, or rather the good advice which results from experience, treated over and over again by worldly idiots exactly in that way? Do not you, dear readers, join that throng of idiots. Take an old man’s advice, and ponder over the matters of which I have just now been speaking. This exhortation has arisen out of our paying-off dinner. I might have given you a very amusing account of that same feast—though it was not “a feast of reason,” albeit it might have been a “flow of soul;” but I am not in the vein, the fact being, that paying-off dinners are melancholy affairs to look back at. How few of those assembled round the festive board, who have been our companions for the previous three, or four, or perhaps five years, through storm and battles and hardships, ever meet again!

Some have grown in honour, some have sunk in dishonour; some have struggled on with services unrequited, and have become soured and discontented; others again, in spite of their humble worldly position, have retained good spirits and kindly feelings, and though now old lieutenants with grey hairs, appear to be the same warm happy-hearted beings they were when midshipmen. Should any of the readers not meet with the success they desire, I hope that they will belong to the last class; but I am very certain that they will not, unless, as midshipmen, they avoid evil courses, and fall not into the paths of sin.

The morning after that paying-off dinner, Grey and I were up early, and had breakfasted, when a yellow chaise drew up at the door of the Blue Posts, and in the interior appeared seated a very dignified-looking gentleman in plain clothes, whom we had no difficulty in distinguishing as Mr Jonathan Johnson. Toby Bluff, who was on the box, got down and opened the door, when Mr Johnson, getting out, inquired with a paternal air, whether we were ready to start.

Our portmanteaus, flattened and wrinkled, containing the remainder of those articles which on starting could with difficulty be stowed in our bulky chests, being strapped on, we jumped in, followed by Mr Johnson, and Toby remounting the box, up High Street we rattled at a tremendous pace, exactly suited to our feelings.

“This is pleasant, isn’t it, young gentlemen?” exclaimed Mr Johnson, rubbing his hands. “I never like to let the grass grow under my feet either ashore or afloat. Sometimes, to be sure, one has to sit still, and wait to do nothing, the most trying thing in the world to do. However, when you do keep moving, take care to move forward. Some people move backward, remember. I have from time to time given you bits of good advice, and I dare say that you have been surprised to hear them from an old fellow who could spin such an outrageous yarn as my veracious narrative, but I hope that its very extravagance will have prevented you from supposing for a moment that I am capable of falsehood myself, or would encourage it in others; still I must own that I have been guilty of a piece of deceit, though I did not at the first intend to deceive. I will tell you the circumstances of the case, and then condemn me as I deserve. I told you that my wife was a lady of rank and education. My father was really very well connected, and when I was a young man staying with him, I met the daughter of a country gentleman of property, with whom I fell in love, and she had no objection to me. Her parents, however, would not hear of the match, and I was sent off to sea. Though only a warrant officer, I always liked good society when I could enter it, and on one occasion some few years back, having gone for that purpose to Bath, I was introduced to a lady who was, I was informed, the Baroness Strogonoff. Before long I discovered that she was the widow of a Russian baron, and that she was no other than my old flame. I found that she had always felt an interest for me, and in fact that she would have married me had she been allowed. I naturally asked her if she would now, and she said Yes. I told her that I was now in the navy, and an officer, and though this was true, I felt that I committed a great fault in not telling her that I was only a warrant officer. I was flush of prize-money at the time, and could make a very good appearance, which, as you may suppose, I did not fail to do. The result was that all her old affection for me returned, and that, to cut the matter short, we married.

“Here was I, a poor boatswain, the husband of a rich baroness, she of course, you’ll understand, not knowing that I was a poor boatswain, or rather, what a boatswain is. Now, if there’s one thing more than another sticks in my throat, it is the thought of a man being dependent on a woman, let her be who she may, for his support, if he can support himself. Now I had the greatest affection and respect for my wife, but this feeling always came between me and my happiness. While living with her I only spent my own prize-money on myself; and though I would gladly have remained with her, as soon as I was appointed to a ship I resolved to go to sea. I was not worse off than any post-captain or other officer in the service in this respect. I told her that duty called me to sea, and, though evidently with great unwillingness, she would not stop me in the path of duty. Ah, young gentlemen, my Baroness is a true woman, and I only wish for her sake that I was a post-captain, and in the fair way of becoming an admiral. She deserves it, anyhow. I have, I believe, a distant cousin a baronet, and as I believe that it gives me some importance in the eyes of her friends, I talk about him occasionally in their presence. Not that I care a fig for rank myself, except as far as it may gratify her. So packing up my traps I joined my ship, not allowing any one on board to know even that I was married. I felt very sad, but I kept my affairs to myself, and tried to do my duty to the best of my power. I went to India, and you may be sure I collected all the most beautiful presents I could think of for my dear wife. I picked up, too, a good share of prize-money, so that I felt I might return home with a clear conscience, and the prospect of being well received. I was not mistaken, for my wife was overjoyed at my return, and would, I believe, have been so had I come back without a single jewel or shawl for her, and without a guinea in my pocket. This time I was able to leave a handsome sum of money with her, of which I begged her acceptance, for you see I knew that if she died before me, I had always my pension to fall back on, or Greenwich, and that I should have ample for all my wants; and I felt a proud satisfaction in adding to her comfort and enjoyment by every means in my power, for I doubt if any other boatswain in the service can boast of having a baroness for his wife.”

“I should think not, Mr Johnson,” said I. “But then, I do not think that any other boatswain in the service deserves one so much as you.” He pulled up his shirt collar and looked highly pleased at this remark.

“You think so, Mr Merry? You are a young gentleman of discernment in most matters, and I hope are so in this respect,” he answered. “However, when you see the Baroness, I think that you will confess that a man must be worth something to be worthy of her.”

Thus we talked on, and I fancy that our tongues were not silent for a minute together during the whole journey.

The last stage we had four horses.

“I like to go home in style,” observed Mr Johnson. “Not on my own account, you’ll understand, but because it pleases the Baroness, and makes her neighbours suppose that her husband is a person of consequence.”

We darted along at a fine rate, and at length drew up at the door of a very pretty villa in the neighbourhood of London, without having had to drive through the city itself. We sat still, while Mr Johnson sprang out, and we saw him through the windows cordially welcomed by a really very handsome-looking lady of somewhat large proportions, whom we had no doubt was the Baroness herself. In this conjecture we were right, and Mr Johnson soon returning, introduced us in due form to her. She received us most graciously and kindly, indeed in the most good-natured manner, and told us that we were welcome to stay at her house as long as we pleased. She seemed a warm-hearted unsophisticated person, and I should have said not over-refined or highly educated. Had she been so, I confess that I do not think she would have married my worthy friend Jonathan Johnson. A room was quickly prepared for us, and we found ourselves in five minutes perfectly at home. We were shortly discussing a capital dinner, and as I looked at our well-dressed host at the foot of the table, I could scarcely believe that he was the same person who, a few days before, was carrying on duty with chain and whistle round his neck as boatswain of the Doris. During dinner the Baroness announced that she had fixed on the following evening, before she knew of her husband’s intended return, to give a rout, and she pressed us so warmly to stay for it, that we, nothing loath, consented to do so. We were able to do this, as we had not mentioned any day positively for our appearance at our own homes. We spent the next morning in visiting with Mr Johnson the sights of London, but we returned early, as he was unwilling to be long absent from his wife. After dinner a host of servants came in, and in a rapid space of time prepared the house for the reception of the expected guests. It was well lighted up, and I was quite dazzled with its appearance. Still more so was I, when the Baroness came down glittering with jewels, and the guests began to assemble, and, as far as I could judge, there appeared to be a number of people of some rank and consequence among them. There was a conservatory and a tent full of flowers at the end of a broad passage, all gaily lighted up, and several rooms thrown open for dancing, and a band soon struck up, and the Baroness introduced Grey and me to some capital partners, and we were soon toeing and heeling-it away to our hearts’ content. We had plenty to say to the young ladies about our battles and other adventures, and of course we took care not to speak of Mr Johnson, though more than one, I thought, pointedly asked what his rank was in the navy. I replied, carelessly, that he was a very brave officer, who had greatly distinguished himself, and that he had more than once saved my life, so that there was no man in existence for whom I had a greater regard. I believe that my remarks, without departing in the slightest degree from the truth, were calculated to raise the gallant boatswain in the estimation of his wife’s friends. Scarcely had I sat down, than I was again on my legs, prancing with my partners up and down the room. I was standing quiet for a moment, having reached the foot of the dance, and placed my partner in a seat, when I felt a tap on my shoulder, and looking round, whom should I see but Captain Collyer.

“What, you here, Merry!” he exclaimed. “How had you the good fortune to be introduced to the Baroness?”

“Mr Johnson brought us here, sir,” said I, very naturally, without a moment’s reflection.

“Mr Johnson!” muttered the captain, in a tone of surprise. “Who is he?”

I was about to reply, when, on looking up, there I saw him across the room, standing looking at us with a comical expression of vexation on his countenance. His eye catching that of the captain, he immediately advanced, and said quietly—

“I was not aware, Captain Collyer, that you were coming here, or I should have let you know beforehand my position in this house. I know, as you are aware, the difference between a post-captain and a boatswain, and I should not have presumed to invite you, though as master here, I am honoured by receiving you; but you see, sir, that you may do me much harm in my social position, or render me considerable service, in the way you treat me. I am in your hands.”

“I wish to treat you as one of the bravest and most dashing officers in His Majesty’s service deserves to be treated,” answered the captain, warmly. “How you became the husband of a lady of title, I will not stop to enquire, but I cannot help thinking that you will be wise to give up the sea, and to remain by her side. The service will lose one of the best boatswains who ever served His Majesty, but the Baroness will gain a good husband; and I shall be happy to associate with one I esteem as a friend and equal, which the etiquette of the service would prevent me under present circumstances from doing.”

“I thank you most cordially, Captain Collyer—from my heart, I do,” exclaimed Mr Johnson. “But you see, sir, I love the service dearly, and should be loath to quit it; and I love my independence, and should be unwilling to lose that. I mean that I should be sorry to become dependent even on my wife for support, while I am able to work for it myself. I have explained my feeling and motives, and I hope that you will consider them right.”

“Indeed I do, and honour you for them,” answered the captain. “But still, Mr Johnson, I think that you should take the lady’s opinion on the subject. I suspect that when she knows the true state of the case, she would far rather you remained at home than have to go knocking about the salt ocean, without the prospect of bettering yourself.”

“That’s the only fault I have to find with the service,” said Mr Johnson. “Perhaps I have been dreaming, when living on in hopes that some change might be made whereby I might benefit myself, that is, rise in the service, which has ever been my ambition. Why should not a warrant be a stepping-stone to a commission through extraordinary good conduct in the navy, just as a sergeant may hope to rise in the army? I don’t mean, sir, that I wish to see the present class of boatswains obtain commissions, but with that reward in view, a better class of men would enter the service, and it would improve the character of the warrant officers.”

“So it might, but a large proportion would fail in obtaining their ends, and then we should have a number of discontented warrant officers, instead of being, as at present, the best satisfied men in the service.”

“There’s force in that objection, Captain Collyer; the matter requires consideration,” answered our host. “You must not rank me, however, among the discontented ones. I have long made up my mind to take things as they are, though I hope that I should not have been found wanting, had I attained a far higher rank than I now hold.”

While we were talking, I had observed a dapper little well-dressed man come into the room, and look eagerly around. He soon discovered the Baroness, and having talked to her for some time in an animated style, he advanced with her towards us. He then ran forward, and taking Mr Johnson’s huge paw in his hand, he wrung it warmly, exclaiming—

“I congratulate you, Sir Jonathan Johnson, and your amiable and charming lady—indeed I do, from the bottom of my heart—on your accession to title and property. As you never saw, or indeed, I fancy, never heard of, your relative the late baronet, your grief need not be very poignant on that account, so we’ll say nothing about it just now. I have been working away like a mouse in a cheese ever since I got an inkling that you were the rightful heir, and have only just discovered the last link in the chain of evidence; and then, having rigged myself out, as you nautical gentlemen would say, in a presentable evening suit, I hurried off here; and so there’s no doubt about it, and I should like to give way to an honest hearty cheer to prove my satisfaction.”

Our friend’s countenance was worthy of the pencil of a painter, while the little lawyer was thus running on. His astonishment for a time overpowered his satisfaction.

“I Sir Jonathan Johnson!” he at length slowly exclaimed. “I a baronet—I the possessor of a title and fortune—I no longer a rattan-using, call-blowing, grog-drinking, pipe-smoking, yarn-spinning boatswain, but a right real English baronet—my dear Baroness! I am proud, I am happy, I am,” and he threw his arms round his wife’s neck, in spite of all the company present, and bestowing on her a hearty kiss, gave way to a jovial cheer, in which Grey and I and the lawyer, and even Captain Collyer, could not help joining.

The new Sir Jonathan, however, very soon recovering himself, became aware of the absurdity of his conduct, and the guests, collected by the cheer, coming round to congratulate him, he apologised in a fitting way for his unwonted ebullition of feeling. In a wonderfully short time he was himself again, and no man could have borne his honours with a better grace.

When the captain and Grey and I again congratulated him, he replied, “I am much obliged to all my kind friends here, but I know that your good wishes are sincere.”

Numberless speeches on the subject were made at supper, and when Captain Collyer shook his late boatswain by the hand at parting, he assured Sir Jonathan that nothing had given him greater pleasure than so doing.

“All I’ll ask, Captain Collyer, is, that when you get a ship, you’ll give me a cruise some day. I don’t think that I could go to sleep happily if I was to fancy that I should never have the salt spray again dashing into my face, or feel the deck lifting under my feet.”

The promise asked was readily given, and Sir Jonathan Johnson was afterwards engaged in one of the most gallant actions during the war, when, as a volunteer, he led the boarders in his old style, and was mainly instrumental in capturing the enemy.

After peace was established he bought a yacht, and many a pleasant cruise I took with him during those piping times, our old shipmate Perigal, to whom he had thus an opportunity of offering a handsome salary, acting as his captain.

Toby Bluff, by his steady behaviour and sturdy bravery, became a boatswain, and has now charge of a line-of-battle ship in ordinary at Portsmouth.

The captain’s old servant at last came on shore, and took to gardening, but as he usually pulled up the flowers instead of the weeds, he was directed to confine himself to sweeping the walks, which he did effectually, with delightful slowness and precision. He was one day in summer found sprinkling the housemaid’s tea leaves over them, as he remarked, to lick up the dust.

I have said nothing about my own family. It is a sad subject. Poor Bertha! The gallant Ceaton never came home. His health gave way, but he did not die of disease. He fell on the deck of his own ship in action, at the moment the enemy’s flag was seen to come down, the cheers of his victorious crew ringing in his ears.

Now, dear readers, old and young, farewell. I must bring these recollections of my early career as a Midshipman to a conclusion. I wish that I had reason to believe they were as edifying as I hope they may have proved amusing. All I ask is, that you will deal lightly with the faults of the work. Take whatever good advice you may have found scattered through the previous pages, and do not, by imitating the bad example of any of my old shipmates, give me cause to regret that I undertook to write this veracious history, as Mr Jonathan Johnson would say, of the early days of...

Marmaduke Merry, the Midshipman.

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"Mary Liddiard"

Chapter One.

A Missionary Station in an island of the Pacific described.—The girls’ school superintended by Mrs Liddiard, her daughter Mary, and Little Maud.—Mary Liddiard’s narrative.—Introduce to my readers Lisele, the chief’s daughter, one of our pupils.—My mother explains the Gospel to her.

“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,

Praise Him all creatures here below,

Praise Him above ye heavenly host,

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

These words were ascending from the lips of a number of dark skinned girls assembled round a fair haired English lady in a building thickly thatched with the leaves of the sugar cane, beneath the shade of a grove of tall cocoanut trees, in one of the many far off beautiful islands of the wide Pacific. The building, erected by the natives after their own fashion, was the school-house of a missionary station lately established by Mr Liddiard, and the lady was his devoted wife. It stood upon a platform of coral-stone, raised about two feet from the ground, while the roof projected a considerable distance beyond the walls, and was supported by stout posts formed of the bread-fruit tree, tightly bound to the rafters by ropes of sinnet.

After the conclusion of the hymn of praise—a sound unwonted in that long benighted region, whose groves had hitherto echoed only with the shouts and wild laughter of the savage heathens, as they performed their barbarous rites, and the shrieks and groans of their victims—the pupils grouped themselves round Mrs Liddiard on the mats with which the floor was spread.

They were of various ages; some were children, others full grown young women. All kept their eyes fixed on her attentively, as if anxious to understand every word she said. Some were clothed in light cotton dresses, their black hair neatly braided and ornamented with a few sweet scented wild flowers, while others were habited in garments of native cloth, formed from the paper mulberry tree.

By the side of Mrs Liddiard sat, on low stools, two young girls, whose light complexions contrasted with that of their dark skinned sisters. Though she spoke in the native language, the two English girls understood her perfectly, and appeared to be as attentive as their companions, and anxious to set a good example to the rest. One of them, with black hair, called little Maud, who seemed to be about eleven years old, had a grave expression of countenance; the other, Mrs Liddiard’s daughter Mary, was very like her mother, with light hair and blue eyes, full of animation and intelligence.

On one side of the house the ground sloped away down to a beach seen between the Pandanus and cocoanut trees, of fine white sand fringing a calm lagoon of the deepest blue, beyond which appeared a long line of foaming breakers, ever dashing against a coral reef, which extended parallel with the coast as far as the eye could reach. On the other side rose the steep sides of a range of rocky and picturesque mountains, clothed to their summits with the richest and densest foliage, numberless creepers climbing up the trees, and hanging from branch to branch, while here and there, amid openings of the forest, several sparkling cascades came rushing down from the far off heights, now falling in sheets of glittering foam, now dashing from ledge to ledge, and at length making their way into the lagoon.

Near the girls’ school-house was a building of considerably larger dimensions, and of much greater height, with numerous windows and a porch. It was the mission chapel erected by the native Christians. At a short distance from it was Mr Liddiard’s residence, a neat cottage with a broad verandah in front, partaking more of the European style than any of the other edifices.

Under the shade of the trees were numerous huts, inhabited by the converts, who had left their former homes and gathered round their pastor. Among them was a hut somewhat larger than the rest, which had been built by the zealous native teacher Nanari, who had come from a distant island to bring the glad tidings of salvation to the people; and undaunted by the opposition of the heathens, had long laboured alone, until the arrival of Mr Liddiard, under whom he now acted as catechist and assistant.

Notwithstanding the unceasing exertions and prayers of Nanari, aided by his faithful wife, and of Mr and Mrs Liddiard, comparatively few of the natives had as yet been gathered into Christ’s fold. The greater part of the island was inhabited by fierce heathens, who still carried on frequent wars against each other; and angry with their countrymen for having abandoned the faith of their forefathers, constantly threatened them and the missionaries with destruction.

In spite of the dangers which surrounded him, Mr Liddiard continued dauntlessly to labour to win souls to Christ, knowing well in whom he trusted; and that although it might not be allowed to him while on earth to see the fruit of his toils, yet that a rich harvest would some day be reaped.

The missionary’s life was not an idle one. When not engaged in preaching the gospel or in giving instruction to his converts, he was compelled to work with his hands to obtain his daily food, and he and Nanari, with the young men who had become Christians, were engaged in the taro grounds or in their gardens, attending to the cultivation of the bread-fruit tree, yams, casavas, sweet potatoes, and other vegetables. He had also built his own house, and manufactured his furniture, and had every day some manual work to perform besides being engaged in studying the language and translating the Bible and other works, for the instruction of the natives. Thus, from morning till night, he and his wife were actively employed. Although Mary and little Maud could now give them some assistance in household matters, the young girls themselves required instruction, which also occupied a portion of their time. Maud was not their own child, though they had educated her, for she was friendless and destitute, and they loved her as a daughter.

To return to the school-house I have described. I should say that I was the Mary I have mentioned, the missionary’s daughter. I will tell more about little Maud by-and-by. We used to act as assistant teachers to my mother. As soon as the address she had given was over we went among the girls to answer any questions they might put to us, or to help in their tasks.

“Malay,” said a girl at the further end of the room, near whom I had seated myself (‘Malay’ was the name the natives always called me). “I wish to know if your God always sees you.”

“Yes, indeed, He does,” I answered. “He sees and knows everything I think and say and do.”

“Then I would rather not lotu,” she said. “Because I don’t think that the gods of my people know what they do, or what they think or say, and I am very sure that I shall wish to do many things which might displease them. Not long ago I laughed and jeered at them, and I am sure that they did not find me out.”

The term “lotu,” I should explain, is used by the natives to signify changing their religion, or becoming Christians.

“But our God, Jehovah, is above all gods. He made the world and all the human race, and He therefore knows everything that you and all heathen people do and say and think. The darkness is no darkness with Him, and the day and night to Him are both alike,” I answered. “But come to mother, Lisele, and she will explain the matter to you more clearly than I can do.”

Lisele was the daughter of a heathen chief, who was very well disposed towards the Christians; and although he would not lotu himself, he allowed Lisele, who was very intelligent, and possessed an inquiring mind, to attend the school. She was about two years older than I was, and I think any one who had seen her dressed in her costume of native cloth of the finest texture, with a wreath of white flowers in her raven hair, would have thought her very pretty. She was as yet imperfectly instructed in Christian truth, and possessed of high spirits and an independent will—a mere child of nature. It was evidently necessary to treat her with the greatest caution to prevent her running away from us and rejoining her former heathen associates.

Lisele, taking my hand, came and sat down at my mother’s feet, and I then put the question that she had asked me. “Yes, indeed, Lisele,” said my mother. “Jehovah not only sees all you do, and hears all you say, but knows every thought which is passing through your mind, and if you think anything that is wrong, and utter even a careless word, He is grieved at it. He is so pure and holy that even the bright heavens are not clean in His sight; and were He to treat us as we deserve, when we indulged for a moment in an evil thought, or departed in the slightest degree from the truth, He might justly punish us; but He is merciful, kind, and long-suffering, and thus He allows sinners to continue in life, to give them an opportunity of repenting and turning to Him.”

“Then there would be no use for my father and all the chiefs and people whom I know to lotu, for they have done over and over again all sorts of things which you have told me Jehovah hates,” remarked Lisele.

“My dear Lisele,” said my mother, taking her hand, “Jehovah has said in His holy Book, that He will receive all who turn from their sins and come to Him in the way He has appointed, through faith in His dear Son; and He also tells us that the blood of Jesus His Son ‘cleanseth from all sin.’ Likewise 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.’ Believe this blessed promise yourself, Lisele, and tell your father that though Jehovah knows all the murders he has committed, and every crime he has been guilty of, if he will but turn from them and trust to the perfect sacrifice which Christ offered up on Calvary when He was punished, by dying that cruel death on the cross instead of us, then all will be forgiven and blotted out of God’s remembrance. ‘The blood of Jesus Christ,’ I repeat, ‘cleanseth from all sin.’”

The Indian girl stood with her eyes open, gazing at my mother, and lost with astonishment at what she had heard.

“But surely we must do something to gain this great favour from God. We must labour and toil for Him. We must pay Him all we have in recompense for the bad things we have done, that have offended Him so much,” she exclaimed.

“No! we poor weak creatures have nothing to do. We could do nothing to make amends for the ill we have done, to blot out our sins; and all the wealth we possess could not recompense God, for all things are His. But the debt has been paid for us by Jesus, he became our surety, and when we go to Him, and trust to Him, and pray to Him, as He is now seated at the right hand of God, He acts the part of our advocate, and pleads for us with God, urging that He Himself paid the debt, and, therefore, that we have nothing to pay and nothing to do. God in His mercy has promised a free and full pardon to all who trust to Him. ‘Pardon for sin is the gift of God,’ and the King who makes the present requires nothing in return but gratitude and love and obedience.”

“I think I understand,” said Lisele. “If my father was to conquer another tribe who had offended him, and, instead of putting them to death, was to pardon them all, and to give them a country rich in bread-fruit trees and taro grounds, they would be bound to love and serve Him, and give Him the best produce of their lands.”

“Exactly,” said my mother. “But Jehovah does not require the fruits of the earth, for ‘all things are His.’ What He wants is the willing obedience of His creatures. He wishes them to obey His laws, to be kind, and merciful, and courteous, and pitiful, to all their fellows, not returning evil for evil, but good for evil, and endeavouring to make known His name and His power and goodness to all those who do not know it. That we may know His will, when Jesus Christ came into the world to die for man, He set us the example we are to follow. Then as our hearts are prone to evil, and Satan is ever going about seeking to mislead us, He has sent His Holy Spirit to instruct our minds, to support us and help us to withstand the deceits of Satan.”

“Then I think it must be Satan who makes my people fight with each other, and do all sorts of things that you tell me God’s Book says are so wrong,” exclaimed Lisele. “I must try and persuade my father to worship Jehovah, and then, perhaps, the Holy Spirit you tell me of will prevent him from spending his life in fighting and killing people. It has always seemed to me a very bad thing to do, and that it would be much better if people would live together in peace, and dance and sing and amuse themselves without the constant fear of being attacked by their enemies and killed.”

“Undoubtedly, my dear girl, if anyone turns to Jehovah, trusting to Jesus Christ, and seeks the aid of the Holy Spirit whom He has promised to send, he will be enabled to do His will. God cannot lie. Everything He has promised He will fulfil,” answered my mother. “I pray that you will be enabled to explain this matter to the chief, your father.”

“Yes! yes! that I will,” cried Lisele. “Till this moment I did not understand it. I thought that it must be a very difficult thing to serve Jehovah, and that those who had done anything to offend Him were to toil and work to the end of their days, and even then have very little chance of being received into favour.”

“Satan tries to persuade man that such is the case, that he may turn his eyes away from the all-sufficient atonement made by Christ on Calvary, and prevent him from trusting to that, and that alone,” said my mother. “Satan hates the atonement, because it is that which destroys his power, and he cares nothing when people try to be good, and try to please God, trusting to themselves, provided they have no faith in the atoning sacrifice of Christ, in the all-cleansing power of His blood,” observed my mother. “If you will reflect, my dear girl, on the fact that God made us and gives us all the blessings we enjoy, and that consequently we owe Him everything, you will see that nothing we do can make amends to Him for the sins we have committed, because if we were to devote every moment of our lives to His service we should only be doing our duty. Then again, a sin which has been committed cannot be undone; so it is written against us in the great book prepared for the day of judgment. God is so pure and holy that even the heavens are not clean in His sight, and He is so just that He cannot forgive sin; we only mock Him when we ask Him to forgive us our sins, if we plead our own merits, because, as I have shown you, we cannot possibly have any merits to plead—all our merits are but as filthy rags, they cannot cover up our vileness and sinfulness. But then Jehovah is all merciful as well as just, and He has, therefore, formed that blessed plan of salvation, the gospel plan, just suited to our wants, by which we can take advantage of the all perfect merits of Jesus Christ, and make them our own—our vileness being covered up by His righteousness, our nakedness clothed with His pure and spotless robes, so that Jehovah does not see our sins; they are put away as far as the east is from the west; they are blotted out of the great book of remembrance. This is done immediately the sinner trusts in the Saviour. It is not to be done. All the work was done on Calvary, when Jesus cried, ‘It is finished!’ All that God requires is that the sinner should take advantage of that work finished by Jesus, by trusting to Him alone, thus becoming completely qualified for heaven. May God, the Holy Spirit, enable you to understand this truth.”

The Indian girl sat down, and for some time appeared lost in thought; then starting up with the impetuous manner which her ardent disposition made her assume, she asked, in her native tongue, “Then if I believe that Jesus Christ, the sinless Son of Jehovah, left the glories of heaven, and became man, and suffered a fearful death on the cross, His precious blood being then shed, and that He suffered this punishment instead of me, and that God’s justice is thereby satisfied, am I no longer to fear punishment? Does God no more look at my sins? Am I received into His favour? Oh then how grateful ought I to be to God, how much ought I to love Jehovah’s kind Son, how ought I to try to serve and obey and please Him!”

“Yes, indeed, Lisele, if you thus trust in Christ, if you believe that His blood was shed for you, that you are sprinkled with it, you may be assured that God has taken you into favour, that He has blotted out all your sins, and that when you leave this world you will be received into that glorious heaven which He has prepared for all those who love Him.”

“Oh, I am sure what you tell me is true,” exclaimed the Indian girl, clasping her hands, while a look of joy irradiated her countenance. “I long to know more of that kind and merciful Jesus, and love Him and serve Him. I must go and tell my father all you have said, and get him to come and hear himself about Jehovah. Your religion is just what we want in this country, for nothing else will prevent the people from fighting and murdering each other, which cannot be pleasing to a good God, though our priests tell us that our gods delight in war and in the human sacrifices offered to them, and encourage our warriors to kill and burn their prisoners.”

“Our religion is not only suited to the inhabitants of these islands, but to people of all countries, and at all times,” said my mother. “It is the only true religion, because it is the only one which God has given to man, and He has sent us the Bible that we may learn what His will is, and He pours out the Holy Spirit that we may understand and be enabled to perform it. And the time will come when ‘all kings shall fall down before Him; all nations shall serve Him,’” (Psalm 72 verse 11.)

All the other girls had returned to their homes. Lisele remained, eager to gain more information about the wonderful things she had heard. What a happy thing it would be if boys and girls in Britain were as anxious to obtain spiritual knowledge as was the young savage girl in that Pacific island!

Chapter Two.

Our station threatened by heathen natives.—Lisele, accepting the truth, desires the conversion of her father, and obtains permission from her aunt and Abela to visit him.—I describe our voyage, when Little Maud was found.—Condition of the station at the time when my narrative commences.

Our little Christian settlement was truly an oasis in the wilderness. We were closely beset by heathens, and frequently we could see them assembling on the hill side, performing their savage dances, or threatening our destruction with fierce gestures—shaking their clubs and spears, and shrieking and hooting wildly.

Most of the converts settled round us belonged to the tribe of Masaugu, Lisele’s father; for although he himself still remained a heathen, he did not oppose those of his people who wished to lotu, or become Christians.

Among them was Lisele’s aunt, the sister of her mother, with whom she resided, and through her influence Lisele had first been induced to attend the school.

On the day I have spoken of, when it was time for Lisele to return to her aunt’s house, she invited me to accompany her, which my mother gave me permission to do. She wanted me to assist her in persuading her aunt to allow her to return to her father.

“I have been so long accustomed to speak falsehoods, that if I tell her that I wish to go she will not believe my object,” said Lisele. “Besides, she will not think it possible that so fierce a warrior as my father will consent to lotu; but I heard your mother say the other day, that with Jehovah nothing is impossible, and therefore I believe that if I pray that my father’s heart may be changed, he will, notwithstanding his fierceness, become a Christian.”

“I am very sure that Jehovah will hear your prayers,” I remarked, “if you offer them up according to His own appointed way, through Jesus Christ; but still He will take His own good time to bring about what you desire. My father often says we must not expect to have our prayers answered exactly in the way we wish. God knows what is best, and oftentimes He does not accomplish that which we desire; and though we cannot comprehend His reasons, still it is our duty to pray on in faith, without ceasing. Jehovah, too, often allows those He loves to suffer; and though they may complain that the sufferings are very hard to bear, He will assuredly lift them up and support them, for He has said, ‘My strength is made perfect in weakness,’” (2 Corinthians 12 verse 9). This conversation lasted till we reached the house of Abela, Lisele’s aunt.

Abela was a woman of about forty, her face, though not handsome, and with a serious expression, was mild and pleasing. She was dressed in an ample petticoat, made from the fibres of the hibiscus, while over her shoulders she wore a tippet somewhat resembling a small poncho, which completely shrouded the upper part of her form. Having finished the labours of the day (for although of high rank, she was compelled, like others, to work for her support), she was seated on a mat, with a book open on her knees, from which she was endeavouring to read. Not having long been a convert, she had as yet made but little progress in her studies. She affectionately welcomed her niece and me as we took our seats near her. Lisele then eagerly poured forth what she had been hearing, so rapidly, that I could scarcely follow her.

“It is all true,” said Abela, when her niece at length ceased speaking. “I praise Jehovah that you know it.”

When, however, Lisele told her of her wish to go back to her father, Abela hesitated. “He will not understand you, my child,” she exclaimed, “and perhaps will not allow you to return to people whom he may think so foolish.”

“Oh, but I’ll pray for him,” answered Lisele. “I’ll ask Jehovah to help me, and I know He will hear me, so I shall not have to trust to my own strength.”

Abela remained silent for some time, and I saw that she was engaged in prayer.

“You shall go, my child,” she said at length. “Jehovah will take care of you, and may He prosper your undertaking.”

Delighted at having obtained this permission, Lisele returned to spend the evening with us, for my father wished to have an opportunity of speaking to her. He warned her of the opposition she must expect to meet with from her people, and of the dangers she would have to encounter, especially as he knew that she had been sought in marriage by a young heathen chief, who might wish to detain her.

“But now I know the truth. I will never consent to marry one who is a heathen,” she answered. “And I do not intend to remain. I will only try to persuade my father to visit you, and then I will return.”

Lisele set off the next day, accompanied by two Christian people of her tribe, who promised to protect her from the heathens, and aid her return should it be opposed, even although they might risk their lives in so doing. We were very sorry to lose her, as we feared that efforts would be made to prevent her returning among us.

Maud could not restrain her tears. “I know too well how cruelly these heathens can act,” she said. “They will not hesitate to carry her off to some distant island, whence she cannot possibly escape; or, if she offends them by what she says, they may even kill her.” Dear Maud had indeed had bitter experience of the barbarities often committed by the savage islanders.

My father had for some years been a missionary in another part of the Pacific, when it was settled that he should occupy the Station where we now were. I was too young at the time to remember much about what occurred, so I can describe only what I have heard. As there was then no missionary vessel to convey us, we embarked on board a whaler, the Christian captain of which undertook to carry us to our destination. He was, however, unable to make a direct passage, as he had in the prosecution of his business first to visit several other places, still, as no other means of getting where we wished to go were likely to occur, my father was glad to embrace the opportunity thus offered. We had been for some time at sea when a fearful storm arose, which compelled us to run before it under bare poles, and carried us a long way out of our course. The vessel received also considerable damage, losing one of her masts and several spars. At length a beautiful island appeared in sight, covered thickly with trees, and directly ahead was seen a commodious harbour. The captain therefore ran into it and came to an anchor, that the damages which the vessel had received might be repaired. He soon found that it was inhabited by numerous savages, who pushed off in their canoes to visit the strange ship. He, however, had so long been acquainted with the treacherous character of the natives of most of the Pacific islands, that he would allow no one to come on board, and he had also boarding-nettings triced up to guard against any sudden attack they might venture to make. We had on board a Sandwich islander, who managed to make himself understood by the natives. Through his means our good captain let them know that he wished to cut down some trees, and that he was ready to pay for permission to do so. The captain then inquired for their chief, and said that if he would come off and receive part of the payment, the remainder would be given after the spars had been brought on board, and as a proof of his good intentions, he sent the chief a present of an axe and a piece of cloth. This had the desired effect; and in a short time an old warrior came alongside in his canoe, and announced himself as the chief of the district. The Sandwich islander then explained what the captain wished, and certain articles which had been agreed on were given to him, he undertaking, while the trees were being cut down and carried off, to keep his people at a distance to prevent the possibility of any dispute arising.

As soon as the chief and his followers had returned to the shore, two boats’ crews, well armed, put off, and while one party were engaged in felling the trees, the other remained drawn up to guard against any attack which the natives might treacherously venture to make. The spars having been brought on board, the old chief returned for the promised remainder of the payment. He seemed highly pleased with the transaction.

“I see that you are wise and just people,” he observed. “If all whites who come to our shores acted in the same way, we would be their friends; but it has not been always so, and after they have ill-treated and cheated us, we have been tempted to take advantage of their folly and carelessness to revenge ourselves.”

This remark induced the captain, through the interpreter, to make inquiries as to what the chief alluded to. At length he learned that some time before a vessel, with white people on board, had come into the harbour to obtain sandal wood; that after the natives had supplied a large quantity, sufficient to fill her, the captain had refused the promised payment; but, in spite of this, that the crew were allowed to go on shore and wander about in small parties, when some of them had quarrelled with the natives and ill-treated them. In consequence the sailors had been set upon, and killed every man of them. A party of warriors then put off for the ship, and pretending they had come to trade, clambered up her sides before the part of the crew who had remained on board had heard of the massacre, or suspected their intentions. The savages thus taking them at a disadvantage, put every person to death, with the exception of a woman and child, who were saved by the intervention of the old chief. The vessel, it appeared, by some accident, caught fire, and had been utterly destroyed.

The captain, on hearing this, made eager inquiries about the poor woman and the child. The former, however, had, he found soon afterwards, died, leaving the little girl in possession of the chief.

Instead of threatening the old chief with the vengeance of his people, as some might have done, he spoke to him gently, saying that he himself had not come there as a judge, or to take vengeance for injuries which other white men might have received, but that we wished to know whether he would be ready to give up the little girl he had under his care. The old man seemed very much struck by this style of address, and confessed that the child was still living with him, but that he was very fond of her, and that when she grew up he hoped that she might become the wife of one of his sons.

This of course made the captain still more anxious to recover her, and he used every argument he could think of to induce the old man to give her up. He told him that, unaccustomed to the mode of life of his people, she would probably die, as her mother had done, and that if he really loved her, he would be anxious for her safety, and that though he had paid him liberally for the trees, he would give him twice the amount of goods if he would, without delay, bring the little girl on board. This last argument seemed to weigh greatly with the chief, and he said he would think about it, and returned on shore, leaving us in doubt, however, what he would do.

Our anxiety about the poor girl was, as may be supposed, very great. The men, on hearing of the matter, came aft, and each one said that he would be ready to contribute some article to induce the chief to give her up. Some even proposed, that should he refuse, to land and compel him to do so by force of arms. The captain thanked them for their zeal, but told them that that was not the way he conceived Christian men should act.

I well remember that evening, when we were assembled to worship God as usual, in the cabin, how my father lifted up his voice in prayer, that the heart of the chief might be moved to restore the little Christian damsel to those who would bring her “up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord,” and that she might be saved from the fearful fate the old man intended for her. God never fails to listen to the prayers of believers.

The next morning, as we anxiously turned our eyes towards the shore, the chief’s canoe was seen coming off.

“Our prayer has been answered,” exclaimed my father, who was watching it through a spy-glass. “There is a child by his side.”

The sailors sprang into the rigging, and every one on board eagerly watched the approach of the canoe. It was soon alongside, and the little girl we had been looking for was handed up on deck, followed by the old chief. She was dressed in a clean white frock, and her hair was neatly braided, and ornamented with flowers and feathers; but she looked thin and ill, and sadly scared. When my mother approached the gangway she flew towards her, and threw herself into her arms, as if she was sure that she should find in her a loving friend.

“Mamma! mamma!” she exclaimed; but she could utter no other words; and had it not been for those sounds we should have supposed that she had lost the power of speech. My mother could not restrain her tears, as she held the forlorn little creature to her heart.

Such was the way in which we met with little Maud.

Nothing would induce her to leave my mother while the old chief remained on board; and although he and his people might have treated her kindly, they certainly had not won her love.

Having received the promised reward, to which the captain added a few other articles, the chief prepared to take his departure, evidently very well satisfied with the transaction. The captain, however, warned him, that should he venture to attack another vessel he would not escape a severe punishment; but that if he would promise to behave well towards white people in future, they would come and trade with him, and bring him a greater blessing than he could at present comprehend. The captain said this, because he hoped that some day he might be able to convey a missionary to the place, that he might spread the blessings of the gospel among the heathen inhabitants.

After the ship was refitted we put to sea, but she was some time engaged in catching whales, so that our voyage was a very long one. The little girl who had been rescued from the savages was utterly unable to explain anything that had happened to her.

Weeks passed away, and not a word did she utter, and my father and mother began to fear that the hardships she had gone through had deprived her of her senses. For a long time she could not be induced to leave my mother’s side, and seemed to mistrust every one else. If separated from her, even for a few moments, she would run back again, and seizing her gown, glance up with an imploring look, as if begging to be protected from some imaginary danger—she would not even trust herself with me, and seemed to fancy that I might hurt her. Possibly she might have been ill-treated by the native children, and was unable to distinguish the difference. Gentle and careful treatment, however, had its due effect on her, and her fears were gradually allayed.

At length one day she, of her own accord, took my hand, and looking into my face said, “Girl not hurt poor Maud.” These were the first words we had heard her utter. Until then also we were ignorant of her name.

Putting my arms round her neck I kissed her, and answered, “No indeed I will not hurt you, but I will treat you as a dear sister, and love you very very much.”

A faint smile passed over her countenance, as if she comprehended my answer. After that she would remain contentedly with me—still her mind, for some time longer, continued apparently in the same state as at first. My father and mother, however, felt sure that her senses would ultimately be restored. They were not mistaken; but even when she had begun to speak, she made no allusion to the circumstances of the massacre, or her life among the natives, and we forbore to ask her any questions.

When at last we landed here, her alarm at seeing the natives was very great, and my father was afraid that it would cause her mind to relapse into its former state. By doing all we could to re-assure and cheer her, no ill effects occurred. When once we were settled, and she had got accustomed to the scenery, and the appearance of the people, her improvement was more rapid. In course of time her mind and bodily health were perfectly restored. On seeing me at my lessons, she showed a strong wish to join me, and though she had forgotten even her letters, if she had ever known them, she made rapid progress, so that she was soon able to read fluently, when she eagerly perused every book my father would allow her to have from his library. Even then, however, she could give no account of her former life, and we knew no more of little Maud than at first. My father and mother treated her as they would a daughter, while I looked upon her and loved her as a younger sister.

We had now been upwards of three years at the Station. My father had laboured on in faith, as a missionary in all regions must be prepared to do, for as yet only the comparatively small body of Christians as I have mentioned, who had settled round us, had been brought out of heathenism, while the larger number of the population appeared even more hostile to the new faith than at first. Still my father would often say, when he felt himself inclined to despond, “Let us recollect the value of one immortal soul, and all our toils and troubles will appear as nothing.” Such was the state of things at the mission station when my history commences.

Chapter Three.

The islands of the Pacific described.—My mother’s illness.—Nasile, a messenger from Lisele, comes to the settlement, followed shortly by Lislete and Masaugu, who promises to lotu after he has defeated his enemies.—My father warns him in vain of the fearful danger he runs by putting off becoming a Christian.

The vast Pacific—in one of the islands of which the events I am describing occurred—presents a wide and hopeful field for missionary enterprise. It is scattered over with numberless islands—in most cases so clustered together as to form separate groups—some rising in lofty mountains out of the sea, surrounded by coral reefs, beautiful and picturesque in the extreme, while others are elevated but a few feet above the ocean, generally having palm trees growing on them. These latter are known more particularly as coral and lagoon islands. The islands of the character I have last mentioned have been produced by the gradual sinking of the land beneath the ocean, when on its reaching a certain depth, countless millions of coral insects have built their habitations on it, and have continued building till they reached the surface—the new islands consequently keeping the forms of the submerged lands which serve as their foundations. The lagoon islands have been formed by the insects building round the edge of some submerged crater. As the land sank the creatures have continued to build upwards, and thus a ring of coral rock has arisen in the ocean—sometimes complete, at others with a break or opening in it. In other instances the coral insects have built near the shore, and as the land has sunk they have continued to build upwards, but in consequence of requiring the pure salt water, have not advanced towards the land, which, however, still sinking, a wide space of water has appeared between it and the structure raised by them. This is the cause of the numerous encircling reefs which are found around so many of the islands of the Pacific—affording harbours within them, and sheltering the shore from the fury of the waves.

Many of the islands are also of volcanic origin; some contain active volcanoes, and while the land in some instances has sunk, in others it has risen, and is broken into the most curious and fantastic shapes, bringing up also with it the coral rocks which were formed on it while it lay beneath the sea.

Most of these islands are clothed with a varied and rich vegetation. The climate of those at a distance from the equator is generally healthy, but that of others near the line, especially to the westward, is unhealthy in the extreme, so that even the natives of other islands of the same ocean cannot live on them throughout the year.

The eastern groups are inhabited by a brown skinned and generally handsome race, often not darker than Spaniards, and supposed to be descended from a common stock, as in general appearance and language there is a great resemblance.

The groups of the large islands to the westward on either side of the equator are peopled by a black and savage race, in many respects resembling the negroes of Africa, and sunk even still lower in barbarism. Such are the inhabitants of the Fijis, New Caledonia, and New Hebrides, the Solomon Islands, New Guinea, and others to the northward of them.

When Captain Cook sailed over the Pacific, and till many years afterwards, the people of these beautiful islands were sunk in the grossest idolatry and barbarism.

Towards the end of the last century, when the Christian Churches awoke to their responsibilities for making known the glad tidings of salvation to their heathen fellow-creatures—societies were formed to send missionaries to various parts of the world. A band of twenty-nine missionaries, some of them unhappily untried, were sent out by the London Missionary Society in 1796, to the Pacific islands. They made slow progress, but at length, in 1815, idolatry was overthrown at Tahiti, and the gospel firmly established in that island.

Two years afterwards, the Rev. J. Williams and the Rev. W. Ellis, two of the most distinguished missionaries who have laboured among the islands of the Pacific, arrived at Tahiti. The former took up his abode at Raiatea, one of the Society islands, and afterwards going alone to the island of Rarotonga, though not bred a shipwright, built there, with his own hands, aided only by the natives, a vessel of about seventy tons burden. Having rigged her with sails of matting, he and a native crew returned to Raiatea, and thence he proceeded to Samoa with a large party of missionaries, for the purpose of leaving them at different islands on the way. He sailed in her afterwards over many thousand miles of ocean, visiting missionary stations—the little craft truly performing her duty as the “Messenger of Peace.”

She was the first of many missionary vessels which have since been sent out by different societies to the Pacific. Some have been lost, but their places have been supplied by others; indeed it is only by means of such vessels that the now numerous missionary stations scattered throughout that wide ocean, can be properly maintained.

How well might some of the beautiful yachts which float idly on the waters of the Solent, be employed, if their owners, influenced by the love of immortal souls, would hoist the banner of peace at their mast-heads, and go forth to those distant islands, to sail here and there visiting the isolated stations, or conveying fresh missionaries to the numberless groups still in heathen darkness.

I cannot help saying this when I recollect how often, for long months, and even for years together, we were left without a visit from any European Christian, and how eagerly we watched the approach of each sail which appeared in the horizon, hoping that she might bring us news of distant friends, or necessaries of which we stood greatly in need, or still more, that a brother might be on board who might afford counsel and encouragement in the difficulties by which we were surrounded. My dear father often felt the want of the assistance I have spoken of. My mother was indeed a helpmate meet for him, and was a source of comfort and consolation; but especially when the heathens threatened our lives and those of the native converts, oh, how thankful he would have been for the advice and support of an experienced Christian friend.

My mother had for some time been a sufferer from illness, and though she still continued her usual duties, we watched her form grow thinner, and her cheek paler, day by day. My father, strange as it may seem, did not appear to remark the change, but Maud and I, when we were together, could not help speaking about it. Still, as my mother did not complain, we could only hope that, should her anxiety about the condition of the mission decrease by its prospects becoming more promising, her health would improve.

We did all we could to lessen her cares by assisting her in her household duties. Maud and I learned to cook, and we also cleaned and swept out the house and kept it in order, with the help of a native girl, who, though not very expert, was willing to learn and to follow the example we set her.

We were anxiously expecting the return of Lisele, and Maud and I paid frequent visits to Abela, to inquire whether she had received any message from her niece. She shook her head sorrowfully, saying she was afraid that Masaugu was too much wedded to his heathen practices to be induced to abandon them by any arguments Lisele could use, and that he was far more likely to prevent her from returning. This made us very sad, for we had had hopes that Lisele had really become a Christian, and would remain faithful to the truth.

Abela guessed by our looks what was passing in our minds, and she added, “though the chief’s heart is very hard, I have been praying that it may be changed, and I know that with Jehovah nothing is impossible.”

While we were still seated in the hut, a native arrived whom we knew, from his scanty dress and his wild savage look, to be still a heathen. He brought a message to Abela from her niece, saying that she hoped shortly to return to the settlement, as her father had consented to pay the English missionary a visit.

“I shall rejoice to see her again,” said Abela to the native. “And has she spoken to you, my friend, of the true religion?”

“Yes, she has told me that we cannot see the great Jehovah who made the world and all things in it, but that He sees us and knows everything we think of, say, and do; and that He hates all sin, but that He loves the sinner, and wishes all human beings to come and live with Him for ever and ever in the beautiful place He has prepared for them,” was the prompt and unexpected answer.

“But has she told you that you are a sinner, and that your sins must be wiped away before you are fit to go to that pure and beautiful heaven she spoke of? Has she told you how you can become fit for heaven, and has she pointed out to you the only way you can go there?” asked Abela.

“Yes, she told me that many things I thought right are very wrong in the sight of Jehovah, and that I cannot undo what I have once done, and that the only way by which those things can be blotted out, is by believing that Jehovah’s dear Son came down upon earth and was punished by a cruel death instead of me, and that if I believe this, and trust to Him, I shall be received into that glorious place above the blue sky, which He has prepared for all who love Him,” answered the native.

“But do you believe this?” asked Abela. “Do you believe that Jehovah is satisfied that another was punished instead of you, and that He therefore has set you free?”

“I did not understand it, but it seemed very good,” answered the native. “I should like to remain and learn more about the matter.”

“Oh yes, do remain,” exclaimed Abela. “Go not back to worship again the blocks of stone in which our countrymen put their trust. The English missionary will explain matters more clearly to you than I can.”

I assured Nasile—for such the native told us was his name—that my father would gladly explain the truth to him, and leaving him in conversation with Abela, we hastened homewards with the satisfactory intelligence.

In a short time we saw a party coming across the hill. At first their appearance caused some consternation, it being supposed that they were heathens intending to attack the village. As they drew nearer, however, Masaugu was distinguished at their head, accompanied by Lisele. The chief was a tall fine man, with ample folds of native cloth round his waist and over his shoulders. My father hastened out to meet him, and welcome him to the Station, and Maud and I followed. As soon as Lisele saw us she ran forward and threw her arms round me, and then embraced Maud, calling us her dear sisters, and telling us how rejoiced she was to come back.

“I was afraid at first that my father would not listen to me,” she said. “But I prayed and prayed, and at length, to my joy, he said that he would go and hear more of the strange things I had told him of.”

My father at first intended to conduct the chief into the chapel; but though he was willing to go, several of his followers were afraid of entering it, believing that some incantations would be used, and that they might be compelled to lotu against their will. The whole party therefore seated themselves in a shady place outside. Here my father addressed the chief; and he hoped that while speaking to him, what he said might be attended to and understood by many of his followers. Not saying a word about the false gods he worshipped, my father told him of the greatness and power and love and mercy of Jehovah, and explained to him the simple plan of salvation which He has offered to sinful man.

The chief appeared much interested. “I understand,” he answered, “that the white man’s God is greater and more powerful than my gods, and I am resolved soon to worship Him, as I am sure He can do more for me than they can; but I have some enemies who have offended me, and I am about to set out on an expedition to punish them, and when I have obtained the victory, I will return and do as I have promised.”

“Oh! my friend,” exclaimed my father, “I should have told you of Satan, who is allowed—we know not why—to go about the world to deceive men, and he it is who has made you resolve to do this. Jehovah does not allow you to say that you will serve Him by-and-by. He requires you and all men to obey Him at once. Satan, on the contrary, ever strives to persuade people to put off serving Jehovah till by-and-by, that he may get them altogether into his own power before they can do so. Thus it is that he deceives men and destroys their souls in all parts of the world, and thus he has done at all times. Jehovah has told us that He will not allow us to punish our enemies, but that we are to love them and do good to them. Oh! let me warn and entreat you not to go on the expedition you propose.”

The chief was silent for some time. Lisele and Abela, who had arrived, united with my father in entreating him to remain and hear more of the truth.

“What you say may be very right and good for those who profess to follow Jehovah,” he answered at length, “but I have not yet abandoned my gods, and they will, I am sure, help me to gain the victory. What I say is wise, is it not?” he added, turning to his heathen attendants. Of course they all applauded him, and greatly to my fathers grief, he arose to take his departure.

“Remember, oh chief, that I have warned you,” said my father. “We cannot pray that you may gain the victory, because Jehovah will give it as He thinks fit; but we will pray that your heart may be changed, and that you may still worship Him whom you now reject.”

“Alas! how many act as this poor heathen is doing,” said my father, after Masaugu and his companions had gone away. “They believe in God, and yet, blinded by Satan, fancy in their folly that they can safely put off the time to begin serving and obeying Him.”

Chapter Four.

Our anxieties increase on the departure of Masaugu.—My Father is summoned to visit a sick Missionary at another island, and we are left under the charge of Nanari, the native missionary.—My Mother’s sudden death.—A vessel appears off the coast, and at Kanari’s suggestion I send off a note, warning the Captain of the danger to which he is exposed from the Natives.

We rejoiced to find that Lisele was allowed to remain with her aunt at the settlement. She had tried, even before her return to the settlement, to persuade her father to abandon his intentions of going to war. The tribe he intended to attack inhabited an island some leagues away to the south, and as we stood on the shore we could see its blue outline rising out of the ocean. Lisele had reminded her father that he had professed to wish us well, and that by going away he would leave us exposed to the attacks of other heathen tribes, who would now venture without hesitation through his territory, to attack us. He replied that they would not dare to do so, as he had threatened them with punishment on his return should they molest them.

“Alas!” said Lisele, who told us this when we went to see her at her aunt’s house. “Suppose he is defeated, what protection shall we then have from our enemies?”

“We must trust in Jehovah, my child,” said Abela. “Or, if he thinks fit to allow us to be afflicted, we must submit without murmur to His will. We know that we can but suffer here for a short season, and that He has prepared a glorious and happy home for those who love Jesus, and obey His commandments down on earth. Oh yes! since I have known the truth, I have learned to understand that this world is a place of trial, and that we must not look for peace and happiness and rest while we are in it. God indeed made the world beautiful, and intended it to be happy, but Satan persuaded man to sin, and sin has caused man to depart from God, and brought all the disorder and misery and suffering which we see around us. Faith in Jesus Christ can alone remedy all these evils, and I am sure that they will exist till all the world learns to love and obey Him.”

These remarks of Abela will show that she had made great advances in Christian knowledge, and was well able to instruct her young niece.

Lisele came back with us to the school, which my mother, although weak and suffering still, insisted on superintending. I think that she herself was not aware how ill she really was.

We used to go down every morning to the sea to bathe in a little sheltered cove, almost surrounded by high rocks, where there was no danger of a visit from a shark. Here my father had built a small hut in which Maud and I might dress. The native girls dispensed with any such accommodation, and while we were content to swim about in the bay, they would boldly strike out a long distance from the land. Even when the wind blew strong on the shore, and the surf came rolling in, they would dash through it, now diving under a huge breaker, now rising to its foaming summit, and playing about as securely as if they were on the dry land.

Two mornings after the chief had paid us a visit we went down as usual to bathe, when we saw a large fleet of canoes, propelled by paddles, gliding over the smooth water of the lagoon towards the passage which communicated with the open sea. On first seeing them we were about to hurry home, fearing that they might be enemies, but Lisele quieted our alarm, by telling us that they were her father’s fleet, starting on his proposed expedition. They were curious looking vessels. Each consisted of two long narrow canoes placed side by side, but at some distance from each other, and united by strong beams, on which a platform or stage was erected, thus making one vessel. The rowers sat with long paddles on either side, while on the deck stood the warriors in their war-paint and feathers, and flourishing their lances and whirling their clubs, inciting each other to the deeds of valour, or rather of cruelty, which they intended to perform. Instead of a mast in the centre, there was a triangle with the ends fixed on either side, on which the mat-formed sail extended on a long yard ready to be hoisted.

As they glided by the sound of the wild shouts and shrieks they uttered reached our ears.

“May my poor father be protected,” said Lisele to me, as we watched them. “Once I should have thought what we see very fine, and should have sung and clapped my hands with joy. Now that I know how wicked it is to go and fight and kill other human beings, I feel inclined to weep with sorrow.”

“We must pray for your father, Lisele,” I said, “that God will turn his heart and make him see the crime of warfare.”

“Yes, yes; that is my comfort,” she answered.

When the canoes reached the outlet from the lagoon the sails were hoisted, and at a rapid rate they glided away over the ocean, while Lisele, Maud, and I, knelt down on the sand and prayed, not that God would give the victory to the chief, but that He would turn his heart and make him to know the truth.

As we were leaving the beach we saw another canoe coming round a headland through the lagoon, which she had entered by a further off passage. Had the strange canoe been a little sooner she would have encountered the fleet, and very likely have been stopped and compelled to accompany the war party. Her appearance caused us some anxiety. If she had heathens on board, they might land and rob us, or cause us even more serious annoyance. We continued to watch her, as we knew that we should have plenty of time to escape and give warning at the village before she could come to shore. At length we discovered a flag flying from the end of her yard, and great was my joy to see that on it was worked a dove with the olive branch of peace—I consequently hoped that a missionary might be on board coming to visit us. We waited therefore for the arrival of the canoe. We could distinguish, however, as she drew near, only natives on her deck. They all were in the dress adopted by Christian converts—in shirts and trousers.

The canoe soon ran up on the beach, when a native stepped on shore with a letter in his hand. He told me that he had been sent by Mr Hilton, a missionary stationed on an island about fifty miles off. Mr Hilton was very ill, and entreated my father to come and see him; for, believing that he should not recover, he was anxious to commit his motherless children to his charge. We accordingly conducted the messenger up to the house.

The letter caused my father much grief and perplexity. He sorrowed to hear of his friend’s illness, and felt anxious to go to him, and yet he was unwilling to leave my mother and us for so long a time, when the settlement might possibly be annoyed by heathens. Still he knew that he could with confidence leave the instruction of the people to Nanari, who would also protect my mother and us to the best of his power. He sent for Nanari, and spoke to him on the subject.

“God helping me, I will do all that man can do,” answered Nanari. “And nothing shall tempt me to quit the post you have committed to my charge.”

My mother, feeling for our poor friend and for the young ones who might soon be deprived of his protection, sacrificing her own wishes, urged my father to go as he was requested. As there was no time to be lost if he would see his friend alive, bidding us a tender, and it seemed to me a peculiarly solemn farewell, he went on board the canoe, which immediately set sail on her return. We accompanied him to the beach, and watched the vessel till she was lost to sight in the distance.

On our return home we found my mother suffering greatly. The agitation of parting from my father had been more than she could bear. Oh, how I longed to recall him! Little could he have known her dangerous state. My father had a knowledge of medicine, and he might have applied remedies of which we were ignorant. Good Abela came up on hearing how ill my mother was, though she could afford us but little assistance. Suddenly, as I gazed at my mother, a fearful conviction came upon me that she was dying. She knew herself that such was the case. I cannot even now bear to dwell upon the sad scene, for sad indeed it was to us, though my mother’s heart was lifted up with joy and hope.

“God’s will be done, my children,” she said, taking Maud’s and my hand in hers. “He will care for and protect you though troubles arise which may seem overwhelming.”

Abela and Nanari assured her that they would devote themselves to our service, yet the absence of my father must have been a sore trial to her.

During that night she breathed her last, and I was left motherless; so, indeed, was dear Maud, to whom she had been truly a mother.

Then quickly followed the funeral. All the Christians of the settlement stood round the grave, in a beautiful spot which had been set apart for the purpose, at a short distance from the chapel, when Nanari offered up a prayer that God’s Holy Spirit would influence the hearts of all present, and enable them to possess the same hope of a joyous resurrection as that in which my mother died, he then addressed the people, urging them to put faith in God’s goodness and wisdom, and telling them that though troubles might come, not therefore to suppose that He had forgotten to be gracious, but to go on praying and trusting in Him, till He might think fit to call them out of this world, to be with Him in glory and happiness unspeakable.

Maud and I spent that sad evening with our hands clasped together, often weeping but seldom speaking. My heart bled for my poor father, as I thought of his grief and anguish, when, on his return he would find that my mother had been taken from him.

“Still,” said Maud, looking up in my face, “he will know that she is in joy surpassing human understanding, and we cannot tell from what trials and sufferings she may thus have escaped.”

With the last thought I was greatly comforted.

As we stood together in the verandah that evening, gazing up into the sky and thinking of the glories now revealed to my mother, we saw a bright star with a long tail of light, such as we had never before beheld. I knew at once from its appearance that it was a comet. Many of the natives had seen it too, and we heard their voices uttering exclamations of surprise and terror. Soon afterwards we saw Lisele approaching. She hesitated, as if unwilling to intrude on our grief, but I called to her, and she came up to us. I told her what I knew about comets, and begged her to try and calm the alarm of her people, and to assure them that it was but a luminous mass, and that it betokened neither good nor evil to the inhabitants of this world, though Jehovah directed its course, as He orders everything else in the universe.

“Ah, but the heathens will not think so,” she exclaimed, “and we know not what effect it may have upon their minds. Perhaps they will think it is sent through the incantations of the Christians, and will come in consequence and attack us.”

I scarcely thought this possible, but Lisele was positive that it would have a bad effect. She went, however, to tell the Christian natives what I had said, and to assure them that the comet would do them no harm.

Oh, how sad was that night and the next morning, when we looked on the bed on which my mother had slept, and knew that we should never again see her dear face there, so calm and beautiful. We had, however, our duties to perform, and we set about them as we knew she would have desired.

While we were thus engaged Nanari appeared to learn if there was anything he could do for us, saying that the people would bring us all the food we might require, and begging that we would not be anxious on that score. He then told us that a vessel was off the coast, and by going to the front of the house we saw her. We hoped that she might have friends on board coming to visit our Station, or that where my father and Mr Hilton were, as we knew how gladly she would be welcomed there.

As we watched her, we saw at length, to our disappointment, from the course she was steering, that she was not coming to our Station, but was apparently about to enter a harbour further down the coast.

“I would that I could warn those on board of the character of the natives where she is going,” said Nanari, when he saw this. “Unless they are on their guard I fear that they may be treated as others have been.”

We had only one small canoe at the Station, but Nanari said that if we would write a message he would induce two of the Christian natives to carry it off. I accordingly hastily wrote a note, warning the captain of the vessel against any treachery which might be intended, and with much satisfaction saw the canoe paddle off towards her. The breeze, however, was strong, and it seemed doubtful whether the canoe would reach the stranger before she came to an anchor.

Chapter Five.

We receive the sad tidings of the massacre of the crew of the vessel.—I still hope that some may have escaped, and Lisele takes means to rescue them.—She sends her cousin Tofa, to Mafoa, the young chief to whom her Father has betrothed her.—A fearful hurricane.—The heathen Natives prevented by it from attacking the settlement and seizing us.

We could scarcely hope that my father would have had time to return, yet we anxiously looked for his arrival. The canoe with the two natives had been unable to reach the vessel, and information was brought to Lisele that they had been seized and killed by the heathens, who had gone out in chase of them. A bright light was also seen at night in the direction of the harbour in which the vessel was supposed to have anchored; and the next day the dreadful rumour reached us that Nanari’s worst apprehensions had been realised, that she had been surprised by the treacherous natives, and that every person on board had been put to death. At first we could not believe so fearful a story, but Lisele assured us that she had no doubt of its truth.

“Is it not possible that some may have escaped?” I exclaimed, when Lisele gave me the account. “Have all the people on board the beautiful vessel, sailing by so proudly the other day, been killed? Should any have escaped could we not take means to let them know that there are Christian friends here who would welcome them? If my father was at home I am sure he would make all effort to rescue the unhappy people.”

Lisele replied that although the tribe who had committed the deed were at present at peace with her people, that even should any white man have escaped it would be difficult to get them out of the heathens’ hands, but that she would try what could be done. “There is a young chief among them who is more inclined than the rest of the people to be friendly with my father,” she observed. “Although he is a brave warrior, he is neither fierce nor cruel; and if, by chance, any of the white men have fallen into his power he may possibly have spared their lives. I will try to send a message to him and ask him to protect them, and to give them up to your father. Yet I fear there is very little probability of any having escaped.”

Lisele’s answer gave me very little hope that any had escaped the massacre; but I was sure that she would take every means to ascertain the truth. Nanari, when he heard the account, was willing to go himself, but both Abela and Lisele entreated him not to make the attempt—urging that the heathens were so enraged at him for having caused so many people to lotu, that they would be certain, should he venture among them, to put him to death.

He at length was persuaded to abandon his design, and Lisele undertook to send a young relative, who, although a heathen, was attached to her, and would do whatever she desired. Being still a boy he had not accompanied her father, but he was more likely to succeed than anybody she could think of. In the course of the day Tofa, the lad of whom Lisele spoke, made his appearance. He was a fine intelligent-looking youth, and I could not help hoping that through the means of his cousin he might be brought to know the truth. He seemed proud of the mission given to him, though he was well aware of the danger he incurred.

“Tell Mafoa that if he really regards me as he professes, he will act according to my wishes, and treat the white men as friends,” said Lisele. Mafoa was the young chief of whom she had spoken, and who, I had no doubt, from this remark, entertained hopes of making her his wife.

Recollecting that should any seamen have escaped, they would have a difficulty in understanding young Tofa, I wrote a short note which I hoped would prove of more service than the last I had sent, mentioning the missionary station, and saying that we and the Christian natives would gladly afford them all the assistance in our power. Several other messages having been given to Tofa, he set off on his expedition; and we kneeling down, offered up a prayer for his success.

Notwithstanding our anxiety, with the assistance of Lisele and Abela, we held school as usual, while Nanari conducted the service in the chapel, and instructed the young men and boys, as was his custom. The night was as calm as the preceding one. The comet could be seen winding its solitary course through the heavens, appearing even brighter than before. After Maud and I had gazed at it for some time we retired to our beds. I heard her sobbing, giving way at length to the sorrow she had restrained in my presence—not that she could have felt my mother’s loss more than I did, but I was older, and had endeavoured, though the strife was a hard one, to command my feelings. At length I heard her sobs cease, and I in time forgot my sorrow in sleep.

We were both suddenly awakened by a fearful noise. We started up—all was dark. There came the sound of the wind howling in the trees and falling timber, and the roaring of the sea, as it dashed upon the reef with tremendous force, and rocks crashing down from the mountain heights. A hurricane was raging. We sat up trembling with alarm. My first thought was for my dear father, should he now be at sea returning to us. Then other dreadful sounds, like thunder breaking overhead. Something else terrific besides the hurricane was occurring, it seemed to us, yet we dared not leave the house for fear of being blown away by the wind. After some time we assisted each other to dress, as well as we could, in the dark, for we expected every moment that the roof would be carried off, or the house itself blown down. We remembered several hurricanes, but this appeared more violent than any that had before occurred. We had been protected during former ones, and we knew that the same power would take care of us now. I had proposed lighting the lamp, when Maud observed, should the house be blown down, it might set the thatch on fire, and the whole village would be burnt.

“Let us remain in darkness, for remember God sees us as if it was light, she said. Darkness is no darkness with Him—the day and night to Him are both alike.”

I agreed with Maud, and together we knelt down side by side to pray for protection. Although the tempest continued to rage without, our house, built by my father’s hands, stood firm. It was, like his own faith, well knit and bound together. He had not forgotten, when erecting it, that such hurricanes were likely to occur, and he had accordingly prepared for them.

So should we go through life, not trembling with the fear of misfortunes, but ready to encounter them should they overtake us.

Hour after hour seemed to pass by as we thus knelt and prayed. Every now and then we could not help starting up, as a more fearful crash than usual sounded in our ears. Still the wished-for daylight did not appear. The truth was, that since the commencement of the storm but a short time only had elapsed, though in our desolation and solitude it had appeared very long.

At length we heard a knocking at the door. I made my way, followed by Maud, to open it, when two figures appeared, and I heard the voices of Nanari and Lisele. During the moment the door was open I observed a bright glare in the sky above the waving and bending trees, but it was only for a moment, as immediately they were inside they closed the door behind them.

“Are you safe, are you uninjured?” they exclaimed. “We could not bear to leave you all alone, and, trusting to Jehovah’s protection, we ventured up here, hoping to comfort you.”

We thanked them for coming, and I led the way into our sitting-room. “What dreadful event is occurring in addition to the hurricane?” I asked. “Can the forest be on fire?”

“The mountain has burst forth, and is sending up stones and ashes into the air, while hot streams of lava are flowing down its sides,” answered Nanari. “Not one but many forests may be burned, but we are in the hands of Jehovah, and should not fear, my daughter.”

I inquired whether he thought that the ashes or streams of lava might reach as far as the settlement, he believed that, shut in as we were, by a separate range of hills, that the lava at all events would not run down towards us; though, with regard to the ashes and stones, how far they might be carried, he could not say, and again he added the same consolation he had before offered.

Poor Lisele was in much affliction. Her father might probably be at sea—as I feared mine was—and exposed to the dreadful tempest, and she could not hope that he, having set forth against the warnings of his Christian friends, would be under the protection of Jehovah. “Alas! alas!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands, should he be driven out over the ocean and lost, he will not have known the good and merciful God who would—had he listened to the advice given him—have received him as a son, and taken him to dwell with Him for ever in the glorious country you have told me of beyond the skies.

“We have prayed for your father, and may continue to pray for him, my child,” said Nanari. “And Jehovah may still find a way to preserve him from the danger in which he is placed.” Thus conversing, and often kneeling down to pray, we passed the hours of darkness.

As dawn approached, the hurricane began to abate; and by the time the sun rose out of the eastern ocean, it had entirely ceased. As we opened the door and gazed forth we had reason to be more than ever thankful that we had escaped destruction. Several tall trees, a short distance from the house, lay torn up by the roots, and huge boughs strewed the ground in every direction. The chapel and school-house had escaped injury; but Nanari, who went out to ascertain whether any of the people had suffered, came back with a sad report. Several of the cottages had been blown down, two people had been killed, and many more injured.

Leaving Maud and Lisele to attend to the house, I accompanied Nanari to visit the sufferers. While receiving instruction as a missionary he had been taught the simple methods to be pursued under such circumstances. Abela, I was thankful to find, had escaped, and she assisted us in bathing and binding up the wounds and setting the limbs of those who had been hurt. There was sorrow for those who had been killed, but it was not such sorrow as the heathen would have shown who have no hope.

“Jehovah is merciful, and has called our brothers to a better and happier land than this,” exclaimed those who stood around, preparing to carry the dead to their graves.

We were not aware of it at the time—but we learned afterwards—that on that very night a band of savage heathens were on their way to attack the settlement with the intention of killing Nanari, and carrying off Lisele and us as prisoners. How dreadful would have been our fate had they succeeded, and, unwarned as we were, we should have been taken by surprise without the possibility of escaping.

The volcano continued raging during the day, but the natives, accustomed to see its fires burst forth from time to time, were less alarmed at it than they were at the appearance of the comet. As I watched it, I conceived the hope that a stream of lava, flowing down between us and the more hostile heathen tribes, might prevent them from approaching to attack us.

Chapter Six.

Lisele and I feel great anxiety on account of our Father’s not returning.—Tofa also has not appeared.—We are assembled in the Chapel, when Tofa, with a white stranger, arrives and warns us that the heathens threaten an attack.—Tofa takes charge of his companion.—We fly to the mountains, and witness the burning of our village. We lie concealed in a cave, while the savages search for us.

The hurricane had caused sad damage to the cocoanut groves and plantations in our little settlement, and we had no doubt that it, in addition to the eruption of the volcano, had produced still more destructive effects throughout the island, but I own that my thoughts were far more occupied with my anxiety about my father. In vain we watched for the return of his canoe. No sail appeared in the blue ocean in the direction of the island to which he had gone. Lisele too was overwhelmed with grief at the non-appearance of her father; her only hope was that he had conquered his enemies and remained in possession of their country. Still he would, she thought, before this, have despatched a canoe to announce his victory.

Two days passed away, and we began to look for the return of young Tofa; but on the third day, when he did not come, fears for his safety were added to our other troubles. The chief, indeed, the only refuge from our sorrows, was prayer; how great was the comfort that brought to our hearts none but those who have experienced it can tell.

We continued to attend to our usual duties. Though the younger girls and boys assembled for school, the older people were too much agitated and alarmed to attend to their studies; they were also chiefly employed during the day in repairing the damages caused by the storm.

In the evening, however, they all assembled in the chapel for public prayer. Nanari was addressing them, when the noise of feet was heard without, and directly afterwards Tofa appeared, followed by a young white man. The latter took off his hat when he saw how we were engaged, and stood reverentially at the door for a moment, as if unwilling to interrupt us, though evidently in a state of great agitation.

Tofa, however, influenced by no such feelings, exclaimed loudly, “Fly! fly! and hide yourselves. Your enemies are approaching, and will be here anon. Mafoa tried to prevent them, but he could not prevail.”

“My friends!” exclaimed Nanari, “the warning has been sent that you all may seek for safety. For myself, I will remain with the aged and wounded people, who cannot fly; but you, my daughters,” turning to Maud and me, “who have been committed to my charge, I must see that you are placed in a secure hiding-place, where the heathens cannot find you.”

“We will place ourselves under your guidance,” I answered, “but you must also take care that this stranger does not again fall into the hands of the heathens,” I added, turning to the young man who was standing at the door, and who appeared to be above the rank of a common sailor. “Tell me,” I asked, “are you the only person who has escaped from the vessel, which we heard was burned the other day along the coast?”

“I fear that such is the case, and why my life was spared I cannot tell you,” he answered. “I jumped overboard, and was swimming towards the shore, when I was taken up by a canoe, in which was a young chief, who made signs that he would protect me, and faithfully kept his word. I should have remained with him had I not received a note sent, I presume, by you.”

This was said in a hurried tone, while Nanari was arranging a plan for our safety.

I told the stranger of the warning we had just received from Tofa of the threatened attack by the heathens, supposing that he might not have understood what the lad might have said to him.

While some of our friends ran off to the huts to obtain provisions, Abela and Lisele taking our hands, told us that we must set off at once to the mountains, till the fury of the heathens had ceased. Three or four of our other friends also prepared to accompany us.

“But what will this stranger do?” I asked. “Surely if the heathens find him when no longer under the protection of Mafoa, they will put him to death.”

“He is under my care,” exclaimed Tofa. “I promised Mafoa that I would protect him, and I will show them that I am clever enough to hide him away even although the whole tribe come to look for him.”

I explained this to the young stranger, and advised him to put himself under Tofa’s guidance. Nanari having commended us to the care of Jehovah, we and our friends, not stopping even to obtain anything at the house, hurried off towards the mountains, while Tofa led the stranger by a more direct way up a precipice, which was too steep for us to climb. As we were quitting the chapel, turning my eyes seaward for a moment, I caught sight of several sails dotting the ocean in the far distance. I pointed them out to Lisele.

“They may be my father’s canoes,” she exclaimed, “and he might arrive in time to protect us.”

“Alas! even should they be Masaugu’s fleet, they may be too late for that,” said Abela. “We must not delay on such a chance; perhaps, too, they may prove more deadly foes than those from whom we fly. Let us hasten on, and we may be able to learn what they are when our charge is in safety.”

Thus urged, Lisele no longer hesitated. Night was coming on, but provided we could make our way, the darkness would assist us in eluding our savage foes should they pursue us. The path towards the mountains, at all times difficult, was rendered doubly so by the number of fallen trees across it, thrown down by the hurricane. Sometimes we had to climb over the trunks, at others to creep under the branches.

“The heathens will be less able to discover our tracks,” observed Lisele, “than if the path had been open.”

“Ah yes! my child,” said Abela, “all is ordered for the best.”

Now we went on and on, now clambering over wild rocks, now proceeding along a narrow valley, now climbing its steep sides till we reached a height whence we could look back upon our settlement. “Hark!” said Lisele, “what cries are those?” We listened; the Indian girl’s quick ear had detected sounds which neither Maud nor I had till then perceived.

“Alas! alas!” she exclaimed, “they are the shouts of the savage heathens as they rush in among those we have left behind, and rage at finding that we have escaped them.”

That she was right in her conjecture we had too soon painful evidence. Several bright lights appeared, and presently fierce flames burst forth from amid the trees. The savages had set the houses on fire to revenge themselves on the inhabitants who had for the present escaped their fury. Our friends, not stopping to watch the progress of the flames, hurried us on. Proceeding along a narrow ridge, we once more descended down a ravine thickly covered with trees. The natives knew their way, but so dense was the foliage that to my eyes all appeared dark around. We could hear the roar of a torrent close to us. Now they led us along slippery rocks, tightly holding our hands; now we found ourselves ascending, now descending, steep precipices. At length they stopped, and drawing aside the thick foliage, Abela led us into a small cavern, the front of which appeared to be completely concealed by underwood and numberless creepers with which it was entwined. A portion of the provisions, and some water which had been brought, were placed by our sides.

“Here, my daughters, you will remain safe till the heathens, having searched for you in vain, take their departure,” said Abela. “I know this spot well, for before Masaugu’s father conquered the territory he now holds, I and my family dwelt in the neighbourhood. I discovered it as a girl when rambling about the mountains with my brothers, who are dead, and no one else is acquainted with it. We ourselves propose to find concealment in different directions, for should the heathens search for us, some may thus have a better prospect of escaping, and the faith of Jehovah will still remain in the land.”

Abela and her companions, having carefully allowed the shrubs to regain their natural position, left Maud and me alone, and we soon lost the sound of their footsteps. The cavern was perfectly dry, and sufficient air found its way through the boughs to prevent the atmosphere from feeling close. Some mats had also been left for us, on which we could recline; but, as may be supposed, the fearful events that had occurred, and the grief and anxiety which weighed on our hearts, prevented us for many hours from sleeping. No sound except that of the ceaseless roar and splash of the neighbouring waterfall, reached our ears. While we sat, shrouded in darkness, it was difficult to avoid giving way to despondency. We did not, I need scarcely say, forget to pray, while we had cause to be thankful at having received sufficient warning to escape from the cruel fate which would have overtaken us had we been at the settlement.

At last we slept, and the light of day was making its way through the dense foliage when we awoke. Our cavern, we now found, was even smaller than we had supposed. There was no room to walk about; indeed, it afforded us just space sufficient to lie down at full length. As we peered out between the bushes, we could see the opposite sides of the ravine rising up in a perpendicular precipice directly before us. This gave us an assurance that there was little probability of our being discovered by the savages, even though they might search diligently for us through the mountains. Our friends had left us an ample supply of provisions so that if necessary we might remain many days there without fear of starvation. But what was to be our future lot it was impossible to say.

“It is a great comfort to know that God will decide it for us,” said Maud, putting her arms round my neck. “He knows what is best, and He will find a way of escape for those who trust Him, out of all difficulties. See,” she added, “I have brought His word to comfort us,” and she produced a small Bible from her pocket, which she had thoughtfully put there when leaving the chapel.

What consolation did that book give us! We read and prayed, and then read again in a low voice, and strange as it may seem to some, the time did not appear to drag heavily along; but calmness came ever our minds—our hearts were at peace, we no longer feared what man could do to us.

We had been reading together, when suddenly we both started. A wild cry readied our ears; it was echoed by others in different directions, some coming up the ravine, others sounding, it seemed, overhead. I felt Maud tremble as she clung to me.

“Can those cries come from the heathens, who have discovered our footsteps?” she whispered. “If so, we are lost.”

“Not lost, dear Maud,” I answered. “They can but take our lives, and I trust that though they may be near they will not find us. Our friends felt sure of our safety in this concealment, so let us not despair, but it will be prudent not to speak.”

We remained silent, clinging to each other. Again the wild shrieks and cries echoed around us, some of the voices appeared to be quite close. We sat listening anxiously—now the sounds appeared to proceed from a greater distance. Yes, we trusted that the savages were at length passing by us, their shrieks grew fainter and fainter, and ultimately altogether ceased.

We had been again preserved from a threatened danger. We could scarcely believe that it was over when darkness once more crept up the ravine.

Chapter Seven.

We remain concealed, none of our Friends appearing.—Maud sees a person on the hill.—Our alarm.—We again hear voices and footsteps.—Our native Friends return and bring us sad tidings; yet we have cause to be thankful that some have escaped.—We are making our way to a canoe, when the heathens pursue us.—Escape.—Charles Norton gives me his history.

Two more days passed away, and none of our friends had come near us. We began to fear that they had been seized by the heathens. Should such be the case, what must be our fate!

“We will wait where we are till our provisions are exhausted, and then we must make our way down to the sea-shore, and perhaps we may be seen by some passing ship and taken off,” said Maud. “Anything will be better than trusting ourselves to the savage heathens.”

I agreed with her that this was the only plan we could follow, that, indeed, was almost a hopeless one.

“But suppose papa has been detained longer than he expected with Mr Hilton, and returns to the settlement. If so, we may see him and reach his canoe,” said Maud. She always called my father papa.

This idea of Maud’s gave me new hope, and then I thought how sad must be our meeting when I should have to tell him of our mother’s death.

Our chief want in our cavern was water; but Maud managed, by creeping under the bushes, where she was sure she could not be seen, to reach a pool filled by the never ceasing spray from the cascade. I entreated her, however, not to go out often, for I was afraid of her foot slipping, or, notwithstanding her assertion, that some native passing over the mountain above us might catch a glimpse of her. She agreed, therefore, to wait till just after dawn, when no one was likely to be at so great a distance from any habitation. She went out one morning to fill the gourd, which held our store of water, and when she came back she told me that she had seen a person looking down towards her from a point a long way up above the top of the waterfall.

“I did not stop to look a second time,” she said, “but, crouching down, crept back, in the hopes that he might not have discovered me.”

This circumstance caused us great alarm; still we hoped that even had any one seen her, he might not be able to discover the entrance to our cavern.

“Perhaps the person I saw may have been Tofa, or the young Englishman,” exclaimed Maud, as if the thought had suddenly struck her. “They would naturally come to look for us, especially should they know that any of our friends had been discovered by the heathens, and they might assist us greatly.”

“I trust that our friends have escaped,” I said. “Though it seems strange that they should be so long in returning to us, and as Tofa and the young Englishman are strangers, I would rather trust myself to those whose fidelity has been well tried.”

“Oh, but I am sure that the Englishman would defend us with his life,” said Maud. “I was struck by the good expression of his countenance, and the way he behaved during the few moments we saw him. I do trust that he has escaped, and I long to know who he is, for I am sure that he is not a common sailor.”

In this I agreed with Maud: indeed, had I not known that it is imprudent to trust strangers, I should have been very thankful to obtain his assistance. Although he might be the person Maud had soon, we knew that it would be very unwise to venture out of our concealment.

“Still I should like to try and look out through the brushwood, and then should we see him approaching, and be sure that it is him, we might make ourselves known,” said Maud.

As Maud was sure that she could do as she proposed without being discovered, I did not forbid her, though I felt that it might be wiser to remain as closely concealed as we had been hitherto. Still no one approached.

“After all, I may have been mistaken,” said Maud, coming back and sitting down by my side.

We were employed as usual in reading, when the sound of voices at a distance reached our ears, coming apparently up the ravine. “Can they be the savages returning to look for us,” whispered Maud.

“I think that their voices would sound very differently to those we hear,” I answered. “They would be wildly shrieking and shouting, unless they intended to attack an enemy unprepared for them. Still, as the persons may possibly be strangers, we will keep concealed.”

We remained seated on the ground, hoping that should enemies be approaching, they would pass by without discovering us. The footsteps grew nearer. We could hear them climbing up the precipice to the ledge on which the cavern opened. Maud, notwithstanding her usual courage, trembled violently.

The boughs were drawn aside, when several natives appeared in front of us. A second glance showed us that they were entirely clothed according to the custom of the converts, and then, to our joy, we saw that Abela was among them. We sprang up and threw ourselves into her arms.

“My children,” she said, “we have left you long; but we have had many difficulties to encounter, and, alas! disasters have overtaken our friends. But come, we have no time to lose, we will tell you more as we go along.”

We were thankful to find that besides Abela, those who had accompanied us to our hiding-place had likewise escaped. Our friends having taken the baskets, and the remainder of our provisions, we set off down the ravine, which led, as we supposed, towards the sea-shore. I immediately inquired of Abela if she had heard of my father.

“Alas! no, my child,” she answered, “Our good pastor’s canoe has not returned; we have anxiously kept watch for him, and he could scarcely have reached the shore without having been observed.” I then inquired for Nanari, who might, I hoped, have escaped. “He died faithfully at his post with those whom he would not desert,” she answered. “He was entreated by the sick and wounded to fly, but would not, and then, alas! the savage people rushed in and slew him.”

She then told me that Lisele was safe, although she had run great risk of being captured by the heathens. The fleet we had seen was the remnant of that with which Masaugu had set sail. Though at first victorious in his expedition, he had been attacked by overwhelming numbers of his enemies, and, with the loss of a large portion of his warriors, and many of his canoes, had with difficulty reached the island. On his arrival he found a large party of the heathens, who had heard that he intended to lotu, arrayed against him, and once more he had to put to sea. He had, however, reached the end of the island where we now were. There Lisele had joined him, and, at her earnest entreaties, he had left a canoe to convoy us away. Abela told us also that Tofa and the young Englishman had been communicated with, and she hoped that they would be found already on board the canoe.

“Oh then we will proceed at once to Mr Hilton’s station,” I exclaimed. “What joy it will be if we find that my father has not yet quitted it.”

“Such are Masaugu’s intentions,” said Abela. “He has seen the folly of his conduct in going to attack his enemies when so earnestly warned by your father, and now he wishes to remain with the Christian missionary, that he may receive instruction in the truths he before despised.”

The news we thus received caused us many conflicting feeling’s. We deeply grieved for the loss of the faithful Nanari, while my anxiety about my father was still unrelieved. Yet we rejoiced that Masaugu, through the severe lesson he had received, should have been induced to seek for Christian instruction.

Our path down the ravine was extremely difficult, and often dangerous, and we could make but slow progress. Abela, however, hurried on as fast as we could venture to proceed, for she feared that the heathens, knowing that many of the Christians had escaped, would be searching for us, and that although they might not dare to follow Masaugu’s fleet, they would not hesitate to attack the single canoe, with only a small party on board. At length we caught sight of the blue ocean, but the sparkling white lines of foam I saw dancing over it, made me fear that the canoe would have a hard buffet with the waves.

We were already not far from the beach, when we saw two persons running towards us—they were Tofa and the young Englishman. “Hasten,” they exclaimed; “a large band of our enemies are coming along the shore, and we have been in dread that you would be cut off.” The latter, who of course spoke in English, took Maud and me by the hands to assist us, and helped along by him we soon reached the boat. The crew stood ready with poles to urge on the canoe into deep water. We were speedily on board, and launching forth; the wind being favourable, a large triangular mat sail was set, and we glided away from the beach.

Scarcely had we got beyond the reach of their spears, than the savages arrived at the spot we had left. Several were hurled at us, but happily no one was hit, and the next shower, which the vindictive savages darted from their hands, fell short of our canoe.

Abela and every Christian with her knelt down on the deck and offered up an earnest prayer—in which we joined—that the hearts of our foes might be changed, and that they would ere long be brought to know the truth. The savages continued shrieking and shouting at us till we had got outside the reef. Happily no canoe was near, or they would undoubtedly have followed us.

We could see Masaugu’s fleet in the far distance; but as our canoe was smaller than any of his we could not hope to overtake him. I was thankful, however, to find that he was steering towards Mr Hilton’s station, where we hoped in time to arrive. The sea was, as I had feared, very rough, and though our canoe was strong and buoyant, she was tossed much about, and had it not been for the assistance of the young Englishman and Tofa, we should have had great difficulty in clinging to the deck. In the centre was a small house or cabin, generally used by the chief or owner of the canoe, and this we found was to be devoted to our use at night as a sleeping place. Still, as I surveyed the curiously-constructed and apparently weak vessel, I could not help feeling that a voyage on board her of the length we were about to attempt, must be attended with much danger. Happily we could say at sea as on shore, “We will trust ourselves to the care of One all-powerful to save.”

As I now had a better opportunity of observing the young stranger more particularly than before, I felt more convinced than at first that he was a person of education. His manner towards Maud and me especially, was retiring and reserved, and he seemed unwilling to intrude himself upon us. After some time, however, he came and sat near us, and thanked me for the note I had written, which, as he supposed, had not only been the means of obtaining his freedom, but of his life being preserved.

“I wrote merely on the possibility of any European having escaped the massacre which I understood had taken place,” I answered. “I can therefore claim no thanks from you.”

“I am not the less grateful,” he answered. “I had so fully expected to be killed, that I feel like one risen from the dead.”

“I trust that you have risen to newness of life,” I ventured to say, for I am sure it was a remark my father would have made, and I felt anxious to be assured that the young man was under religious impressions. It was an opportunity indeed I dare not let pass by.

“Yes, Miss Liddiard, I do feel that,” he exclaimed. “And with what horror do I reflect what would have been my doom had I died with my companions. I knew the truth when I was a boy, for I had been brought up by a pious father and mother, but I became careless and wild, and neglected all their precepts and warnings. I went on from bad to worse, and at length, believing that if I could get out to the Pacific—of which I had read—I could enjoy unfettered liberty and licence, I shipped on board a vessel bound out, round Cape Horn. Having knocked about in the way I proposed for some time, though, as may be supposed, I did not find the life among rough seamen and fierce savages as agreeable as I had expected, I at length reached Sydney in New South Wales. I there joined the sandal wood trader, which has been so fearfully destroyed.

“Just before going on board I met an old friend of my father’s, a missionary, whom I had known at home. He spoke to me seriously, and warned me against joining the vessel, knowing as he did, the lawless character of her crew. He offered to obtain my discharge if I would come and live with him. His words made a deep impression on my heart, although I was too self-willed to follow his advice. During the voyage, while we were sailing from island to island, those words often and often recurred to my mind. I in vain attempted to drive them from me. When I saw my companions being put to death—expecting to meet the same fate—how earnestly I wished that I had followed my friend’s counsels. I could only utter, ‘Lord be merciful to me a sinner,’ and entreated God to protect me. When I found myself so unexpectedly preserved, I remembered the prayer I had uttered, and resolved to give myself to the service of God in any way He might open out for me. You now know my brief history, Miss Liddiard. I felt bound to give it you, but I am unwilling to trouble you with more than I have already told you about myself. My name is Charles Norton.”

“You can have no difficulty in finding opportunities of serving God, Mr Norton,” I exclaimed. “When we see thousands and tens of thousands of human beings scattered about this broad Pacific ignorant of Him, and given over to abominable heathen practices, all requiring to be fed with the bread of life. Why should you not prepare yourself to go forth as a missionary among them?”

“I feel that I am too unworthy and sinful to undertake so serious an office,” he said humbly.

“No human being could be qualified to go forth as a missionary of the gospel trusting alone to his own merits, and no one would be found to undertake the office were all influenced by the opinion you express,” I observed. “All must feel their unworthiness and we must take God at His word, and believe that the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin, and then go forth and declare what great things He has done for us. I repeat what I have heard my father say:—We must not trust to our feelings, but we must believe that God is a rewarder of those who diligently serve Him, not only of those who have all along done so.”

“You have given me new life and hope,” exclaimed the young man. “Henceforth, if my life is spared, after having prepared myself for the task, I will devote it to making known the gospel to the poor heathens of these regions.”

Chapter Eight.

While on our passage in the canoe a storm arises.—We are driven far away to leeward of the island.—Abela instructs Tofa in the truth.—Scarcity of food and water.—Our sufferings become intense.—The native crew give way to despair.

Although the sea was rough the canoe had made good progress towards our destination when night came on. The wind had been increasing, and I saw the natives looking anxiously at the sky, which had become overcast. The darkness was intense, and we had no compass in the canoe by which to direct our course. The native boatmen, however, continued steering on, trusting to the wind, which had remained steadily blowing from one quarter. Still, as the waves rose, and our frail canoe pitched and tossed about, it seemed to me that she would be unable to accomplish the passage.

Abela was sitting by us. “Alas,” she exclaimed, “we have escaped the fury of our enemies only, I fear, to perish in the waves.”

“Nay, nay, Abela,” said Maud. “God, who has protected us heretofore, can protect us still. He will find a way for us to escape if it is His will that we should do so.”

“Ah, you are right,” answered Abela, “and I am weak and faithless to doubt His love.”

Still I must confess that it required much strong faith not to feel nervous and alarmed while we saw the dark foaming seas rising up around us, and apparently every moment about to overwhelm our little vessel. The crew had lessened the sail, but yet it seemed scarcely capable of withstanding the furious blasts which struck it. Maud and I, with Abela and the other women, sat close together in the little hut on deck. I observed that Mr Norton and Tofa had come nearer us as if to try and prevent us from being washed away should a sea break on board, which it appeared too probable would occur. The canoe was excessively buoyant, or she could not have escaped being overwhelmed. Onward she continued to fly over the tumbling waters, and we at length, becoming accustomed to the movement of the vessel, began to hope that she would reach the shore in safety, and already the crew were looking out in the expectation of seeing it ahead.

All our hopes were to be disappointed. A furious blast struck the sail, and before it could be lowered it was torn away, with the spars which supported it, and we were left helpless on the wild ocean. To attempt to use the paddles in such a sea was useless. The helmsman had turned the head of the canoe away from the wind, and all that now could be done was to fly before it. The gale increased. On we went, expecting every moment that the seas would overwhelm us.

We could sit quiet and pray, but I felt much for our poor heathen crew, who had no such consolation. Abela had called young Tofa to her side, and was endeavouring to explain to him the glorious truths of the faith she held, he seemed greatly struck by her calm resignation.

“Formerly you would have shrieked out, and trembled with fear,” he observed. “Now you seem as brave as the boldest of our warriors.”

“I am brave, because I know in whom I trust,” answered Abela. “I have the support of the Holy Spirit sent by Jehovah. Though I am by myself still very weak, my soul is at peace, and I know if I am taken away from this world that I shall go to a better and more glorious land, where I shall live with my Saviour, who has redeemed me, and bought me with the price of His most precious blood.”

“Oh, how I wish I could go with you to that glorious land,” said the lad. “But I am not fit; I could not be received there, if Jehovah is the pure and holy Being you say He is.”

“You will be fit to go the moment you accept the offers Jesus makes you, and you are sure to be received there,” answered Abela, and once more she explained to him the simple plan of salvation. “You see, my son, that you have nothing to do; but all has been done for you, to satisfy God’s justice. You are bought by the blood of Jesus. God makes you a free gift of salvation. If He required anything in return it would not be a free gift. If you had anything to pay it would show that the purchase was not completed by Christ. Now God says that the purchase was completed on Calvary, and He tells us that eternal salvation is a free gift; we, therefore, offend God when we want to pay anything to Him in return, and we dishonour the purchase made by Christ when we fancy that it is insufficient. Still, after you have become the servant of Christ, if life is spared you, you will desire to obey Him, and please Him, and do His will by every means in your power. This will show that you have a living faith, and that you are really, as you profess to be, His disciple.”

“Oh, I am sure what you say is true,” exclaimed Tofa. “Although I cannot yet understand it all I believe in Jesus, I trust to Him, I will never never again worship the foolish idols I have till now trusted in. You must tell me all you have said over and over again, for I wish to know all I can about Jesus, that should the canoe be overwhelmed by the sea, I may be ready to go and dwell with Him.”

The young Englishman occasionally spoke to us. He was not ignorant of gospel truth, but, alas, he had long sinned against light and knowledge, and rejected what he knew in his heart to be true. His merciful preservation had been the means of changing that heart, he was really born again, and now the knowledge he possessed seemed to come back to him. Notwithstanding the fearful danger in which we were placed, his manner was calm and composed. He did not speak to us as many a brave worldly man would have done, urging us to keep up our spirits, expressing a hope that the storm would soon abate, and that we should be able to return to the land; he observed only, “we must trust in God’s merciful protection; let us remember that we are in His hands.”

Maud and I responded to what he said.

“Those days I spent in solitude in the mountains have, indeed, been precious days to me, Miss Liddiard,” he continued. “I felt like the prodigal son, who had returned to his father, and the bright gleam of His smile seemed to rest on me. My only regret was, that I had not His word to apply to, but many precious verses which I had learned as a child came back to me, and afforded me comfort and consolation, and then I could pray as I had never prayed before.”

I told him that we had been employed in the same way, and that happily having a Bible we could turn to the sacred page, and draw comfort from the ever flowing fountain.

Thus the hours of darkness passed away. The canoe, from the lightness of her construction, rode easily over the seas, driving, as she now was, directly before the gale, and we were not pitched and tumbled about as we had been when the wind was on her side, and we were attempting to steer for the island. When morning dawned the foaming waters were around us on every side, and we could just distinguish in the far distance, almost astern, the dim outline of the island which we had hoped to reach. Had the weather been moderate the canoe men might have attempted to make their way towards it, but that, was now impossible, and we continued to drive on, leaving it further and further behind. Where we were going we could not tell. The natives knew of no islands in that direction, and I heard them reminding each other of several canoes which had been blown off the land and had not again been heard of.

We asked Mr Norton his opinion. He had, he said, during the last day he was on board examined a chart, and he could afford us but little hope that we should reach any shore where we might obtain a new mast and sail and be able to return the way we had come. “There are islands a long way off; but as the inhabitants, I fear, are savage in the extreme, it would be dangerous to land amongst them,” he added. “Still, though we speak of the dangers we may have to encounter, let us continue, trusting firmly that God is watching over us, and though we cannot yet see the way by which He intends to save us—if such is His good will—He has nevertheless got it ready, while we on our part are bound to make every exertion to preserve our lives. As we may not for a considerable time reach land, I must therefore, in the first place, strongly urge the people to place themselves on an allowance of food and water. We should use as little as will suffice to sustain life, that we may the longer be able to hold out.”

I explained what the young Englishman said to Abela; and she and Tofa spoke to their countrymen, and persuaded them to do as he advised. The wind had somewhat abated, but as it was still too strong to permit of our making head against it, we continued to drive on as before. We read the Bible, and prayed several times during the day, and occasionally some of the heathen crew came, and, kneeling down near us, listened while I read.

Abela, although she had not begun her studies till about two years before this, read very fairly, but she was especially powerful in prayer, and her whole heart and soul seemed lifted up as she poured forth her petitions—seldom failing to exclaim, “Lord be merciful to me a sinner.”

The hours passed on, and we felt that an all-powerful hand was protecting our frail bark from the fury of the seas. When the water washed into the canoe beneath the platform, it was quickly bailed out again, and everything was so firmly secured, that in spite of the tossing and tumbling of the vessel she held as tightly together as at first.

Another day and another and another passed by, and still the strong wind prevented us from attempting to return. Many of the heathen crew appeared to have resigned themselves to their fate, and had it not been for the influence Abela exerted over them—supported as she was by the young Englishman and Tofa—I believe that they would quickly have consumed all the provisions, and have then laid down to die.

We were already feeling the ill effects of the small amount of food we could venture to eat. The sun too, burst forth, and its burning rays striking down upon us; we now, in addition to hunger, began to feel the fearful sufferings of thirst. What must it be should a calm come on! And although the crew might then use their paddles with effect, their strength would be gone, and very many days must pass before we could regain the island from which we had been driven.

Often and often I thought of my poor father. I persuaded myself that he had certainly remained with Mr Hilton, and that had we arrived in safety we should have had the happiness of seeing him. Now should he return to the settlement, what would be his feelings to find it desolate, and to suppose, as he must, that we had shared the fate of the other inhabitants.

Our condition was also becoming, humanly speaking, fearful in the extreme. As I looked at Maud’s pale countenance I feared that she could not long endure such suffering. I was not aware that I looked equally ill. The young Englishman treated us with the most gentle and constant attention; he even insisted on our taking a portion of his scanty allowance of food and water, and when we refused to deprive him of it I am sure that he took means to add it unseen to our shares. At length the gale ceased, the canoe no longer tumbled about, and the heat of the sun’s rays—as they shone upon the glass-like surface of the ocean on which we floated—was intense in the extreme. Abela urged the crew to get out their paddles, but they answered, as I had expected, “we cannot live to reach the island, and when our food and water are exhausted, we will lie down and die. There is nothing else for us to do.”

Chapter Nine.

A Calm.—The canoe floats motionless on the ocean.—Many of our number appear to be dying for want of water.—I fear chiefly for Maud, when a sail is seen, and, with a rising breeze, she approaches.—We are received on board the “True Love,” and kindly treated by Captain Hudson and his wife.

The canoe still floated motionless on the calm ocean, which shone like a sheet of burnished gold. Maud and I lay in each other’s arms, expecting thus to die. Still we could whisper together, and talk of the glories of that heaven we hoped soon to reach. Abela sat like a mother watching over us, but she too was sinking. Of the heathen crew several appeared to be dying, if they were not already dead; but others, who had listened to the Word of Life, gathered round us that they might hear the instruction which Abela, as long as she had the power of speech, afforded them. Young Tofa bore up bravely, and Mr Norton struggled wonderfully with his sufferings. He occasionally rose to his feet and gazed around, as if he still hoped help would come ere it was too late. Another day I felt sure must terminate the existence of most of those on board.

I closed my eyes, feeling a faintness coming over me, when I was aroused by Mr Norton’s voice. I saw him standing up, with his arms outstretched, and his dim eye lighted up.

“A sail! a sail!” he exclaimed. “She is bringing up the breeze—she is standing this way.”

This announcement gave me a strength I did not believe that I possessed—I raised Maud in my arms. “We shall be saved, dearest; our prayers have been heard,” I whispered. She opened her eyes, and seemed to comprehend me.

“We must make a signal, or the vessel may pass us,” said Mr Norton. “Can you direct the natives to assist me? The broken spars, if lashed together, will answer for a flagstaff.”

I explained what the young Englishman required, and Tofa and a few others, although scarcely able to lift themselves from the deck, secured the spars, and fastened them together as he desired. A piece of matting answered for a flag, and the flagstaff was held up on the deck.

How eagerly we watched the distant sail.

“She looks like a whaler, and if so, a bright look-out is certain to be kept on board,” observed Mr Norton.

On she came. Unless our small flag was observed, as the deck of the canoe rose but a few feet above the water, should she pass only a mile or two on either side she might sail away without noticing us. We did not forget to pray that we might be seen. She came nearer and nearer. At length, to our joy, we saw a flag run up to her mast-head as an answer to our signal.

We were seen. Still the breeze was light, and the ship seemed to be a long time coming up to us.

Every moment was of consequence. I dreaded lest aid should come too late for dear Maud, while several others appeared unable to last much longer.

How often do we mistrust God’s mercy. The vessel came close to us, and heaving-to, a boat was lowered.

“She is a whaler,” exclaimed Mr Norton. “Water, water—bring water with you,” he shouted; but his voice was faint and hollow, he pointed to his lips.

The sign was understood, for the boat put back, and a cask was lowered into it. In another minute, with sturdy strokes, the boat’s crew dashed alongside. We heard the sound of English voices.

“You seem in a sad plight, my lad,” said the officer of the boat. “We thought you were all savages. Are there any more of you on board?”

Mr Norton pointed to where Maud and I lay. The cask of water was lifted on deck, and the officer approached us with a cup. I begged him to give Maud some. He poured a few drops down her throat.

“Come, young lady, you must take some now,” he said.

How delicious was that draught—it almost instantly revived me. I gave Maud some more, and then offered the cup to Abela. Those of the crew who could move crawled towards the cask. The young seaman poured it out from the cask into their hands, that they might obtain it sooner. I remember thinking it a fearful waste that any of the precious liquid should be spilled. Not till all the rest had received some water would Mr Norton take the cup which the mate offered him.

“Now, young ladies, the sooner we get you on board, where our captain and his good wife will look after you, the better,” exclaimed the mate, as he offered to carry us to the boat. I begged that Abela might be brought with us. He lifted me up in his arms as if I had been a feather, and others followed, with Maud and Abela. Mr Norton had scarcely strength to reach the boat. I explained that Tofa was a chief’s son, and that having rendered us great service, I begged that he might be treated with attention.

In a few minutes we were on board the “True Love,” and in Captain Hudson’s cabin, under the care of his kind motherly wife. She almost shed tears as she saw us; Maud especially excited her sympathy.

“Poor dear child, she could not have lasted another hour, and she now will require all the care we can bestow on her. And we must look after you too,” she added, addressing me. “I wonder you have held out so well. You must tell me all about it by-and-by. You are too weak to talk now. I cannot get a word out of any one else—not even from the young Englishman. He fainted on reaching the deck, and my husband is attending to him; but you need not be alarmed, he will come round in time.”

I inquired for Abela.

“The native woman is in one of the mate’s cabins. I will go and attend to her directly, and all the rest who are alive are safe on board; but five or six of the poor Indians were dead, I am told, before they could be lifted from the deck of the canoe.”

I grieved much to hear this, for I had entertained hopes that all when brought under Christian instruction would have accepted the truth; but God’s ways are inscrutable—we only know that they are just and right.

Soon after Mrs Hudson had placed me in bed, I sank into a state of almost insensibility, and was conscious only that I was attended by a kind hand. I could neither speak nor think, and knew not to what place the ship was carrying us. My first inquiry on coming to myself, when I saw Mrs Hudson standing over me, was for dear Maud. My heart leaped with joy when I heard her voice saying, “I am here Mary—I am so very very glad to hear you speaking again.” I found that she was lying on a sofa outside my cabin, to which Mrs Hudson said she had entreated to be brought, that she might be near me. Abela, I found was also recovering, and Mr Norton was well, and devoted himself to the care of the sufferers, some of whom were still in a precarious state.

“He is trying to learn their language, and the young prince is never weary in giving him instruction,” said Mrs Hudson.

“They call Tofa the young prince, because the rest of his people pay him so much respect,” observed Maud.

I was truly thankful to hear this of Mr Norton. I should have trembled for him, lest after getting safely on board the ship had he shown that he had forgotten his good resolutions.

“That young Englishman is a very superior person indeed,” observed Mrs Hudson. “He has made inquiries about you and your sister every hour in the day, and I really believe had you been taken from us it would have broken his heart; he looked so anxious when I told him how ill you were. He constantly also speaks to our crew, and reads the Bible to them, and prays with them in the forecastle. They seem very well pleased to hear him, and though my husband has prayers every Sunday, he cannot go among them and talk to them in the familiar way this young man does. He tells me, though I am sure he is a gentleman born by his manners, that he has served before the mast, and therefore knows their habits and ways, and that there is nothing like being on an equality with people to win their hearts.”

“Yes, that is what a missionary must be if he follows the example of his Master,” I said. “Jesus made Himself equal to the poorest, and of no reputation, that He might gain souls to Himself.”

“Ah yes, my dear young lady, if all ministers of the gospel as well as missionaries acted thus, His blessed religion would make more progress in the world than it now does.”

In addition to my other causes of gratitude I thanked God that we had been taken on board a ship commanded by a believing captain, with a kind excellent wife. Through His mercy we were greatly indebted to Mrs Hudson’s constant and affectionate care for our recovery.

Chapter Ten.

Maud and I with most of our party recover.—Mr Norton instructs the crew, and proves that he is really converted.—The great kindness of Captain and Mrs Hudson.—They offer to take us to England, but we resolve to remain on an island inhabited by Christians, on which we land, that we may devote ourselves to missionary work.—Maud is restored to her parents.—Captain Hudson, on a subsequent voyage, brings my Father to us, and I, having become the wife of Mr Norton, we return to our island, where Masaugu having become a Christian, with Lisele and her husband, are residing.—The whole of the inhabitants before my father’s death being also converted to the truth.

We had been many days on board, and Maud and I were able to enjoy the fresh air on deck, where Captain Hudson warmly congratulated us, in his fatherly manner, on our recovery; arranging cushions on which we could recline—for we were still too weak to sit up—and kindly doing all he could for us. How glad we were again to see Abela and her companions, and to comfort them in their sorrow, for they believed that they should never again see their native land.

Young Tofa, however, was perfectly content. “I shall learn more about the religion of Jehovah, and that will be my support wherever I am,” he observed.

Mr Norton came up and spoke to us so gently, and yet with unmistakable earnestness in his mariner. “Oh Miss Liddiard,” he said, “I am now more than ever sure that our merciful Father in heaven hears the prayers of the greatest of sinners who have returned to Him. I have never ceased beseeching Him that you might be restored to health, and that while you may enjoy happiness yourself, you may prove a blessing to many of our fellow-creatures.”

“I do indeed hope that I may be of use to some,” I answered. “I desire no greater happiness than to be employed in God’s service.”

“Such will, I believe, be the occupation of the blessed throughout eternity, although He has not revealed to His creatures the way in which they are to be employed. That surpasses human comprehension,” he observed.

A few days after this we came in sight of a high and picturesque island, even more beautiful than the one we had left.

“My dear young lady,” said Captain Hudson, “I should be very sorry to part with you, and would gladly have carried you with me to old England, but the poor natives are, I am sure, anxious to be put on shore, and as an English missionary resides on yonder island, and all the inhabitants are Christians, I thought it best to go there to land those who desire to land. Will you and your sister remain with us? The ship’s time in these seas will soon be up, and when we get to England our house shall be your home. We have no children of our own, and my wife and I will do our best to act the part of the parents you have lost.”

My heart swelled with gratitude to the kind captain and his wife. I could scarcely speak. I had often thought of England, and how delightful it would be to see it, but I had resolved to devote myself, as my dear father and mother had done, in endeavouring to make known the gospel among the heathen islanders. I knew their language and customs, and felt that I was suited for the task. I was sure also that Maud would not consent to leave me; still, I did not wish to bias her should she desire to accept Captain and Mrs Hudson’s offer. My eyes filled with tears as I took the captain’s hand, and expressed my gratitude for his generous proposal. I told him the object on which my heart was set, and had it not been for that, how thankful I should have been to accept his offer. I then explained that Maud was not my sister, and gave him her history, adding, that she would indeed be fortunate to have such kind protectors as I was sure he and Mrs Hudson would prove.

“I will ask her,” said the captain. “But I should like to have had you both.”

I waited anxiously to hear what Maud would say, earnestly praying meantime that she would be directed aright. I had closed my eyes, when I felt Maud’s arms round me. “I cannot, no I cannot leave you, dear Mary, where you go I will go,” she whispered. “If you had said yes to the good captain I would gladly have accompanied you. If you remain out here I will remain also.”

As we neared the harbour a canoe, manned by natives in white jackets and trousers and straw hats, came off. One of them, in good English, announced himself as a pilot, and under his charge the “True Love” was safely conducted into a secure and beautiful harbour, where her anchor was dropped. Neat white-washed houses lined the shore; beyond them rose several buildings of good size, the largest of which was a stone church with tower and belfry. Plantations extended on every side as far as the eye could reach. Everything wore an aspect of peace and contentment. How different from that of the heathen island we had left! Yet a short time before the numerous dark skinned natives, well clothed and in their right minds, were naked heathen savages, such as those among whom we had dwelt, and often despaired would ever be brought to know the truths of the gospel.

The boat was lowered, and Maud and I, with Mr Norton, Abela, and Tofa, were seated in her, accompanied by Captain and Mrs Hudson, on our way to the house of Mr Arnold, the missionary of which they had before spoken, and to whom, they had told us, they were well-known. On landing we proceeded along a well made clean road, at the further end of which, some way from the shore, stood Mr Arnold’s house. How neat and beautiful it looked, with its garden full of flowering shrubs, and a broad verandah in front!

Mr Arnold came out to meet us, followed by his wife. A few words from Captain Hudson served to explain who we were.

“Indeed you are welcome, most welcome,” he exclaimed, taking our hands. “We have enough and to spare, and there is work for all of you if, as I trust, you are willing to labour in the Lord’s vineyard.”

We were soon seated around the missionary’s hospitable board, for Captain Hudson’s ship was well-known, and Mrs Arnold had been preparing for the guests she was sure would come before they left the Pacific. She was an interesting looking lady, but there was an expression of sadness in her countenance, which at once struck me. Our host and hostess had, of course, many questions to ask, and we gave them an account of the dreadful events which had occurred to us. Captain Hudson told them of his wish to carry us on with him to England.

“We only desire to have willing labourers,” observed Mr Arnold, “and they having counted the cost must decide for themselves. They have some experience what it is; and you, Mr Norton, do you intend to return home?” he asked.

“My desire is, the Lord helping me, to prepare myself for a missionary among the heathen islanders of these seas,” he answered. “I have counted the cost, and with God’s grace I hope not to turn back.”

Mr Arnold warmly pressed his hand. “We will pray that His grace will ever continue with you,” he said. I felt an infinite satisfaction at hearing this.

While the gentlemen went out to walk we remained with Mrs Arnold, who gave us much interesting information about their island, and her account raised my hopes that our own poor savages, as I called them, might some day enjoy the same inestimable blessings, and that smiling villages and churches and schools might appear throughout the island.

On Mr Arnold’s return I saw that he was greatly agitated, and cast an eager inquiring glance at Maud. He advanced towards her, but seemingly restrained himself, and taking his wife by the hand, led her from the room.

During their absence Captain Hudson, sitting down by Maud, to my great surprise said, “Do you think, my dear, that the poor lady you supposed was your mother was really so?”

Maud started, then seemed lost in thought. “She was very, very kind to me, and I used to call her ‘mamma,’ because I had no other mamma then, but I have a faint idea that there was some one else whom I loved still better, and who had given me to her, saying, that we should meet again.”

“Then I think there is no doubt it,” exclaimed Captain Hudson. “Suppose you were to find your real father and mother, could you bear the joy of meeting them?” he asked.

Maud trembled all over, and I now began to suspect the truth. In a few minutes Mr and Mrs Arnold re-entered the room. I was surprised at the wonderful command which Mr Arnold had over himself. He placed his wife on a sofa, and then led Maud up to her.

“It may be that we are in error,” he said, “but God’s goodness is great, and such as this dear girl is might have been our child.”

Mrs Arnold gazed at Maud’s features for a few moments, then hastily took off her tippet. On her neck was a well-known mark which assured her that her hopes were realised. She drew her to her bosom and sobbed aloud.

We truly grieved to part with good Captain and Mrs Hudson, but we were to meet ere long again. Our heathen crew were soon distributed among the inhabitants, and all of them earnestly desired to be instructed in the truth. Tofa made rapid progress in his studies under Mr Arnold, and expressed his ardent wish to return as a missionary to his native land. Mrs Norton laboured devotedly as a catechist, and rendered the greatest service to Mr Arnold in his work, while Maud and I assisted Mrs Arnold in the girls’ school, as we had been accustomed to do under my dear mother, while Abela was of great use among the older women.

Two years passed by, when it was announced that the “True Love” was once more entering the harbour. We hastened down to the landing-place to meet our kind old friend. We saw the boat coming with the captain and his wife and a gentleman with them. Captain Hudson assisted him to land. He gazed anxiously at us as we approached, then tottered towards me with arms outstretched.

My joy was full. He was my dear father. He had supposed we had all perished, till Captain Hudson, a short time before, had put in to visit Mr Hilton’s station. His former faith had supported him through all his afflictions, and now, how full was his heart with gratitude at having me restored to him. I saw by his thin and wasted figure and pale countenance how much he required a daughter’s care. He brought glorious intelligence from our island.

Masaugu had become a devoted Christian, and having made peace with his former foes, had, accompanied by Lisele, returned home, many of his people having also cast aside their idols.

I have not hitherto said that a short time before Mr Norton had asked me to become his wife. My father, hearing of his character from Mr Arnold, gave his full consent. Captain Hudson was bound in the direction of our island. With my devoted husband and father, accompanied by Abela and Tofa and several of our formerly heathen crew, we embarked on board the “True Love.”

I could not have borne parting with Maud had I not known that she was left with loving parents, who would amply supply my place as my husband supplied hers in my heart.

I need not say how joyfully we were welcomed by Lisele and her Christian husband, the young chief. We had, notwithstanding, many difficulties to encounter. The heathens offered all the opposition in their power, but at length they were conquered,—not by force of arms, but by the power of gospel truth, and ere my dear father was laid beside my mother’s grave, he had the happiness of seeing the once heathen inhabitants of our island, as also of many others in the Pacific, cast aside their idols and become faithful worshippers of Jehovah, trusting to the all-cleansing of the blood of the Lamb slain on Calvary for sinners.

Finis.

William H G Kingston

"Michael Penguyne"

Chapter One.

As the sun rose over the Lizard, the southernmost point of old England, his rays fell on the tanned sails of a fleet of boats bounding lightly across the heaving waves before a fresh westerly breeze. The distant shore, presenting a line of tall cliffs, towards which the boats were steering, still lay in the deepest shade.

Each boat was laden with a large heap of nets and several baskets filled with brightly-shining fish.

In the stern of one, tiller in hand, sat a strongly-built man, whose deeply-furrowed countenance and grizzled hair showed that he had been for many a year a toiler on the ocean. By his side was a boy of about twelve years of age, dressed in flushing coat and sou’wester, busily employed with a marline-spike, in splicing an eye to a rope’s-end.

The elder fisherman, now looking up at his sails, now stooping down to get a glance beneath them at the shore, and then turning his head towards the south-west, where heavy clouds were gathering fast, meanwhile cast an approving look at the boy.

“Ye are turning in that eye smartly and well, Michael,” he said. “Whatever you do, try and do it in that fashion. It has been my wish to teach you what is right as well as I know it. Try not only to please man, my boy, but to love and serve God, whose eye is always on you. Don’t forget the golden rule either: ‘Do to others as you would they should do to you.’”

“I have always wished to understand what you have told me, and tried to obey you, father,” said the boy.

“You have been a good lad, Michael, and have more than repaid me for any trouble you may have caused me. You are getting a big boy now, though, and it’s time that you should know certain matters about yourself which no one else is so well able to tell you as I am.”

The boy looked up from his work, wondering what Paul Trefusis was going to say.

“You know, lad, that you are called Michael Penguyne, and that my name is Paul Trefusis. Has it never crossed your mind that though I have always treated you as a son—and you have ever behaved towards me as a good and dutiful son should behave—that you were not really my own child?”

“To say the truth, I have never thought about it, father,” answered the boy, looking up frankly in the old man’s face. “I am oftener called Trefusis than Penguyne, so I fancied that Penguyne was another name tacked on to Michael, and that Trefusis was just as much my name as yours. And oh! father, I would rather be your child than the son of anybody else.”

“There is no harm in wishing that, Michael; but it’s as well that you should know the real state of the case, and as I cannot say what may happen to me, I do not wish to put off telling you any longer. I am not as strong and young as I once was, and maybe God will think fit to take me away before I have reached the threescore years and ten which He allows some to live. We should not put off doing to another time what can be done now, and so you see I wish to say what has been on my mind to tell you for many a day past, though I have not liked to say it, lest it should in any way grieve you. You promise me, Michael, you won’t let it do that? You know how much I and granny and Nelly love you, and will go on loving you as much as ever.”

“I know you do, father, and so do granny and Nelly; I am sure they love me,” said the boy gazing earnestly into Paul’s face, with wonder and a shade of sorrow depicted on his own countenance.

“That’s true,” said Paul. “But about what I was going to say to you.

“My wife, who is gone to heaven, Nelly’s mother, and I, never had another child but her. Your father, Michael, as true-hearted a seaman as ever stepped, had been my friend and shipmate for many a long year. We were bred together, and had belonged to the same boat fishing off this coast till we were grown men, when at last we took it into our heads to wish to visit foreign climes, and so we went to sea together. After knocking about for some years, and going to all parts of the world, we returned home, and both fell in love, and married. Your mother was an orphan, without kith or kin, that your father could hear of—a good, pretty girl she was, and worthy of him.

“We made up our minds that we would stay on shore and follow our old calling and look after our wives and families. We had saved some money, but it did not go as far as we thought it would, and we agreed that if we could make just one more trip to sea, we should gain enough for what we wanted.

“You were about two years old, and my Nelly was just born.

“We went to Falmouth, where ships often put in, wanting hands, and masters are ready to pay good wages to obtain them. We hadn’t been there a day, when we engaged on board a ship bound out to the West Indies. As she was not likely to be long absent, this just suited us. Your father got a berth as third mate, for he was the best scholar, and I shipped as boatswain.

“We made the voyage out, and had just reached the chops of the Channel, coming back, bound for Bristol, and hoping in a few days to be home again with our wives, when thick weather came on, and a heavy gale of wind sprang up. It blew harder and harder. Whether or not the captain was out of his reckoning I cannot say, but I suspect he was. Before long, our sails were blown away, and our foremast went by the board. We did our best to keep the ship off the shore, for all know well that it is about as dangerous a one as is to be found round England.

“The night was dark as pitch, the gale still increasing.

“‘Paul,’ said your father to me as we were standing together, ‘you and I may never see another sun rise; but still one of us may escape. You remember the promise we made each other.’

“‘Yes, Michael,’ I said, ‘that I do, and hope to keep it.’

“The promise was that if one should be lost and the other saved, he who escaped should look after the wife and family of the one who was lost.

“I had scarcely answered him when the look-out forward shouted ‘Breakers ahead!’ and before the ship’s course could be altered, down she came, crashing on the rocks. It was all up with the craft; the seas came dashing over her, and many of those on deck were washed away. The unfortunate passengers rushed up from below, and in an instant were swept overboard.

“The captain ordered the remaining masts to be cut away, to ease the ship; but it did no good, and just as the last fell she broke in two, and all on board were cast into the water, I found myself clinging with your father to one of the masts. The head of the mast was resting on a rock. We made our way along it; I believed that others were following; but just as we reached the rock the mast was carried away, and he and I found that we alone had escaped.

“The seas rose up foaming around us, and every moment we expected to be washed away. Though we knew many were perishing close around us we had no means of helping them. All we could do was to cling on and try and save our own lives.

“‘I hope we shall get back home yet, Michael,’ I said, wishing to cheer your father, for he was more down-hearted than usual.

“‘I hope so, Paul, but I don’t know; God’s will be done, whatever that will is. Paul, you will meet me in heaven, I hope,’ he answered, for he was a Christian man. ‘If I am taken, you will look after Mary and my boy,’ he added. Again I promised him, and I knew to a certainty that he would look after my Nelly, should he be saved and I drowned.

“When the morning came at last scarcely a timber or plank of the wreck was to be seen. What hope of escape had either of us? The foaming waters raged around, and we were half perished with cold and hunger. On looking about I found a small spar washed up on the rock, and, fastening our handkerchiefs together, we rigged out a flag, but there was little chance of a boat putting off in such weather and coming near enough to see it. We now knew that we were not far off the Land’s End, on one of two rocks called The Sisters, with the village of Senum abreast of us.

“Your father and I looked in each other’s faces; we felt that there was little hope that we should ever see our wives and infants again. Still we spoke of the promise we had made each other—not that there was any need of that, for we neither of us were likely to forget it.

“The spring tides were coming on, and though we had escaped as yet, the sea might before long break over the rock and carry us away. Even if it did not we must die of hunger and thirst, should no craft come to our rescue.

“We kept our eyes fixed on the distant shore; they ached with the strain we put on them, as we tried to make out whether any boat was being launched to come off to us.

“A whole day passed—another night came on. We did not expect to see the sun rise again. Already the seas as they struck the rock sent the foam flying over us, and again and again washed up close to where we were sitting.

“Notwithstanding our fears, daylight once more broke upon us, but what with cold and hunger we were well-nigh dead.

“Your father was a stronger man than I fancied myself, and yet he now seemed most broken down. He could scarcely stand to wave our flag.

“The day wore on, the wind veered a few points to the nor’ard, and the sun burst out now and then from among the clouds, and, just as we were giving up all hope, his light fell on the sails of a boat which had just before put off from the shore. She breasted the waves bravely. Was she, though, coming towards us? We could not have been seen so far off. Still on she came, the wind allowing her to be close-hauled to steer towards the rock. The tide meantime was rapidly rising. If she did not reach us soon, we knew too well that the sea would come foaming over the rock and carry us away.

“I stood up and waved our flag. Still the boat stood on; the spray was beating in heavy showers over her, and it was as much as she could do to look up to her canvas. Sometimes as I watched her I feared that the brave fellows who were coming to our rescue would share the fate which was likely to befall us. She neared the rock. I tried to cheer up your father.

“‘In five minutes we shall be safe on board, Michael,’ I said.

“‘Much may happen in five minutes, Paul; but you will not forget my Mary and little boy,’ he answered.

“‘No fear of that,’ I said; ‘but you will be at home to look after them yourself.’

“I tried to cheer as the boat came close to the rock, but my voice failed me.

“The sails were lowered and she pulled in. A rope was hove, and I caught it. I was about to make it fast round your father.

“‘You go first, Paul,’ he said. ‘If you reach the boat I will try to follow, but there is no use for me to try now; I should be drowned before I got half way.’

“Still I tried to secure the rope round him, but he resisted all my efforts. At last I saw that I must go, or we should both be lost, and I hoped to get the boat in nearer and to return with a second rope to help him.

“I made the rope fast round my waist and plunged in. I had hard work to reach the boat; I did not know how weak I was. At last I was hauled on board, and was singing out for a rope, when the people in the boat uttered a cry, and looking up I saw a huge sea come rolling along. Over the rock it swept, taking off your poor father. I leapt overboard with the rope still round my waist, in the hopes of catching him, but in a moment he was hidden from my sight, and, more dead than alive, I was again hauled on board.

“The crew of the boat pulled away from the rock; they knew that all hopes of saving my friend were gone. Sail was made, and we stood for the shore.

“The people at the village attended me kindly, but many days passed before I was able to move.

“As soon as I had got strength enough, with a sad heart I set out homewards. How could I face your poor mother, and tell her that her husband was gone? I would send my own dear wife, I thought, to break the news to her.

“As I reached my own door I heard a child’s cry; it was that of my little Nelly, and granny’s voice trying to soothe her.

“I peeped in at the window. There sat granny, with the child on her knee, but my wife was not there. She has gone to market, I thought. Still my heart sank within me. I gained courage to go in.

“‘Where is Nelly?’ I asked, as granny, with the baby in her arms, rose to meet me.

“‘Here is the only Nelly you have got, my poor Paul,’ she said, giving me the child.

“I felt as if my heart would break. I could not bring myself to ask how or when my wife had died. Granny told me, however, for she knew it must be told, and the sooner it was over the better. She had been taken with a fever soon after I had left home.

“It was long before I recovered myself.

“‘I must go and tell the sad news I bring to poor Mary,’ I said.

“Granny shook her head.

“‘She is very bad, it will go well-nigh to kill her outright,’ she observed.

“I would have got granny to go, but I wanted to tell your poor mother of my promise to your father, and, though it made my heartache, I determined to go myself.

“I found her, with you by her side.

“‘Here is father,’ you cried out, but your mother looked up, and seemed to know in a moment what had happened.

“‘Where is Michael?’ she asked.

“‘You know, Mary, your husband and I promised to look after each other’s children, if one was taken and the other left; and I mean to keep my promise to look after you and your little boy.’

“Your mother knew, by what I said, that your father was gone.

“‘God’s will be done,’ she murmured; ‘He knows what is best—I hope soon to be with him.’

“Before the month was out we carried your poor mother to her grave, and I took you to live with granny and Nelly.

“There, Michael, you know all I can tell you about yourself. I have had hard times now and then, but I have done my duty to you; and I say again, Michael, you have always been a good and dutiful boy, and not a fault have I had to find with you.”

“Thank you, father, for saying that; and you will still let me call you father, for I cannot bring myself to believe that I am not really your son.”

“That I will, Michael; a son you have always been to me, and my son I wish you to remain. And, Michael, as I have watched over you, so I want you to watch over my little Nelly. Should I be called away, be a brother and true friend to her, for I know not to what dangers she may be exposed. Granny is old, and her years on earth may be few, and when she is gone, Michael, Nelly will have no one to look to but you. She has no kith nor kin, that I know of, able or willing to take care of her. Her mother’s brother and only sister went to Australia years ago, and no news has ever come of them since, and my brothers found their graves in the deep sea, so that Nelly will be alone in the world. That is the only thing that troubles me, and often makes me feel sad when we are away at night, and the wind blows strong and the sea runs high, and I think of the many I have known who have lost their lives in stouter boats than mine. But God is merciful; He has promised to take care of the widow and orphan, and He will keep His word. I know that, and so I again look up and try to drive all mistrustful thoughts of His goodness from my mind.”

“Father, while I have life I will take care of Nelly, and pray for her, and, if needs be, fight for her,” exclaimed Michael.

He spoke earnestly and with all sincerity, for he intended, God willing, to keep his word.

Chapter Two.

The fleet of fishing-boats as they approached the coast steered in different directions, some keeping towards Kynance and Landewednach, while Paul Trefusis shaped his course for Mullyan Cove, towards the north, passing close round the lofty Gull Rock, which stands in solitary grandeur far away from the shore, braving the fierce waves as they roll in from the broad Atlantic.

Asparagus Island and Lion Rock opened out to view, while the red and green sides of the precipitous serpentine cliffs could now be distinguished, assuming various fantastic shapes: one shaped into a complete arch, another the form of a gigantic steeple, with several caves penetrating deep into the cliff, on a level with the narrow belt of yellow sand.

Young Michael, though accustomed from his childhood to the wild and romantic scenery, had never passed that way without looking at it with an eye of interest, and wondering how those cliffs and rocks came to assume the curious forms they wore.

The little “Wild Duck,” for that was the name Paul Trefusis had given his boat, continued her course, flying before the fast increasing gale close inshore, to avoid the strong tide which swept away to the southward, till, rounding a point, she entered the mouth of a narrow inlet which afforded shelter to a few boats and small craft. It was a wild, almost savage-looking place, though extremely picturesque. On either side were rugged and broken cliffs, in some parts rising sheer out of the water to the gorse-covered downs above, in others broken in terraces and ledges, affording space for a few fishermen’s cottages and huts, which were seen perched here and there, looking down on the tranquil water of the harbour.

The inlet made a sharp bend a short distance from its mouth, so that, as Paul’s boat proceeded upwards, the view of the sea being completely shut out, it bore the appearance of a lake. At the further end a stream of water came rushing down over the summit of the cliffs, dashing from ledge to ledge, now breaking into masses of foam, now descending perpendicularly many feet, now running along a rapid incline, and serving to turn a small flour-mill built a short way up on the side of the cliff above the harbour.

Steep as were the cliffs, a zigzag road had been cut in them, leading from the downs above almost to the mouth of the harbour, where a rock which rose directly out of the water formed a natural quay, on which the fishing-boats could land their cargoes. Beyond this the road was rough and steep, and fitted only for people on foot, or donkeys with their panniers, to go up and down. Art had done little to the place.

The little “Wild Duck,” a few moments before tossed and tumbled by the angry seas, now glided smoothly along for a few hundred yards, when the sails were lowered, and she floated up to a dock between two rocks. Hence, a rough pathway led from one of the cottages perched on the side of the cliff. At a distance it could scarcely have been distinguished from the cliff itself. Its walls were composed of large blocks of unhewn serpentine, masses of clay filling up the interstices, while it was roofed with a thick dark thatch, tightly fastened down with ropes, and still further secured by slabs of stone to prevent its being carried away by the fierce blasts which are wont to sweep up and down the ravine in winter.

There was space enough on either side of the cottage for a small garden, which appeared to be carefully cultivated, and was enclosed by a stone wall. At the upper part of the pathway a flight of steps, roughly hewn in the rock, led to the cottage door.

The door opened as soon as Paul’s boat rounded the point, and a young girl with a small creel or fish basket at her back was seen lightly tripping down the pathway, followed by an old woman, who, though she supported her steps with a staff, also carried a creel of the ordinary size. She wore a large broad-brimmed black hat, and a gaily-coloured calico jacket over her winsey skirt; an apron, and shoes with metal buckles, completing the ordinary costume of a fish-wife of that district. Little Nelly was dressed very like her grandmother, except that her feet were bare, and that she had a necklace of small shells round her throat. Her face was pretty and intelligent, her well-browned cheeks glowed with the hue of health, her eyes were large and grey, and her black hair, drawn up off her forehead, hung in neat plaits tied with ribbons behind her back. Nelly Trefusis was indeed a good specimen of a young fisher-girl.

She tripped lightly down the pathway, springing to the top of the outermost rock just before her father’s boat glided by it, and in an instant stepping nimbly on board, she threw herself into his arms and bestowed a kiss on his weather-beaten brow.

Michael had leaped on shore to fend off the boat, so that he lost the greeting she would have given him.

“You have had a good haul with the nets to-night, father,” she said, looking into the baskets; “Granny and I can scarce carry half of them to market, and unless Abel Mawgan the hawker comes in time to buy them, you and Michael will have work to do to salt them down.”

“It is well that we should have had a good haul, Nelly, for dirty weather is coming on, and it may be many a day before we are able to cast our nets again,” answered Paul, looking up affectionately at his child, while he began with a well-practised hand to stow the boat’s sail.

Nelly meantime was filling her creel with fish, that she might lessen the weight of the baskets which her father and Michael had to lift on shore. As soon as it was full she stepped back on the rock, giving a kiss to Michael as she passed him.

The baskets were soon landed, and the creel being filled, she and Nelly ascended the hill, followed by Paul and Michael, who, carrying the baskets between them, brought up the remainder of the fish.

Breakfast, welcome to those who had been toiling all night, had been placed ready on the table, and leaving Paul and his boy to discuss it, Polly Lanreath, as the old dame was generally called, and her little granddaughter, set off on their long journey over the downs to dispose of their fish at Helston, or at the villages and the few gentlemen’s houses they passed on their way. It was a long distance for the old woman and girl to go, but they went willingly whenever fish had been caught, for they depended on its sale for their livelihood, and neither Paul nor Michael could have undertaken the duty, nor would they have sold the fish so well as the dame and Nelly, who were welcomed whenever they appeared. Their customers knew that they could depend on their word when they mentioned the very hour when the fish were landed.

The old dame’s tongue wagged cheerfully as she walked along with Nelly by her side, and she often beguiled the way with tales and anecdotes of bygone days, and ancient Cornish legends which few but herself remembered. Nelly listened with eager ears, and stored away in her memory all she heard, and often when they got back in the evening she would beg her granny to recount again for the benefit of her father and Michael the stories she had told in the morning.

She had a cheerful greeting, too, for all she met; for some she had a quiet joke; for the giddy and careless a word of warning, which came with good effect from one whom all respected. At the cottages of the poor she was always a welcome visitor, while at the houses of the more wealthy she was treated with courtesy and kindness; and many a housewife who might have been doubtful about buying fish that day, when the dame and her granddaughter arrived, made up her mind to assist in lightening Nelly’s creel by selecting some of its contents.

The dame, as her own load decreased, would always insist on taking some of her granddaughter’s, deeming that the little maiden had enough to do to trot on so many miles by her side, without having to carry a burden on her back in addition. Nelly would declare that she did not feel the weight, but the sturdy old dame generally gained her point, though she might consent to replenish Nelly’s basket before entering the town, for some of their customers preferred the fish which the bright little damsel offered them for sale to those in her grandmother’s creel.

Thus, though their daily toil was severe, and carried on under summer’s sun, or autumn’s gales, and winter’s rain and sleet, they themselves were ever cheerful and contented, and seldom failed to return home with empty creels and well-filled purses.

Paul Trefusis might thus have been able to lay by a store for the time when the dame could no longer trudge over the country as she had hitherto done, and he unable to put off with nets or lines to catch fish; but often for weeks together the gales of that stormy coast prevented him from venturing to sea, and the vegetables and potatoes produced in his garden, and the few fish he and Michael could catch in the harbour, were insufficient to support their little household, so that at the end of each year Paul found himself no richer than at the beginning.

While Nelly and her grandmother and the other women of the village were employed in selling the fish, the men had plenty of occupation during the day in drying and mending their nets, and repairing their boats, while some time was required to obtain the necessary sleep of which their nightly toil had deprived them. Those toilers of the sea were seldom idle. When bad weather prevented them from going far from the coast, they fished with lines, or laid down their lobster-pots among the rocks close inshore, while occasionally a few fish were to be caught in the waters of their little harbour. Most of them also cultivated patches of ground on the sides of the valley which opened out at the further end of the gorge, but, except potatoes, their fields afforded but precarious crops.

Paul and Michael had performed most of their destined task: the net had been spread along the rocks to dry, and two or three rents, caused by the fisherman’s foes, some huge conger or cod-fish, had been repaired. A portion of their fish had been sold to Abel Mawgan, and the remainder had been salted for their own use, when Paul, who had been going about his work with less than his usual spirit, complained of pains in his back and limbs. Leaving Michael to clean out the boat and moor her, and to bring up the oars and other gear, he went into the cottage to lie down and rest.

Little perhaps did the strong and hardy fisherman suppose, as he threw himself on his bunk in the little chamber where he and Michael slept, that he should never again rise, and that his last trip on the salt sea had been taken—that for the last time he had hauled his nets, that his life’s work was done. Yet he might have had some presentiment of what was going to happen as he sailed homewards that morning, when he resolved to tell Michael about his parents, and gave him the account of his father’s death which has been described.

The young fisher boy went on board the “Wild Duck,” and was busily employed in cleaning her out, thinking over what he had heard in the morning. Whilst thus engaged, he saw a small boat coming down from the head of the harbour towards him, pulled by a lad somewhat older than himself.

“There is Eban Cowan, the miller’s son. I suppose he is coming here. I wonder what he wants?” he thought. “The ‘Polly’ was out last night, and got a good haul, so it cannot be for fish.”

Michael was right in supposing that Eban Cowan was coming to their landing-place. The lad in the punt pulled up alongside the “Wild Duck.”

“How fares it with you, Michael?” he said, putting out his hand. “You did well this morning, I suspect, like most of us. Did Abel Mawgan buy all your ‘catch’? He took the whole of ours.”

“No, granny and Nelly started off to Helston with their creels full, as they can get a much better price than Mawgan will give,” answered Michael.

“I am sorry that Nelly is away, for I have brought her some shells I promised her a month ago. But as I have nothing to do, I will bide with you till she comes back.”

“She and granny won’t be back till late, I am afraid, and you lose your time staying here,” said Michael.

“Never mind, I will lend you a hand,” said Eban, making his punt fast, and stepping on board the “Wild Duck.”

He was a fine, handsome, broad-shouldered lad, with dark eyes and hair, and with a complexion more like that of an inhabitant of the south than of an English boy.

He took up a mop as he spoke, whisking up the bits of seaweed and fish-scales which covered the bottom of the boat.

“Thank you,” said Michael; “I won’t ask you to stop, for I must go and turn in and get some sleep. Father does not seem very well, and I shall have more work in the evening.”

“What is the matter with Uncle Paul?” asked Eban.

Michael told him that he had been complaining since the morning, but he hoped the night’s rest would set him to rights.

“You won’t want to go to sea to-night. It’s blowing hard outside, and likely to come on worse,” observed Eban.

Though he called Paul “uncle,” there was no relationship. He merely used the term of respect common in Cornwall when a younger speaks of an older man.

Eban, however, did not take Michael’s hint, but continued working away in the boat till she was completely put to rights.

“Now,” he said, “I will help you up with the oars and sails. You have more than enough to do, it seems to me, for a small fellow like you.”

“I am able to do it,” answered Michael; “and I am thankful that I can.”

“You live hard, though, and your father grows no richer,” observed Eban. “If he did as others do, and as my father has advised him many a time, he would be a richer man, and you and your sister and Aunt Lanreath would not have to toil early and late, and wear the life out of you as you do. I hope you will be wiser.”

“I know my father is right, whatever he does, and I hope to follow his example,” answered Michael, unstepping the mast, which he let fall on his shoulder preparatory to carrying it up to the shed.

“I was going to take that up,” said Eban; “it is too heavy for you by half.”

“It is my duty, thank you,” said Michael, somewhat coldly, stepping on shore with his burden.

Slight as he looked, he carried the heavy spar up the pathway and deposited it against the side of the house. He was returning for the remainder of the boat’s gear, when he met Eban with it on his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he said; “but I don’t want to give you my work to do.”

“It’s no labour to me,” answered Eban. “Just do you go and turn in, and I will moor the boat and make a new set of ‘tholes’ for you.”

Again Michael begged that his friend would not trouble himself, adding—

“If you have brought the shells for Nelly and will leave them with me, I will give them to her when she comes home.”

Nothing he could say, however, would induce Eban to go away. The latter had made up his mind to remain till Nelly’s return.

Still Michael was not to be turned from his purpose of doing his own work, though he could not prevent Eban from assisting him; and not till the boat was moored, and her gear deposited in the shed, would he consent to enter the cottage and seek the rest he required.

Meantime Eban, returning to his punt, shaped out a set of new tholes as he proposed, and then set off up the hill, hoping to meet Nelly and her grandmother.

He must have found them, for after some time he again came down the hill in their company, talking gaily, now to one, now to the other. He was evidently a favourite with the old woman.

Nelly thanked him with a sweet smile for the shells, which he had collected in some of the sandy little bays along the coast, which neither she nor Michael had ever been able to visit.

She was about to invite him into, the cottage, when Michael appeared at the door, saying, with a sad face—

“O granny! I am so thankful you are come; father seems very bad, and groans terribly. I never before saw him in such a way, and have not known what to do.”

Nelly on this darted in, and was soon by Paul’s bedside, followed by her grandmother.

Eban lingered about outside waiting. Michael at length came out to him again.

“There is no use waiting,” he said; and Eban, reluctantly going down to his boat, pulled away up the harbour.

Chapter Three.

Paul continued to suffer much during the evening; still he would not have the doctor sent for. “I shall get better maybe soon, if it’s God’s will, though such pains are new to me,” he said, groaning as he spoke.

The storm which had been threatening now burst with unusual strength. Michael, with the assistance of Nelly and her grandmother, got in the nets in time.

All hope of doing anything on the water for that night, at all events, must be abandoned; the weather was even too bad to allow Michael to fish in the harbour.

Little Nelly’s young heart was deeply grieved as she heard her father groan with pain—he who had never had a day’s illness that she could recollect. Nothing the dame could think of relieved him.

The howling of the wind, the roaring of the waves as they dashed against the rock-bound coast, the pattering of the rain, and ever and anon the loud claps of thunder which echoed among the cliffs, made Nelly’s heart sink within her. Often it seemed as if the very roof of the cottage would be blown off. Still she was thankful that her father and Michael were inside instead of buffeting the foaming waves out at sea.

If careful tending could have done Paul good he would soon have got well. The old dame seemed to require no sleep, and she would scarcely let either of her grandchildren take her place even for a few minutes. Though she generally went marketing, rather than leave her charge she sent Michael and Nelly to buy bread and other necessaries at the nearest village, which was, however, at some distance.

The rain had ceased, but the wind blew strong over the wild moor.

“I am afraid father is going to be very ill,” observed Michael. “He seemed to think something was going to happen to him when he told me what I did not know before about myself. Have you heard anything about it, Nelly?”

“What is it?” asked Nelly; “till you tell me I cannot say.”

“You’ve always thought that I was your brother, Nelly, haven’t you?”

“As to that, I have always loved you as a brother, and whether one or no, that should not make you unhappy. Has father said anything to you about it?”

“Yes. He said that I was not your brother; and he has told me all about my father and mother: how my father was drowned, and my mother died of a broken heart. I could well-nigh have cried when I heard the tale.”

Nelly looked up into Michael’s face.

“It’s no news to me,” she said. “Granny told me of it some time ago, but I begged her not to let you find it out lest it should make you unhappy, and you should fancy we were not going to love you as much as we have always done. But, Michael, don’t go and fancy that; though you are not my brother, I will love you as much as ever, as long as you live: for, except father and granny, I have no friend but you in the world.”

“I will be your brother and your true friend as long as I live, Nelly,” responded Michael; “still I would rather have thought myself to be your brother, that I might have a better right to work for you, and fight for you too, if needs be.”

“You will do that, I know, Michael,” said Nelly, “whatever may happen.”

Michael felt that he should be everything that was bad if he did not, though it did not occur to him to make any great promises of what he would do.

They went on talking cheerfully and happily together, for though Nelly was anxious about her father, she did not yet understand how ill he was.

They procured the articles for which they had been sent, and, laden with them, returned homewards. They were making their way along one of the hedges which divide the fields in that part of Cornwall—not composed of brambles but of solid rock, and so broad that two people can walk abreast without fear of tumbling off—and were yet some distance from the edge of the ravine down which they had to go to their home, when they saw Eban Cowan coming towards them.

“I wish he had gone some other way,” said Nelly. “He is very kind bringing me shells and other things, but, Michael, I do not like him. I do not know what it is, but there is something in the tone of his voice; it’s not truthful like yours and father’s.”

“I never thought about that. He is a bold-hearted, good-natured fellow,” observed Michael. “He has always been inclined to like us, and shown a wish to be friendly.”

“I don’t want to make him suppose that we are not friendly,” said Nelly; “only still—”

She was unable to finish the sentence, as the subject of their conversation had got close up to them.

“Good-day, Nelly; good-day, Michael,” he said, putting out his hand. “You have got heavy loads; let me carry yours, Nelly.”

She, however, declined his assistance.

“It is lighter than you suppose, and I can carry it well,” she answered.

He looked somewhat angry and then walked on, Michael having to give way to let him pass. Instead, however, of doing so, he turned round suddenly and kept alongside Nelly, compelling Michael in consequence to walk behind them.

“I went to ask after your father, Nelly,” he said, “and, hearing that you were away, came on to meet you. I am sorry to find he is no better.”

“Thank you,” said Nelly; “father is very ill, I fear; but God is merciful, and will take care of him and make him well if He thinks fit.”

Eban made no reply to this remark. He was not accustomed in his family to hear God spoken of except when that holy name was profaned by being joined to a curse.

“You had better let me take your creel, Nelly; it will be nothing to me.”

“It is nothing to me either,” answered Nelly, laughing. “I undertook to bring home the things, and I do not wish anybody else to do my work.”

Still Eban persisted in his offers; she as constantly refusing, till they reached the top of the pathway.

“There,” she said, “I have only to go down hill now, so you need not be afraid the load will break my back. Good-bye, Eban, you will be wanted at home I dare say.”

Eban looked disconcerted; he appeared to have intended to accompany her down the hill, but he had sense enough to see that she did not wish him to do so. He stopped short, therefore.

“Good-bye, Eban,” said Michael, as he passed him; “Nelly and I must get home as fast as we can to help granny nurse father.”

“That’s the work you are most fitted for,” muttered Eban, as Michael went on. “If it was not for Nelly I should soon quarrel with that fellow. He is always talking about his duty, and fearing God, and such like things. If he had more spirit he would not hold back as he does from joining us. However, I will win him over some day when he is older, and it is not so easy to make a livelihood with his nets and lines alone as he supposes.”

Eban remained on the top of the hill watching his young acquaintances as they descended the steep path, and then made his way homewards.

When Nelly and Michael arrived at the cottage the dame told them, to their sorrow, that their father was not better but rather worse. He still, however, forbad her sending for the doctor.

Day after day he continued much in the same state, though he endeavoured to encourage them with the hopes that he should get well at last.

The weather continued so bad all this time that Michael could not get out in the boat to fish with lines or lay down his lobster-pots. He and Nelly might have lost spirit had not their granny kept up hers and cheered them.

“We must expect bad times, my children, in this world,” she said. “The sun does not always shine, but when clouds cover the sky we know they will blow away at last and we shall have fine days again. I have had many trials in my life, but here I am as well and hardy as ever. We cannot tell why some are spared and some are taken away. It is God’s will, that’s all we know. It was His will to take your parents, Michael, but He may think fit to let you live to a green old age. I knew your father and mother, and your grandmother too. Your grandmother had her trials, and heavy ones they were. I remember her a pretty, bright young woman as I ever saw. She lived in a gentleman’s house as a sort of nurse or governess, where all were very fond of her, and she might have lived on in the house to the end of her days; but she was courted by a fine-looking fellow, who passed as the captain of a merchant vessel. A captain he was, though not of an honest trader, as he pretended, but of a smuggling craft, of which there were not a few in those days off this coast. The match was thought a good one for Nancy Trewinham when she married Captain Brewhard. They lived in good style and she was made much of, and looked upon as a lady, but before long she found out her husband’s calling, and right-thinking and good as she was she could not enjoy her riches. She tried to persuade her husband to abandon his calling, but he laughed at her, and told her that if it was not for that he should be a beggar.

“He moved away from Penzance, where he had a house, and after going to two or three other places, came to live near here. They had at this time two children, a fine lad of fifteen or sixteen years old, and your mother Judith.

“The captain was constantly away from home, and, to the grief of his wife, insisted on taking his boy with him. She well knew the hazardous work he was engaged in; so did most of the people on the coast, though he still passed where he lived for the master of a regular merchantman.

“There are some I have known engaged in smuggling for years, who have died quietly in their beds, but many, too, have been drowned at sea or killed in action with the king’s cruisers, or shot landing their goods.

“There used to be some desperate work going on along this coast in my younger days.

“At last the captain, taking his boy with him, went away in his lugger, the ‘Lively Nancy,’ over to France. She was a fine craft, carrying eight guns, and a crew of thirty men or more. The king’s cruisers had long been on the watch for her. As you know, smugglers always choose a dark and stormy night for running their cargoes. There was a cutter at the time off the coast commanded by an officer who had made up his mind to take the ‘Lively Nancy,’ let her fight ever so desperately. Her captain laughed at his threats, and declared that he would send her to the bottom first.

“I lived at that time with my husband and Nelly’s mother, our only child, at Landewednach. It was blowing hard from the south-west with a cloudy sky, when just before daybreak a sound of firing at sea was heard. There were few people in the village who did not turn out to try and discover what was going on. The morning was dark, but we saw the flashes of guns to the westward, and my husband and others made out that there were two vessels engaged standing away towards Mount’s Bay. We all guessed truly that one was the ‘Lively Nancy,’ and the other the king’s cutter.

“Gradually the sounds of the guns grew less and the flashes seemed further off. After some time, however, they again drew near. It was evident that the cutter had attacked the lugger, which was probably endeavouring to get away out to sea or to round the Lizard, when, with a flowing sheet before the wind, she would have a better chance of escape.

“Just then daylight broke, and we could distinguish both the vessels close-hauled, the lugger to leeward trying to weather on the cutter, which was close to her on her quarter, both carrying as much sail as they could stagger under. They kept firing as fast as the guns could be loaded, each trying to knock away her opponent’s spars, so that more damage was done to the rigging than to the crews of the vessels.

“The chief object of the smugglers was to escape, and this they hoped to do if they could bring down the cutter’s mainsail. The king’s officer knew that he should have the smugglers safe enough if he could but make them strike; this, however, knowing that they all fought with ropes round their necks, they had no thoughts of doing.

“Though the lugger stood on bravely, we could see that she was being jammed down gradually towards the shore. My good man cried out, ‘that her fore-tack was shot away and it would now go hard with her.’

“The smugglers, however, in spite of the fire to which they were exposed, got it hauled down. The cutter was thereby enabled to range up alongside.

“By this time the two vessels got almost abreast of the point, but there were the Stags to be weathered. If the lugger could do that she might then keep away. There seemed a good chance that she would do it, and many hoped she would, for their hearts were with her rather than with the king’s cruiser.

“She was not a quarter of a mile from the Stags when down came her mainmast. It must have knocked over the man at the helm and injured others standing aft, for her head fell off and she ran on directly for the rocks. Still her crew did their best to save her. The wreck was cleared away, and once more she stood up as close as she could now be kept to the wind. One of her guns only was fired, for the crew had somewhat else to do just then. The cutter no longer kept as close to her as before; well did her commander know the danger of standing too near those terrible rocks, over which the sea was breaking in masses of foam.

“There seemed a chance that the lugger might still scrape clear of the rocks; if not, in a few moments she must be dashed to pieces and every soul on board perish.

“I could not help thinking of the poor lad whom his father had taken with him in spite of his mother’s tears and entreaties. It must have been a terrible thought for the captain that he had thus brought his young son to an untimely end. For that reason I would have given much to see the lugger escape, but it was not to be.

“The seas came rolling in more heavily than before. A fierce blast struck her, and in another instant, covered with a shroud of foam, she was dashed against the wild rocks, and when we looked again she seemed to have melted away—not a plank of her still holding together.

“The cutter herself had but just weathered the rocks, and though she stood to leeward of them on the chance of picking up any of the luggers crew who might have escaped, not one was found.

“Such was the end of the ‘Lively Nancy,’ and your bold grandfather. Your poor grandmother never lifted up her head after she heard of what had happened. Still she struggled on for the sake of her little daughter, but by degrees all the money she possessed was spent. She at once moved into a small cottage, and then at last she and her young daughter found shelter in a single room. After this she did not live long, and your poor mother was left destitute. It was then your father met her, and though she had more education than he had, and remembered well the comfort she had once enjoyed, she consented to become his wife. He did his best for her, for he was a true-hearted, honest man, but she was ill fitted for the rough life a fisherman’s wife has to lead, and when the news of her husband’s death reached her she laid down and died.

“There, Michael, now you have learned all you are ever likely to know of your family, for no one can tell you more about them than I can.

“You see you cannot count upon many friends in the world except those you make yourself. But there is one Friend you have Who will never, if you trust to Him, leave or forsake you. He is truer than all earthly friends, and Paul Trefusis has acted a father’s part in bringing you up to fear and honour Him.”

“I do trust God, for it is He you speak of, granny,” said Michael, “and I will try to love and obey Him as long as I live. He did what He knew to be best when He took my poor father away, and gave me such a good one as he who lies sick in there. I wish, granny, that you could have given me a better account of my grandfather.”

“I thought it best that you should know the truth, Michael, and as you cannot be called to account for what he was, you need not trouble yourself about that matter. Your grandmother was an excellent woman, and I have a notion that she was of gentle blood, so it is well you should remember her name, and you may some day hear of her kith and kin: not that you are ever likely to gain anything by that; still it’s a set-off against what your grandfather was, though people hereabouts will never throw that in your face.”

“I should care little for what they may say,” answered Michael; “all I wish is to grow into a strong man to be able to work for you and Nelly and poor father, if he does not gain his strength. I will do my best now, and when the pilchard season comes on I hope, if I can get David Treloar or another hand in the boat, to do still better.”

Chapter Four.

Day after day Paul Trefusis lay on his sick-bed. A doctor was sent for, but his report was unfavourable. Nelly asked him, with trembling lips, whether he thought her father would ever get well.

“You must not depend too much on that, my little maiden,” he answered; “but I hope your brother, who seems an industrious lad, and that wonderful old woman, your grandmother, will help you to keep the pot boiling in the house, and I dare say you will find friends who will assist you when you require it. Good-bye; I’ll come and see your father again soon; but all I can do is to relieve his pain.”

Dame Lanreath and Michael did, indeed, do their best to keep the pot boiling: early and late Michael was at work, either digging in the garden, fishing in the harbour, or, when the weather would allow him, going with the boat outside. Young as he was, he was well able, under ordinary circumstances, to manage her by himself, though, of course, single-handed, he could not use the nets.

Though he toiled very hard, he could, however, obtain but a scanty supply of fish. When he obtained more than were required for home consumption, the dame would set off to dispose of them; but she had no longer the companionship of Nelly, who remained to watch over her poor father.

When Paul had strength sufficient to speak, which he had not always, he would give his daughter good advice, and warn her of the dangers to which she would be exposed in the world.

“Nelly,” he said, “do not trust a person with a soft-speaking tongue, merely because he is soft-speaking; or one with good looks, merely because he has good looks. Learn his character first—how he spends his time, how he speaks about other people, and, more than all, how he speaks about God. Do not trust him because he says pleasant things to you. There is Eban Cowan, for instance, a good-looking lad, with pleasant manners; but he comes of a bad stock, and is not brought up to fear God. It is wrong to speak ill of one’s neighbours, so I have not talked of what I know about his father and his father’s companions; but, Nelly dear, I tell you not to trust him or them till you have good cause to do so.”

Nelly, like a wise girl, never forgot what her father said to her.

After this Paul grew worse. Often, for days together, he was racked with pain, and could scarcely utter a word. Nelly tended him with the most loving care. It grieved her tender heart to see him suffer; but she tried to conceal her sorrow, and he never uttered a word of complaint.

Michael had now become the main support of the family; for though Paul had managed to keep out of debt and have a small supply of money in hand, yet that was gradually diminishing.

“Never fear, Nelly,” said Michael, when she told him one day how little they had left; “we must hope for a good pilchard-fishing, and we can manage to rub on till then. The nets are in good order, and I can get the help I spoke of; so that I can take father’s place, and we shall have his share in the company’s fishing.”

Michael alluded to a custom which prevails among the fishermen on that coast. A certain number, who possess boats and nets, form a company, and fish together when the pilchards visit their coast, dividing afterwards the amount they receive for the fish caught.

“It is a long time to wait till then,” observed Nelly.

“But on most days I can catch lobsters and crabs, and every time I have been out lately the fish come to my lines more readily than they used to do,” answered Michael. “Do not be cast down, Nelly dear, we have a Friend in heaven, as father says, Who will take care of us; let us trust Him.”

Time passed on. Paul Trefusis, instead of getting better, became worse and worse. His once strong, stout frame was now reduced to a mere skeleton. Still Nelly and Michael buoyed themselves up with the hope that he would recover. Dame Lanreath knew too well that his days on earth were drawing to an end.

Michael had become the mainstay of the family. Whenever a boat could get outside, the “Wild Duck” was sure to be seen making her way towards the best fishing-ground.

Paul, before he started each day, inquired which way the wind was, and what sea there was on, and advised him where to go. “Michael,” said Paul, as the boy came one morning to wish him good-bye, “fare thee well, lad; don’t forget the advice I have given thee, and look after little Nelly and her grandmother, and may God bless and prosper thee;” and taking Michael’s hand, Paul pressed it gently. He had no strength for a firm grasp now.

Michael was struck by his manner. Had it not been necessary to catch some fish he would not have left the cottage.

Putting the boat’s sail and other gear on board, he pulled down the harbour. He had to pull some little way out to sea. The wind was setting on shore. He did not mind that, for he should sail back the faster. The weather did not look as promising as he could have wished: dark clouds were gathering to the north-west and passing rapidly over the sky. As he knew, should the wind stand, he could easily regain the harbour, he went rather more to the southward than he otherwise would have done, to a good spot, where he had often had a successful fishing. He had brought his dinner with him, as he intended to fish all day. His lines were scarcely overboard before he got a bite, and he was soon catching fish as fast as he could haul his lines on board. This put him in good spirits.

“Granny will have her creel full to sell to-morrow,” he thought. “Maybe I shall get back in time for her to set off to-day.”

So eagerly occupied was he that he did not observe the change of the weather. The wind had veered round more to the northward. It was every instant blowing stronger and stronger, although, from its coming off the land, there was not much sea on.

At last he had caught a good supply of fish. By waiting he might have obtained many more, but he should then be too late for that day’s market. Lifting his anchor, therefore, he got out his oars and began to pull homewards. The wind was very strong, and he soon found that, with all his efforts, he could make no headway. The tide, too, had turned, and was against him, sweeping round in a strong current to the southward. In vain he pulled. Though putting all the strength he possessed to his oars, still, as he looked at the shore, he was rather losing than gaining ground. He knew that the attempt to reach the harbour under sail would be hopeless; he should be sure to lose every tack he made. Already half a gale of wind was blowing, and the boat, with the little ballast there was in her, would scarcely look up even to the closest reefed canvas.

Again he dropped his anchor, intending to wait the turn of the tide, sorely regretting that he could not take the fish home in time for granny to sell on that day.

Dame Lanreath and Nelly had been anxiously expecting Michael’s return, and the dame had got ready to set off as soon as he appeared with the fish they hoped he would catch. Still he did not come.

Paul had more than once inquired for him. He told Nelly to go out and see how the wind was, and whether there was much sea on.

Nelly made her way under the cliffs to the nearest point whence she could obtain a view of the mouth of the harbour and the sea beyond. She looked out eagerly for Michael’s boat, hoping to discover her making her way towards the shore; but Nelly looked in vain. Already there was a good deal of sea on, and the wind, which had been blowing strong from the north-west, while she was standing there veered a point or two more to the northward.

“Where could Michael have gone?” She looked and looked till her eyes ached, still she could not bring herself to go back without being able to make some report about him. At last she determined to call at the cottage of Reuben Lanaherne, a friend of her father’s, though a somewhat older man.

“What is it brings you here, my pretty maiden?” said Uncle Reuben, who, for a wonder, was at home, as Nelly, after gently knocking, lifted the latch and entered a room with sanded floor and blue painted ceiling.

“O Uncle Lanaherne,” she said, “can you tell me where you think Michael has gone? he ought to have been back long ago.”

“He would have been wiser not to have gone out at all with the weather threatening as it has been; but he is a handy lad in a boat, Nelly, and he will find his way in as well as any one, so don’t you be unhappy about him,” was the answer.

Still Reuben looked a little anxious, and putting on his hat, buttoning up his coat, and taking his glass under his arm, he accompanied Nelly to the point. He took a steady survey round.

“Michael’s boat is nowhere near under sail,” he observed. “There seems to me a boat, however, away to the southward, but, with the wind and tide as at present, she cannot be coming here. I wish I could make out more to cheer you, Nelly. You must tell your father that; and he knows if we can lend Michael a hand we will. How is he to-day?”

“He is very bad, Uncle Lanaherne,” said Nelly, with a sigh; “I fear sometimes that he will never go fishing again.”

“I am afraid not, Nelly,” observed the rough fisherman, putting his hand on her head; “but you know you and your brother will always find a friend in Reuben Lanaherne. An honest man’s children will never want, and if there ever was an honest man, your poor father is one. I will keep a look-out for Michael, but do not be cast down, Nelly; we shall see him before long.”

The fisherman spoke in a cheery tone, but still he could not help feeling more anxiety than he expressed for Michael.

Every moment the wind was increasing, and the heavy seas which came rolling in showed that a gale had been blowing for some time outside.

Nelly hastened back to tell her father what Uncle Lanaherne had said.

When she got to his bedside she found that a great change had taken place during her absence. Her father turned his dim eye towards her as she entered, but had scarcely strength to speak, or beckon her with his hands. She bent over him.

“Nelly dear, where is Michael?” he asked, “I want to bless him, he must come quickly, for I have not long to stay.”

“He has not come on shore yet, father, but Uncle Lanaherne is looking out for him,” said Nelly.

“I wanted to see him again,” whispered Paul. “It will be too late if he does not come now; so tell him, Nelly, that I do bless him, and I bless you, Nelly, bless you, bless you;” and his voice became fainter.

Nelly, seeing a change come over her father’s features, cried out for her granny. Dame Lanreath hastened into the room. The old woman saw at a glance what had happened. Paul Trefusis was dead.

Closing his eyes, she took her grandchild by the hand, and led her out of the room.

Some time passed, however, before Nelly could realise what had happened.

“Your father has gone, Nelly, but he has gone to heaven, and is happier far than he ever was or ever could be down on earth even in the best of times. Bad times may be coming, and God in His love and mercy took him that he might escape them.”

“But, then, why didn’t God take us?” asked Nelly, looking up. “I would have liked to die with him. Bad times will be as hard for us to bear as for him.”

“God always does what is best, and He has a reason for keeping us on earth,” answered the dame. “He has kept me well-nigh fourscore years, and given me health and strength, and good courage to bear whatever I have had to bear, and He will give you strength, Nelly, according to your need.”

“Ah, I was wicked to say what I did,” answered Nelly; “but I am sad about father and you and myself, and very sad, too, about Michael. He will grieve so when he comes home and finds father gone, if he comes at all. And, O granny, I begin to fear that he won’t come home! what has happened to him I cannot tell; and if you had seen the heavy sea there was rolling outside you would fear the worst.”

“Still, Nelly, we must trust in God; if He has taken Michael, He has done it for the best, not the worst, Nelly,” answered Dame Lanreath. “But when I say this, Nelly, I don’t want to stop your tears, they are given in mercy to relieve your grief; but pray to God, Nelly, to help us; He will do so—only trust Him.”

Chapter Five.

The day was drawing to a close when the storm, which had been threatening all the morning on which Paul Trefusis died, swept fiercely up the harbour, showing that the wind had again shifted to the westward.

Poor Nelly, though cast down with grief at her father’s death, could not help trembling as she thought of Michael, exposed as she knew he must be to its rage. Was he, too, to be taken away from them?

She was left much alone, as Dame Lanreath had been engaged, with the assistance of a neighbour, in the sad duty of laying out the dead man. Nelly several times had run out to look down the harbour, hoping against hope that she might see Michael’s boat sailing up it.

At length, in spite of the gale, she made her way to Reuben Lanaherne’s cottage. His wife and daughter were seated at their work, but he was not there. Agitated and breathless from encountering the fierce wind, she could scarcely speak as she entered.

“Sit down, maiden; what ails thee?” said Dame Lanaherne, rising, and kindly placing her on a stool by her side.

Nelly could only answer with sobs.

Just then old Reuben himself entered, shaking the spray from his thick coat.

“How is thy father, Nelly?” he asked.

“He has gone,” she answered, sobbing afresh. “And, O Uncle Reuben, have you seen Michael’s boat? can you tell me where he is?”

“I have not forgotten him, Nelly, and have been along the shore as far as I could make my way on the chance that he might have missed the harbour, and had run for Kynance Cove, but not a sign of him or his boat could I see. I wish I had better news for you, Nelly. And your good father gone too! Don’t take on so—he is free from pain now—happy in heaven; and there is One above Who will look after Michael, though what has become of him is more than I can tell you.”

The old fisherman’s words brought little comfort to poor Nelly, though he and his wife and daughter did their best to console her. They pressed her to remain with them, but she would not be absent longer from her granny, and, thanking them for their kindness, hurried homewards.

The wind blew fiercely, but no rain had as yet fallen.

Their neighbour, having rendered all the assistance required, had gone away, and the old dame and her young grandchild sat together side by side in the outer room. They could talk only of Michael. The dame did not dare to utter what she thought. His small boat might have been swamped in the heavy sea, or he might have fallen overboard and been unable to regain her; or, attempting to land on a rocky coast, she might have been dashed to pieces, and he swept off by the receding surf. Such had been the fate of many she had known.

As each succeeding gust swept by, poor Nelly started and trembled in spite of her efforts to keep calm.

At length down came the rain battering against the small panes of glass.

At that instant there was a knocking at the door.

“Can you give us shelter from the storm, good folks?” said a voice; and, the latch being lifted, an elderly gentleman, accompanied by two ladies, one of whom was young and the other more advanced in life, appeared at the entrance.

They evidently took it for granted that they should not be denied.

“You are welcome, though you come to a house of mourning,” said Dame Lanreath, rising, while Nelly hastened to place stools for them to sit on.

“I am afraid, then, that we are intruders,” said the gentleman, “and we would offer to go on, but my wife and daughter would be wet through before we could reach any other shelter.”

“We would not turn any one away, especially you and Mistress Tremayne,” said the dame, looking at the elder lady.

“What! do you know us?” asked the gentleman.

“I know Mistress Tremayne and the young lady from her likeness to what I recollect of her mother,” answered Dame Lanreath. “I seldom forget a person I once knew, and she has often bought fish of me in days gone by.”

“And I, too, recollect you. If I mistake not you used to be pretty widely known as Polly Lanreath,” said the lady, looking at the old fish-wife.

“And so I am now, Mistress Tremayne,” answered the dame, “though not known so far and wide as I once was. I can still walk my twenty miles a-day; but years grow on one; and when I see so many whom I have known as children taken away, I cannot expect to remain hale and strong much longer.”

“You have altered but little since I knew you,” observed Mrs Tremayne, “and I hope that you may retain your health and strength for many years to come.”

“That’s as God wills,” said the dame. “I pray it may be so for the sake of my little Nelly here.”

“She is your grandchild, I suppose,” observed Mrs Tremayne.

“Ay, and the only one I have got to live for now. Her father has just gone, and she and I are left alone.”

“O granny, but there is Michael; don’t talk of him as gone,” exclaimed Nelly. “He will come back, surely he will come back.”

This remark of Nelly’s caused Mr and Mrs Tremayne to make further inquiries.

They at first regretted that they had been compelled to take shelter in the cottage, but as the dame continued talking, their interest in what she said increased.

“It seemed strange, Mistress Tremayne, that you should have come here at this moment,” she observed. “Our Michael is the grandson of one whom you knew well in your childhood; she was Nancy Trewinham, who was nurse in the family of your mother, Lady Saint Mabyn; and you, if I mistake not, were old enough at the time to remember her.”

“Yes, indeed, I do perfectly well; and I have often heard my mother express her regret that so good and gentle a young woman should have married a man who, though apparently well-to-do in the world, was more than suspected to be of indifferent character,” said the lady. “We could gain no intelligence of her after she left Penzance, though I remember my father saying that he had no doubt a noted smuggler whose vessel was lost off this coast was the man she had married. Being interested in her family, he made inquiries, but could not ascertain whether she had survived her unhappy husband or not. And have you, indeed, taken charge of her grandson in addition to those of your own family whom you have had to support?”

“It was not I took charge of the boy, but my good son-in-law, who lies dead there,” said the dame. “He thought it but a slight thing, and only did what he knew others would do by him.”

“He deserved not the less credit,” said Mr Tremayne. “We shall, indeed, be anxious to hear that the boy has come to no harm, and I am sure that Mrs Tremayne will be glad to do anything in her power to assist you and him should he, as I hope, have escaped. We purpose staying at Landewednach for a few days to visit the scenery on the coast, and will send down to inquire to-morrow.”

While Mr and Mrs Tremayne and the old dame had been talking, Miss Tremayne had beckoned to Nelly to come and sit by her, and, speaking in a kind and gentle voice, had tried to comfort the young girl. She, however, could only express her hope that Michael had by some means or other escaped. Though Nelly knew that that hope was vain, the sympathy which was shown her soothed her sorrow more than the words which were uttered.

Sympathy, in truth, is the only balm that one human being can pour into the wounded heart of another. Would that we could remember that in all our grief and sufferings we have One in heaven Who can sympathise with us as He did when He wept with the sorrowing family at Bethany.

The rain ceased almost as suddenly as it had commenced, and as Mr and Mrs Tremayne, who had left their carriage on the top of the hill, were anxious to proceed on their journey, they bade Dame Lanreath and Nelly good-bye, again apologising for having intruded on them.

“Don’t talk of that please, Mistress Tremayne,” said the old dame. “Your visit has been a blessing to us, as it has taken us off our own sad thoughts. Nelly already looks less cast down, from what the young lady has been saying to her, and though you can’t bring the dead to life we feel your kindness.”

“You will let me make it rather more substantial, then, by accepting this trifle, which may be useful under the present circumstances,” said the gentleman, offering a couple of guineas.

The old dame looked at them, a struggle seemed to be going on within her.

“I thank you kindly, sir, that I do,” she answered; “but since my earliest days I have gained my daily bread and never taken charity from any one.”

“But you must not consider this as charity, dame,” observed Mrs Tremayne; “it is given to show our interest in your little granddaughter and in the boy whom your son-in-law and you have so generously protected so many years. I should, indeed, feel bound to assist him, and therefore on his account pray receive it and spend it as you may require.”

The dame’s scruples were at length overcome, and her guests, after she had again expressed her feelings of gratitude, took their departure.

They had scarcely gone when Eban Cowan appeared at the door.

“I have just heard what has happened, and I could not let the day pass without coming to tell you how sorry I am,” he said, as he entered.

Nelly thanked him warmly.

“Father has gone to heaven and is at rest,” she said, quietly.

“I should think that you would rather have had him with you down on earth,” observed Eban, who little comprehended her feelings.

“So I would, but it was God’s will to take him, and he taught me to say, ‘Thy will be done;’ and I can say that though I grieve for his loss,” answered Nelly. “But, O Eban, when you came I thought that you had brought some tidings of Michael.”

“No! Where is he? I did not know that he was not at home.”

Nelly then told Eban how Michael had gone away with the boat in the morning and had not returned. “I will go and search for him then,” he said. “He has run in somewhere, perhaps, along the coast. I wonder, when you spoke to Uncle Lanaherne, that he did not set off at once. But I will go. I’ll get father to send some men with me with ropes, and if he is alive and clinging to a rock, as he may be, we will bring him back.”

Nelly poured out her thanks to Eban, who, observing that there was no time to be lost, set off to carry out his proposal.

Dame Lanreath had said but little. She shook her head when he had gone, as Nelly continued praising him.

“He is brave and bold, Nelly, but that could be said of Captain Brewhard and many others I have known, who were bad husbands and false friends, and there is something about the lad I have never liked. He is inclined to be friendly now; and as you grow up he will wish, maybe, to be more friendly; but I warn you against him, Nelly dear. Though he speaks to you ever go fair, don’t trust him.”

“But I must be grateful to him as long as I live if he finds Michael,” answered Nelly, who thought her grandmother condemned Eban without sufficient cause.

Had she known how he had often talked to Michael, she might have been of a different opinion.

The storm continued to blow as fiercely as ever, and the rain again came pelting down; ever and anon peals of thunder rattled and crashed overhead, and flashes of lightning, seen more vividly through the thickening gloom, darted from the sky.

Dame Lanreath and Nelly sat in their cottage by the dead—the old woman calm and unmoved, though Nelly, at each successive crash of thunder or flash of lightning, drew closer to her grandmother, feeling more secure in the embrace of the only being on whom she had now to rely for protection in the wide world.

Chapter Six.

Young Michael sat all alone in his boat, tossed about by the foaming seas. His anchor held, so there was no fear of his drifting. But that was not the only danger to which he was exposed. At any moment a sea might break on board and wash him away, or swamp the boat.

He looked round him, calmly considering what was best to be done. No coward fear troubled his mind, yet he clearly saw the various risks he must run. He thought of heaving his ballast overboard and trying to ride out the gale where he was, but then he must abandon all hope of reaching the harbour by his own unaided efforts. He might lash himself to a thwart, and thus escape being washed away; still the fierce waves might tear the boat herself to pieces, so that he quickly gave up that idea. He was too far off to be seen from the shore, except perhaps by the keen-sighted coast-guard men; but even if seen, what boat would venture out into the fast-rising sea to his rescue. He must, he felt, depend upon himself, with God’s aid, for saving his life.

Any longer delay would only increase his peril. The wind and tide would prevent him gaining any part of the coast to the northward. He would therefore make sail and run for Landewednach, for not another spot where he had the slightest prospect of landing in safety was to be found between the Gull Rock and the beach at that place. He very well knew, indeed, the danger he must encounter even there, but it was a choice of evils. He quickly made up his mind.

He at first set to work to bail out the boat, for already she had shipped a good deal of water. He had plenty of sea room, so that he might venture to lift his anchor. But it was no easy work, and the sea, which broke over the bows again and again, made him almost relinquish the effort, and cut the cable instead. Still he knew the importance of having his anchor ready to drop, should he be unable to beach the boat on his arrival at the spot he had selected, so again he tried, and up it came. He quickly hauled it in, and running up his sail he sprang to the tiller, hauling aft his main-sheet.

Away flew the boat amid the tumbling seas, which came rolling in from the westward. He held the sheet in his hand, for there was now as much wind as the boat could look up to, and a sudden blast might at any moment send her over. That, too, Michael knew right well. On she flew like a sea-bird amid the foaming waves, now lifted to the summit of one, now dropping down into the hollow, each sea as it came hissing up threatening to break on board; now he kept away to receive its force on his quarter; now he again kept his course.

The huge Gull Rock rose up under his lee, the breakers dashing furiously against its base; then Kynance Cove, with its fantastically-shaped cliffs, opened out, but the sea roared and foamed at their base, and not a spot of sand could he discover on which he could hope to beach his boat, even should he pass through the raging surf unharmed. Meantale Point, Pradanack, and the Soapy Rock appeared in succession, but all threatened him alike with destruction should he venture near them.

He came abreast of a little harbour, but he had never been in there, and numerous rocks, some beneath the surface, others rising but just above it, lay off its entrance, and the risk of running for it he considered was too great to be encountered. Those on shore might have seen his boat as she flew by, but, should they have done so, even the bravest might have been unwilling to risk their lives on the chance of overtaking her before she met that fate to which they might well have believed she was doomed.

Michael cast but a glance or two to ascertain whether any one was coming; he had little expectation of assistance, but still his courage did not fail him.

The rocks were passed; he could already distinguish over his bow the lighthouses on the summit of the Lizard Point. Again he kept away and neared the outer edge of a line of breakers which roared fiercely upon it. He must land there notwithstanding, or be lost, for he knew that his boat could not live going through the race to the southward of the Lizard.

When off the Stags he could distinguish people moving along the shore. He had been seen by them he knew, and perhaps a boat might be launched and come to his rescue. There was no time, however, for consideration. What he had to do must be promptly done.

The water in the bay was somewhat smoother than it had hitherto been. In a moment his sail was lowered and his anchor let go. The rain came down heavily.

“The wind is falling,” he thought; “I will wait till the turn of the tide, when, perhaps, there will be less surf on.”

He could see the people on the shore watching him, but no attempt was made to launch a boat; indeed he knew that no boat could pass that foaming barrier in safety. He sat down with folded arms, waiting the progress of events. His mind was occupied for a time rather with those at home than about himself; he thought of little Nelly and of Dame Lanreath, and of the kind friend of his youth who had, though he knew it not at that time, left this world of toil and trouble. He had a simple faith in the merits of One Who had died for him, and he had perfect trust, not in his own honesty and uprightness, but in the merits and all-sufficient atonement of that loving Saviour Who died for him. He could therefore, young as he was, calmly contemplate the probability of being unable after all to reach the shore. Still he would not allow himself to dwell long on that matter.

He was soon aroused indeed to exertion by finding the seas breaking into his boat. He bailed away as fast as they came on board. But he saw that he must abandon all hope of remaining where he was. Should he stay much longer the boat might be swamped; the surf, too, might increase, and more effectually than at present bar his progress to the shore. Another huge sea rolling in half filled his boat. Undaunted, he bailed it out. A second of like size might sink her.

Evening was coming on; he must dare the fearful passage through the breakers, or perish where he was. He stood up, holding on to the mast, that he might survey the shore. He was abreast of the best place for landing, although he was convinced there were rocks to the north and south of him, their black heads appearing every now and then amid the snow-white foam. In a moment, should his boat touch them, they would dash her to fragments.

Promptly Michael made up his mind what to do. Hoisting his foresail he carried the main-sheet aft, and felt that the tiller was securely fixed. Taking out his knife, he held it in his teeth—he had sharpened it afresh the previous evening. With one hand holding the main halyards, with a stroke he severed the cable, then as the boat paid off up went his mainsail and he sprang aft to the helm. The sheet was eased off. The hissing seas followed fast astern. In another minute he would be among the raging breakers, and then safe on shore, or, what was too probable, whirled and tossed and tumbled over and over as he and the fragments of his boat were carried back in their cruel embrace.

Mr and Mrs Tremayne and their daughter had reached the little hotel at the Lizard Head, when they heard that a small boat had been seen in a fearfully perilous position anchored at a short distance outside the breakers. They hastened down to the beach, where some of the coast-guard men and several other persons were collected.

They made inquiries as to the probability of the boat reaching the shore in safety.

“Not the slightest hope through such a surf as this,” was the answer.

“Who is on board?” asked Mr Tremayne.

“It seems to be a young lad, as far as we can make out,” said a coast-guard man. “His best chance is to hold on till low water, when, as there will be a pretty broad piece of sand, if the wind goes down, he may happen to get in without being swamped.”

“But if the wind does not go down, and the weather still looks threatening, what can he do?”

“His fate will be that of many another poor fellow,” said the man. “He is a brave young chap, though, or he would not have brought up in the way he did. I have not once seen him waving his arms or seeming to be crying out for help, as most would be.”

“Can he be young Michael Penguyne, of whom we have just heard!” exclaimed Mrs Tremayne. “Oh, can nothing be done to save him?”

“Will none of you fine fellows launch a boat and go out and try and bring in the boy?” asked Mr Tremayne. “I will give twenty pounds to the crew of the boat which brings him in.”

“I am sorry, sir, that I cannot allow my men to go out,” said the officer of the coast-guard, who heard the offer made. “We should not have waited for a reward if it could be done, but the best boat we have would be swamped to a certainty, and the lives of all her crew sacrificed. I much regret being compelled to say this; there is not a man here who would not do his best to save the life of the lad if it were possible.”

“Are none of the fishermen’s boats better fitted for the purpose?” asked Mr Tremayne. “I will give twenty-five pounds to the boat which saves the lad. Surely if so small a boat as his can live, a large fishing-boat would run but comparatively little risk.”

The officer explained that the danger would be incurred in passing through the breakers, and that once outside, although the sea was very heavy, a boat properly handled would keep afloat.

“I have,” he added, “sent to a little harbour to the north of this, but the boats there are small, and I doubt whether any of the fishermen will venture so near the breakers as that boat has brought up. I will, however, send again with your generous offer, though some time must elapse before a boat can be got ready, even if a crew can be found willing to risk their lives in the service.”

“I will go myself to urge them to undertake it if you can devise no other means of saving the lad,” said Mr Tremayne.

“The distance is considerable, and it will be night before you can reach the place,” answered the officer. “I would advise you, sir, not to make the attempt. They will trust to my promise, as I will send one of my own men.”

“Tell them you will give them twenty-five pounds if they will start at once,” exclaimed Mrs Tremayne, eagerly; “surely men will not stand calmly by and allow the poor boy to perish in their sight.”

“I will do as you wish,” answered the officer.

Just as they were speaking, however, there was a cry from those looking on.

“He has cut his cable—he has hoisted his sail—he is going to venture it,” exclaimed several people simultaneously.

The boat’s head was turned towards the shore. Onward she came. Now she rose to the summit of a huge wave, now plunged downwards. For an instant the sail flapped, becalmed by another sea which rolled up astern.

A cry escaped the spectators: “She will be swamped! she will be swamped!”

But no; again the sail filled and on she came. The young boy was seen seated in the stern of his boat grasping the tiller with one hand and the main-sheet with the other. Over she heeled to the blast—again she rose, and again sunk down, and now she was among the hissing, roaring, foaming breakers. The waters bubbled up, tumbling into her on either side; but still the boy held firm hold of his tiller. Again the sail flapped—there was a sudden lull.

“She is lost, she is lost!” was the cry. “The next sea must swamp her;” but the wind came faster than the wave—the sail bulged out, and on she flew.

For another moment she seemed to hang in the midst of a breaker as it rushed backwards from the shore, but another lifted her, and, carried forward on its crest, she came like a thing of life escaping from her savage pursuers towards the beach.

A dozen stout hands, incited by the address of Mr Tremayne, rushed forward to grasp the boat, regardless now of their own safety, for the work was one of no little danger; ere they could seize the boat’s gunwale she might be dashed against them, or be swept out by the receding wave as it went hissing backwards in a sheet of foam. But they were well accustomed to the duty they had undertaken.

Michael to the last kept his seat, steering his boat stem on to the beach. As he felt the keel touch the sand he sprang forward and was grasped by the sturdy arms of one of those who had gone to his rescue, and carried in triumph out of the reach of the foaming breaker, which came roaring up as if fierce at the escape of its prey.

With difficulty those who had gone down to seize the boat made their way after their companion, and she, before they could haul her up, was thrown on the beach and rolled over and over with her sides crushed in.

“Oh, the boat, the boat! what will poor father and those at home do?” exclaimed Michael, as he saw what had happened. “I thought to have saved her.”

“Never mind the boat,” answered a stout lad, one of those who had gone down to his rescue, wringing him by the hand. “We are right glad to have you safe. I only got here just in time to see you standing for the shore. I did not think you would reach it. I have been hunting for you all along the coast, and made sure that you were lost.”

“Thank you, Eban,” answered Michael, for it was Eban Cowan who spoke to him. “But poor father will grieve when he hears the boat is lost after all.”

“Thy father won’t grieve for that or anything else, Michael,” said Eban, thoughtlessly; “he is dead.”

“Dead!” exclaimed poor Michael, grasping the arm of the man who had brought him on shore, and who was still standing by him, and overcome by the strain on his nerves, which he had hitherto so manfully endured, and the sad news so abruptly given him, he would have fallen to the ground had not the fisherman supported him.

Mr Tremayne and his wife and daughter now came up.

“Poor boy, it is not surprising that he should give way at last,” observed Mrs Tremayne. “We will have him carried to our inn, where he can be properly attended to.”

Mr Tremayne agreed to her proposal, and, begging two of the stout fishermen to carry the lad, he promised a reward to those who could secure the boat and her gear.

“That will be my charge,” said the coast-guard officer. “But I am afraid that the boat herself is a complete wreck, and that very little of her gear will be saved.”

Michael, on being placed in a comfortable bed in the inn, soon returned to consciousness, and was greatly surprised to find two kind-looking ladies watching by his side. The younger one called her father from an adjoining room.

“You have had a hard tussle for your life; you behaved courageously, my lad,” observed Mr Tremayne, taking his hand.

“I am thankful that God has spared my life,” answered Michael in a low voice, which showed how much his strength was prostrated. “But, O sir, Eban told me that father is dead, and the boat is all knocked to pieces, and what will Nelly and poor granny do? Next to God, they can only look to the boat and me for help.”

“What! young as you are, do you expect to be able to support yourself and those you speak of?” asked Mrs Tremayne.

“Yes; father gave them into my charge, and if God had given me strength, and the boat had been spared, I would have done my best.”

“We know Nelly and your granny, and more about you than you may suppose,” said Mrs Tremayne, kindly; “we paid them a visit to-day, and heard of their loss. But set your mind at rest about your boat, we will endeavour to obtain another for you, and help you in any other way you may wish.”

Michael expressed his gratitude with an overflowing heart. A night’s quiet rest completely restored his strength, and, being eager to assure Nelly and Dame Lanreath of his safety, after he had bade his new friends good-bye he set off on his return home.

Mrs Tremayne promised to have his boat looked after, and to pay him a visit in the course of a day or two to arrange about the purchase of another.

On reaching home Michael found that Eban Cowan had been before him, and given Nelly and her granny tidings of his safety. They had heard, however, only of the loss of his boat, and had been naturally anxious at the thoughts of what they should do without her. The news he brought that he was to have a new one greatly revived their spirits.

“God is indeed kind to us in sending us help in our time of need,” said Dame Lanreath. “O my children! never forget His loving-kindness, but serve and obey Him as long as you live.”

Michael’s grief was renewed as he went in to see the friend who had acted the part of a father to him all his life; but happily deep grief does not endure long in young hearts, and he now looked forward to Mr Tremayne’s promised visit.

“I hope the young lady and her mother will come with him. O Nelly! she looked like an angel as she watched by me, when I scarcely knew whether I was alive or being knocked over and over in the breakers,” he observed. “For hours after I was safe on shore I had their sound in my ears in a way I never knew before.”

Mr Tremayne came to the cottage just as Dame Lanreath, with Michael and Nelly, had returned from attending the funeral of Paul Trefusis. It was a calm and lovely day, and contrasted greatly with the weather which had before prevailed.

In the harbour, just below the cottage, lay a boat somewhat smaller than the “Wild Duck,” but nearly new, with freshly-tanned sails, and well fitted in every respect. Mrs and Miss Tremayne were seated in it, with two men who had rowed it round from the Lizard.

Mr Tremayne invited the inmates of the cottage to come down and see it.

“What do you think of her?” he asked, after they had greeted the two ladies.

“She is a handy craft, sir, and just suited for this place,” answered Michael.

“I hope you will find her so,” replied Mr Tremayne. “Here is a paper which assigns her to you as her master, and if you will moor her fast her present crew will leave her, as we purpose to continue our journey by land, and have ordered the carriage to meet us at the top of the hill.”

Michael was unable to express his gratitude in words. Dame Lanreath spoke for him.

“May God reward you and your wife and children for your kindness to the orphans, and to an old woman who has well-nigh run her course on earth. We were cast down, though we know that His mercy endureth for ever, and you have lifted us up and shown us that He is faithful and never fails to send help in time of need.”

Nelly took Miss Tremayne’s hand, and, prompted by her feelings, kissed it affectionately; but even she was for the moment unable to express her feelings by words.

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” said Michael at last, as they went back. “You have made a man of me, and I can now work for those who have to look to me for support.”

“I hope you will have the strength, as I am sure you have the will, and may God bless you, my lad,” said Mr Tremayne, shaking him warmly by the hand, for he was far more pleased with the few words Michael had uttered than had he poured out his gratitude in measured language. As he and the ladies proceeded up the pathway, Nelly ran into the cottage. She soon again overtook them.

“Will you please, miss, take these small shells?” she said; “they are little worth, I fear, but I have nothing else to give which you might wish to accept, and they may put you in mind of this place, and those who will pray for you and bless your father and mother as long as they live.”

Miss Tremayne, much pleased, thanked Nelly for her gift, and, assuring her that she should never forget her or Michael and her granny, accepted the gift.

It is scarcely necessary to say that Michael spent a considerable portion of the remainder of the day examining his new boat over and over again, blessing the donor in his heart, and thankful that he should now be able to support Nelly and her granny.

Then the little family assembled in their sitting room, and offered up their thanks to the merciful Being Who looked down upon them in their distress.

Chapter Seven.

Michael Penguyne made ample use of his new boat. Nelly proposed that she should be called the “Dove.”

“You see she was sent to us when all around seemed so dark and gloomy, just as the dove returned to Noah, to show that God had not forgotten him.”

“Then we will call her the ‘Dove’,” said Michael; and the “Dove” from henceforth became the name of Michael’s new boat.

Early and late Michael was in his boat, though he took good care not to be caught to leeward of his port again by a gale of wind. When ashore he was employed mending his nets and refitting his boat’s gear or his fishing-lines. Never for a moment was he idle, for he always found something which ought to be done; each rope’s-end was pointed; his rigging was never chafed; and the moment any service was wanted he put it on.

Thus a couple of years passed by, Dame Lanreath and Nelly setting out day after day to sell the fish or lobsters and crabs he caught, for which they seldom failed to obtain a good price.

At length, however, he found that he could do better with a mate.

“I must get David Treloar, as I said some time ago,” he observed to Nelly. “He is twice as strong as I am, though it would not do to trust him alone in a boat, as he never seems to know which way the wind is, or how the tide is running; but he is honest and good-natured, and staunch as steel, and he will do what I tell him. That’s all I want. If he had been with me in the little ‘Duck,’ we might have gained the harbour and saved her, and though I take all the care I can, yet I may be caught again in the same way.”

David Treloar was a nephew of old Reuben Lanaherne, who had done his best to bring up the poor lad, and make a fisherman of him. His father had been lost at sea, and his mother had gone out of her mind, and soon afterwards died.

Michael found him near his uncle’s house, attempting, though not very expertly, to mend a net.

He was a broad-shouldered, heavy-looking youth, with an expression of countenance which at first sight appeared far from prepossessing; but when spoken to kindly, or told to do anything he liked—and he was ready to do most things—it brightened up, and even a stranger would have said he was a trustworthy fellow, though he might be lacking in intelligence.

“So glad you are come, Michael,” he said. “Here have I been working away at these meshes, and cannot make them come even; the more I pull at them the worse they are. Just do you use your fingers and settle the job for me, and I will do anything for you.”

“I know you will, David, and so I am pretty certain that you will come and work in my boat.”

“What, this afternoon?” asked David.

“No, but always. I want you to be my mate.”

“Hurra! hurra! that I will, lad, with all my heart. Uncle Reuben has got enough lads of his own, he does not want me, and the rest are always making fun at me; but you won’t do that, Michael, I know. We will soon show them that we can catch as many fish as they can, you and I together; and uncle often says I am as strong as a grown man, and stronger than many.” And the young Hercules stretched out his brawny arms.

Michael had not expected to obtain a mate so easily, for David never thought of making terms; provided he got food enough for the day, that was all he thought about. Michael, however, intended to settle that matter with Uncle Reuben. His wish was to act justly towards all men, and pay David fully as much as he was worth.

Able now to use his nets, Michael could look forward to the pilchard season, when he might hope to reap a rich harvest from the sea.

Soon after this he fell in with Eban Cowan.

“So I see you have got that dolt David Treloar as your mate,” observed Eban. “If you had asked me, I would have advised you to take a chap worth two of him. He is big and strong enough, but he has no sense. I wonder, indeed, Michael, that you can go on year after year content to catch a few fish and lobsters, when you might make no end of money and live at home most days in the week enjoying your comfort and doing nothing. Just see how father and I live. You don’t suppose the mill, and the fish, and our few acres of ground enable us to do that.”

“I don’t ask how you get your living—I do not wish to interfere with my neighbours; but I know that it is my duty to work hard every day that the weather will let me,” answered Michael.

“That may be your taste; but I wonder you like to see Nelly wearing her old frock and hood which have become far too small for her, and Aunt Lanreath’s old jacket and petticoat are well-nigh worn out.”

Michael acknowledged that such was the case, and observed that he hoped they would soon get new garments.

“You might get them at once if you will join us in our business,” answered Eban. “What with the fellows who have gone to sea, and some few who have been taken and sent to prison, and those who have been drowned or lost their lives in other ways, we have not as many men as we want. There is good pay to be got, and other profits besides. You would be perfectly safe, for you have a good character, and no one would suspect you of being engaged in the free-trade service.”

“I tell you, Eban, once for all, I will have nothing to do with smuggling,” answered Michael, firmly. “You say no one will suspect me, but you forget that God sees and hears everything we do, or say, or think. Though my fellow-men might not suspect me, He would know that I was engaged in unlawful work. Darkness is no darkness to Him. Day and night to Him are both alike.”

“I don’t let myself think about those sort of things,” answered Eban Cowan, in an angry tone. “I ask you again, will you be a sensible fellow and unite with us as I have invited you?”

“No, I will not,” said Michael. “I do not wish to be unfriendly with you, but when you ask me to do what I know to be wrong I cannot look upon you as a friend.”

“Take your own way, then,” exclaimed Eban, angrily. “You may think better of the matter by-and-by: then all you have to do is to come to me and say so.”

Eban and Michael parted for the time. The former, however, was a constant visitor at Dame Lanreath’s cottage. He did not disguise his admiration for Nelly Trefusis. She might have been flattered, for he was a good-looking, fair-spoken youth, and as he dressed well and had always plenty of money in his pocket, he was looked upon as one of the principal young men in the neighbourhood.

Still Nelly did not consider him equal to Michael.

Time went on: she was becoming a young woman, and Michael was no longer the little boy she had looked upon in her early days as her brother. He, too, had ceased to treat her with the affectionate familiarity he used to do when he supposed her to be his sister. Still he looked upon her as the being of all others whom he was bound to love, and protect, and support to the utmost of his power. Had, however, any young man whom he esteemed, and whom Nelly liked, appeared and offered to become her husband, he would possibly have advised her to accept him, though he might have felt that the light of his home had departed. Indeed, he was so occupied that the thought of marrying at some future time had never entered his head.

Though Nelly gave Eban Cowan no encouragement, he still continued, whenever he could get a fair pretence, to visit the cottage, and never failed to walk by her side when he met her out. Generally he came saying that he wished to see Michael, whom he always spoke of as his most intimate friend, though Michael did not consider himself so. He knew too much about Eban to desire his friendship; indeed, he doubted very much that Eban really cared for him.

“Your friend Eban has been here again to-day,” said Nelly, one evening when Michael returned home late. “He waited and waited, and though I told him I could not say when you would come back, he still sat on, declaring that he must see you, as he wanted you to go somewhere with him, or do something, though what it was he would not tell us. At last, as it grew dark, he was obliged to be off, and neither granny nor I invited him to stay longer.”

“I am glad he did go,” answered Michael; “but do not call him my friend. If he was a true friend he would give me good advice and try to lead me aright; instead of that he gives me bad advice, and tries to lead me to do what I know is wrong. There—you now know what I think of Eban Cowan.”

“And you think very rightly,” observed Dame Lanreath. “I do not trust him, and perhaps you know more about him and have greater reasons for not liking him than I have.”

“Michael,” said Nelly, looking up, “I will trust only those whom you trust, and I do not wish to like any one whom you do not like.”

Still, although Nelly took no care to show any preference for Eban, it was not in her heart to be rude or unkind to him; but Dame Lanreath tried to make him understand that his visits were not wished for. He, however, fancied that she alone did not like him, and still flattered himself that he was making his way with Nelly.

Thus matters went on month after month. Michael and David Treloar succeeded together better even than at first expected. David was always ready to do the hard work, and, placing perfect confidence in Michael’s skill and judgment, readily obeyed him.

It was the height of summer-time. The pilchards in vast schools began to visit the coast of Cornwall, and the fishermen in all directions were preparing for their capture. The boats were got ready, the nets thoroughly repaired, and corks and leads and tow lines and warps fitted. Huers, as the men are called who watch for the fish, had taken their stations on every height on the look-out for their approach. Each huer kept near him the “white bush,” which is the name given to a mass of furze covered with tow or white ribbons. This being raised aloft is the sign that a school is in sight. The boats employed were of two descriptions, the largest of from twenty to thirty tons, carrying seven or eight men; and the smaller somewhat larger than the “Dove,” having only three or four men.

Michael had succeeded in obtaining another hand, so that, small as his boat was, he was fully able to take a part in the work.

The pilchard belongs to the herring family, but is somewhat smaller, and differs from that fish in external appearance, having a shorter head and a more compact body; its scales, too, are rather longer than those of the common herring. It is supposed to retire during the winter to the deep water of the ocean, and to rise only as the summer approaches to the surface, when it commences its travels and moves eastward towards the English Channel.

At first it forms only small bands, but these increase till a large army is collected, under the guidance, it is supposed, of a chief. Onward it makes its way, pursued by birds of prey who pounce down and carry off thousands of individuals, whose loss, however, scarcely diminishes the size of the mighty host. Voracious fish, too, pursue the army as it advances in close columns, and swallow immense numbers.

As it approaches the Land’s End it divides, one portion making its way northward along the west coast, while the other moves forward along the south coast towards the Start.

The huers can distinguish the approach of a school by a change in the colour of the sea. As it draws near, the water appears to leap and boil like a cauldron, while at night the ocean is spread over, as it were, with a sheet of liquid light, brilliant as when the moonbeams play on the surface rippled by a gentle breeze.

From early dawn a number of boats had been waiting off the shore, keeping their position by an occasional pull at the oars as necessity required, with their nets ready to cast at a moment’s warning. Michael’s boat was among them. He and his companions cast their eyes constantly at the huers on the summit of the cliffs above, anxiously expecting the signal that a school had been seen in the far distance. But whether it would approach the shore near enough to enable them to encircle it was uncertain. It might come towards them, but then it might suddenly sweep round to a different part of the coast or dart back again into deep water. Hour after hour passed by.

The crews of the boats had their provisions with them, and no one at that time would think of returning to the shore for breakfast or dinner. They kept laughing and talking together, or occasionally exchanging a word with those in the boats on either side of them.

“I hope we shall have better luck than yesterday,” said David Treloar. “I had made up my mind that we should have the schools if they came near us, and yet they got off again just at the time I thought we had them secured.”

“You must have patience, David; trust to Him Who helped the fishermen of Galilee when they had toiled all day and caught nothing,” answered Michael. “I do not see that we should expect to be better off than they were; He Who taught the pilchards to visit our shores will send them into our nets if He thinks fit. Our business is to toil on and to trust to His kindness.”

“Ah, Michael! you are always right; I do not see things as clearly as you do,” said David.

“If you do not, still you know that God cares for you as much as He does for me or anyone else; and so do you trust to Him, and depend upon it all will turn out right. That’s what Uncle Paul used to say, and your Uncle Reuben says.”

Michael had for some time past taken pains to let it be known that he was not, as supposed to be, the son of Paul Trefusis, and had told all his friends and acquaintances the history which Paul had given him. Many of the elder people, indeed, were well acquainted with the circumstances of the case, and were able to corroborate what he said. Eban Cowan, however, had hitherto been ignorant of the fact, and had always supposed that Michael was Nelly’s brother. This had originally made him anxious to gain Michael’s friendship for her sake. Almost from his boyhood he had admired her, and his admiration increased with his growth, till he entertained for her as much affection as it was in his nature to feel.

No sooner was he aware of the truth than jealousy of Michael sprang up in his heart, and instead of putting it away, as he ought to have done, he nourished it till his jealousy grew into a determined and deadly hatred of one whom he chose to consider as his rival.

Michael, not aware of this, met him in the same frank way that he had always been accustomed to do, and took no notice of the angry scowl which Eban often cast at him.

Eban on this occasion had command of his father’s boat. He was reputed to be as good and bold a fisherman as anyone on the coast. Michael did not observe the fierce look Eban cast at him as they were shoving off in the morning when the two boats pulled out of the harbour together side by side.

The boats had now been waiting several hours, and when the huers were seen to raise their white boughs and point to a sandy beach to the north of the harbour (a sign that a school of pilchards was directing its course in that direction), instantly the cry of “heva” was raised by the numerous watchers on the shore, and the crews of the boats, bending to their oars, pulled away to get outside the school and prevent them from turning back.

Two with nets on board, starting from the same point, began quick as lightning to cast them out till they formed a vast circle.

Away the rowers pulled, straining their sinews to the utmost, till a large circle was formed two thousand feet in circumference, within which the shining fish could be seen leaping and struggling thickly together on the surface. The seine, about twelve fathoms deep, thus formed a wall beyond which the fish could not pass, the bottom being sunk by heavy leads and the upper part supported by corks. In the meantime a boat was employed in driving the fish towards the centre of the enclosure, lest before the circle was completed they might alter their course and escape.

Although the fish were thus enclosed, their enormous weight would certainly have broken through the net had an attempt been made to drag them on to the beach. The operation was not yet over. Warping or dragging them into shallow water had now to be commenced. Gradually the circle was drawn nearer and nearer the shore, till shallow water was reached. The seine was then moored, that is, secured by grappling hooks. It had next to be emptied. In bad weather this cannot be done, as the work requires smooth water. On the present occasion, however, the sea was calm, and several boats, supplied with smaller nets and baskets, entered the circle and commenced what is called tucking. The small nets were used to encircle as many fish as they could lift, which were quickly hauled on board in the ordinary way, while other boats ladled the pilchards out of the water with baskets. As soon as a boat was laden she returned to the shore by the only passage left open, where men stood ready to close it as soon as she had passed.

On the beach were collected numbers of women and lads, with creels on their backs ready to be filled. As soon as this was done they carried them up to the curing-house, situated on a convenient spot near the bay. Among those on the beach were Dame Lanreath and Nelly, and as Michael assisted to fill their creels he expressed his satisfaction at having contributed so materially to the success of the undertaking, for his boat had been one of the most actively employed.

As all engaged in the operation belonged to the same company, they worked with a will, each person taking his allotted duty, and thus doing their utmost to obtain success.

Some time was occupied in thus emptying the seine, for after the fish on the surface had been caught many more which were swimming lower down and making endeavours to escape, were obtained with the tucking nets. The whole net itself was then dragged up, and the remainder of the fish which had been caught in the meshes, or had before escaped capture, were taken out.

Such is the ordinary way of catching the pilchard on the coast of Cornwall with seines.

The inhabitants of the village congratulated themselves on their success.

Often, as has been said, tucking has to be delayed in consequence of a heavy sea for several days, and sometimes, after all, the fish have been lost.

“I mind, not long ago,” observed Uncle Reuben, “when we were shooting a net to the southward, it was caught by the tide and carried away against the rocks, where, besides the fish getting free, it was so torn and mangled that it took us many a long winter’s evening to put to rights. And you have heard tell, Michael, that at another time, when we had got well-nigh a thousand pounds’ worth of fish within our seine, they took it into their heads to make a dash together at one point, and, capsizing it, leaped clear over the top, and the greater number of them got free. And only two seasons ago, just as we thought we had got a fine haul, and the seine was securely moored, a ground swell set in from the westward, where a heavy gale was blowing, and the net was rolled over and over till every fish had escaped, and the net was worth little or nothing. So I say we have reason to be thankful when we get a successful catch like that we have had to-day.”

It was not, however, the only successful catch which Michael and his companions made that season. Still, as his boat and net were but small, his share was less than that of the rest of the company, and, after all, his share was not more than sufficient for his expenses.

A considerable number of the company were now employed in curing or bulking the late catch of pilchards. This was carried on in a circular court called a cellar. The fish which had been piled up within it were now laid out on raised slabs which ran round the court. First a layer of salt was spread, then a layer of pilchards, and so on, layers of pilchards and salt alternating, till a vast mound was raised. Here they remained for about a month or more. Below the slabs were gutters, which conveyed the brine and oil which oozed out of the mass into a large pit in the centre of the court. From three to four hundredweight of salt was used for each hogshead.

After they had remained in bulk for sufficient time the pilchards were cleansed from the salt and closely packed in hogsheads, each of which contains about 2,400 fish, and weighs about 476 pounds. The pressure to which they are subjected forces the oil out through the open joints of the cask.

The pilchards are now familiarly called “fair maids,” from fermade, a corruption of fumado (the Spanish word for smoked), as originally they were cured by smoking, a method, however, which has long been abandoned.

No portion of the prize is lost; the oil and blood is sold to the curriers, the skimmings of the water in which the fish are washed before packing is purchased by the soap-boilers, and the broken and refuse fish are sold for manure. The oil when clarified forms an important item in the profit.

The pilchards, however, are not always to be entrapped near the shore. At most times they keep out at sea, where the hardy fishermen make use of the drift-net.

Two sorts of boats are employed for this purpose; one is of about thirty tons burden, the other much smaller. They use a number of nets called a set, about twenty in all, joined together. Each net is about 170 feet long, and 40 deep. United lengthways they form a wall three-quarters of a mile long, the lower part kept down by leads, the upper floated on the surface by corks. Sometimes they are even much longer.

Within the meshes of this net the fish, as they swim rapidly forward, entangle themselves. They easily get their heads through, but cannot withdraw them, as they are held by the gills, which open in the water like the barbs of an arrow. Their bodies also being larger than the meshes, they thus remain hanging, unable to extricate themselves.

The driving-boat is made fast to one end of the wall, where she hangs on till the time for hauling the net arrives.

The fishermen prefer a thick foggy night and a loppy sea, as under those circumstances the pilchards do not perceive the net in their way. At times, however, when the water is phosphorescent, the creatures which form the luminous appearance cover the meshes so that the whole net becomes lighted up.

This is called “briming,” and the pilchards, thus perceiving the trap in their way, turn aside and escape its meshes.

As briming rarely occurs during twilight, and the ocean is at that time dark enough to hide the wall of twine, the fishermen generally shoot their nets soon after sunset and just before dawn, when the fine weather makes it probable that they will be lighted up by the dreaded briming at the other hours of the night.

The operation of hauling in nearly a mile of net, with its meshes full of fish, is an arduous task, especially during a dark night, when the boat is tossed about by a heavy sea, and at no time indeed can it be an easy one. The hardy fishermen pursue this species of fishing during the greater part of the year, for small schools of pilchards arrive in the Channel as early as the month of May, and remain far into the winter, till the water becomes too cool for their constitutions, when they return eastwards to seek a warmer climate in the depths of the Atlantic, or swim off to some unknown region, where they may deposit their spawn or obtain the food on which they exist. Little, however, is known of the causes which guide their movements, and the Cornish fishermen remain satisfied by knowing the fact that the beautiful little fish which enables them to support themselves and their families are sent annually by their benignant Creator to visit their coasts, and seldom trouble themselves to make any further inquiries on the subject.

Chapter Eight.

Two more years passed away—Nelly had become a pretty young woman, modest and good as she was attractive in her personal appearance. She had admirers in plenty besides Eban Cowan, who continued, as in his younger days, to pay her all the attention in his power, and openly declared to his companions his purpose of making her his wife.

By this means he kept some at a distance who were afraid to encounter him as a rival, for they well knew his fierce and determined disposition, of which he had on several occasions given evidence. Every one knew that he and his father were leagued with the most desperate gang of smugglers on the coast, and two or three times when acting as leader of a party he had had fierce encounters with the coast-guard, and on each occasion by his judgment and courage had succeeded in carrying off the goods which had been landed to a place of safety. He frequently also had made trips in a smuggling lugger, of which his father was part owner, to the coast of France. He was looked upon as a hardy and expert seaman, as well as a good fisherman. Had he, indeed, kept to the latter calling, with the boats he owned he would have become an independent, if not a wealthy man. But ill-gotten gains go fast, and in his smuggling enterprises, though he was often successful, yet he lost in the end more than he gained.

Nelly, though flattered by the attention paid her, showed no preference for any of her admirers. She had a good-natured word or a joke for all of them, but always managed to make them hold their tongues when they appeared to be growing serious. How she might have acted without the sage Dame Lanreath to advise her, or had she not felt that she could not consent to desert her and Michael, it is impossible to say.

Michael had become a fine and active young man. As a sailor he was not inferior to Eban. He had been able to support Nelly and her grandmother in comfort, and to save money besides. He had invested his profits in a share of Uncle Reuben’s large fishing-boat, and was thus able to employ himself in the deep-sea seine fishing for the greater part of the year, as well as that of the inshore fishing which he had hitherto pursued. His only regret was that it compelled him to be absent from home more frequently and for longer periods, but then he had always the advantage of returning to spend every Sunday with Nelly.

Those Sundays were indeed very happy ones; he did not spend them in idle sloth, but he and Nelly, accompanied by her grandmother, set off early to worship together, never allowing either wind or rain to hinder them, although they had several miles to go. On their return they spent the remainder of the day in reading God’s Word, or one of the few cherished books they possessed. They had received some time back two or three which were especially favoured, sent by Mrs and Miss Tremayne, with a kind message inquiring after Michael and Dame Lanreath, and hoping that the “Dove” had answered Michael’s expectations and proved a good and useful sea-boat. Nelly undertook to write a reply.

“That she has, tell them,” said Michael. “I often think, when I am at work on board her, of their kindness, and what I should have done had they and Mr Tremayne not given her to me.”

After this, however, they received no further news of their friends, and though Nelly wrote to inquire, her letter was returned by the post-office, stating that they had left the place.

Refreshed by his Sunday rest, Michael went with renewed strength to his weekly toil.

Uncle Reuben’s boat was called the “Sea-Gull.” Michael was now constantly on board her, as he had from his prudence and skill been chosen as mate. When Reuben himself did not go out in her, he had the command.

The merry month of May had begun, the “Sea-Gull” was away with her drift-nets. Reuben hoped to be among the first to send fish to the Helston market. Dame Lanreath and Nelly, as well as several other female members of Reuben’s family, or related to his crew, were ready to set off with their creels as soon as the boat returned.

Nelly had gone as far as Uncle Reuben’s house to watch for the “Sea-Gull.” She had not long to wait before she caught sight of the little vessel skimming over the waters before a light nor’-westerly breeze. It was the morning of the eighth of May, when the annual festival of the Flurry was to be held at Helston.

Although Nelly did not wish to take part in the sports carried on there, still she had no objection to see what was going forward, and perhaps Michael, contrary to his custom, would be willing to accompany her and her granny.

“He so seldom takes a holiday; but for this once he may be tempted to go and see the fun,” she thought.

The “Sea-Gull” drew near, and Nelly knew her appearance too well to have any doubt about her, even when she was a long way off.

She now hurried home to tell Dame Lanreath, that they might be ready at the landing-place to receive their portion of the vessel’s cargo.

The vessel was soon moored alongside the quay, when the creels were quickly filled with fish.

“If you will come with us to Helston, Michael, I will wait for you. Granny will go on ahead and we can soon overtake her. Though you have lived so near you have never seen a Flurry dance, and on this bright morning there will sure to be a good gathering.”

“I care little for seeing fine folks dressed up in gay flowers and white dresses, and dancing and jigging, especially as neither you nor I can take a part in the fun,” answered Michael. “I should like the walk well enough with you, Nelly, but a number of congers and dog-fish got foul of our nets and made some ugly holes in them, which will take us all day to mend; it is a wonder they did not do more mischief. So, as I always put business before pleasure, you see, Nelly, I must not go, however much I might wish it.”

Nelly thought that David and others might mend the nets; but Michael said that he and all hands were required to do the work, and that if he did not stop and set a good example the others might be idle, and when he got back in the evening it might not be done. So Nelly, very unwillingly, was obliged to give up her scheme of inducing Michael to take a holiday, and accompanied her granny as usual.

Having left Michael’s breakfast ready on the table, they set off. The dame trudged along, staff in hand; her step was as firm as it had been ten years before, though her body was slightly bent. Nelly walked by her side, as she had done year after year, but she now bore her burden with greater ease; and with her upright figure, and her cheeks blooming with health, the two together presented a perfect picture of a fish-wife and fish-girl.

Dame Lanreath had promised, after they had sold the contents of their creels, to wait some little time to see the Flurry dance and the gay people who would throng the town. Nelly looked forward to the scene with pleasure, her only regret being that Michael had been unable to accompany her.

They had gone some distance when they heard a rapid step behind them, and Eban Cowan came up to Nelly’s side.

“I have been walking hard to overtake you, Nelly,” he said, “for I found that you had gone on. I suppose you intend to stay and see the gay doings at Helston, and will not object to an escort back in the evening?”

“Granny proposes stopping for the Flurry dance, but we shall come away long before it is dark, and as we know the road as well as most people, we can find it by ourselves,” answered Nelly, coldly.

“You will miss half the fun, then,” said Eban. “You must get your granny to stop, or, if she will not, she cannot mind your remaining with my sister and cousin, and I can see you and them home.”

“I cannot let my granny walk home by herself,” answered Nelly; “and so, Eban, I beg that you will not say anything more about the matter.”

Eban saw that it would not do just then to press the subject, and he hoped that perhaps Nelly would lose sight of her grandmother in the crowd, and that she would then be too glad to come back under his charge. He had made up his mind to have a talk with her, and bring matters to an issue; he did not suppose that she and Michael could care much for each other, or he thought that they would have married long ago, and so believed that he had a better chance than any one else of winning Nelly Trefusis.

He walked on, trying to make himself agreeable now saying a few words to the dame, who generally gave him curt answers, and now addressing Nelly. As he had plenty to say for himself, she could not help being amused, and his conversation served to beguile the way over the somewhat dreary country they had to pass till the neighbourhood of Helston was reached.

He accompanied them in the ferry-boat which took them across to the town on the other side of the shallow estuary or lake on which it is built.

As they had now to go from house to house to sell their fish, he had to leave them, believing, however, that he should have no difficulty in finding them again when their creels were empty.

The town was at that time quiet enough, for all the shops were closed, and most of the young men and maidens, as well as large parties of children, had gone into the surrounding woods to cut boughs and gather wild flowers.

The housewives, however, were eager to purchase their fresh-caught pilchards, to make into huge pasties, which, with clotted cream, forms the favourite Cornish dish.

They had already disposed of a considerable portion of their freight, when they saw a large party approaching along the principal thoroughfare. It consisted of a number of young people, boys and girls, their heads decked with wreaths of flowers, and holding in their hands green boughs, which they waved to and fro as they advanced, singing—

“Once more the merry month of May

Has come, and driven old winter away;

And so as now green boughs we bring,

We merrily dance and merrily sing.

No more we dread the frost and snow,

No more the winter breezes blow;

But summer suns and azure skies

Warm our hearts and please our eyes.

And so we dance and so we sing,

And here our woodland trophies bring;

Hurra, hurra, hurra, hurra!

What can with our Flurry dance compare?”

Thus the merry party went dancing and singing through the town, every one running out from their houses to greet and applaud them.

A large number of carriages and vehicles of all sorts now appeared, conveying the inhabitants of the surrounding district, who came in summer attire, decked with spring flowers, preceded by a band of music.

They all assembled before the Town Hall, when the Flurry dance commenced. Rows of ladies and gentlemen formed opposite each other, then, moving forward, they set to each other in couples, and proceeded thus, dancing and singing, down the streets. Garden-gates stood open, and many of the doors of the larger houses. Through them the dancers entered, continuing their evolutions up and down the gravel walks and through the halls, all ranks and classes mingling together. All seemed in good humour; in spite of the exercise they were taking, none appeared fatigued or willing to stop.

The Flurry tune which was played is a peculiar one, evidently of great antiquity, and probably the custom had its origin as far back as the feast of Flora, when pagan rites were performed in the country, or, perhaps, it originally was instituted to celebrate a victory over the Saxons; or it may be a remnant of some old Celtic observance.

Few of those who took part in it cared much about its origin. The young people enjoyed the amusement of dancing and singing, and their elders their holiday and relaxation from business.

Dame Lanreath and Nelly had disposed of all their fish before the Flurry dance began; they thus had ample time to watch what was going forward, Nelly kept close to her grandmother, although she met several of her acquaintances, who stopped to have a talk, and she might easily, had she not been on the watch, have lost her in the crowd.

In the evening the grander people were to have a ball at the Town Hall; but as the dame and Nelly took no interest in watching the ladies in their gay dresses stepping from their carriages, they, having seen enough of the Flurry dance to satisfy their curiosity, set out in company with several of their friends on their walk homeward.

They were just leaving the town, when Eban Cowan overtook Nelly, who was in company with another girl a short distance behind Dame Lanreath.

“Nelly,” said Eban, “I was in a great fright lest I should miss you. You are going away without seeing half the fun of the day; the people are only just getting into the spirit of the dance. I wanted you to take off that creel and have a turn with me. Among all the fine ladies there is not one can compare with you for beauty in my eyes, and many a lad there would have been jealous of me, in spite of the white dresses and bright flowers of the girls.”

Nelly laughed, thinking that Eban was joking. Her companion, who believed the common report, that Eban Cowan was an admirer of Nelly Trefusis, and that she encouraged him, dropped behind and joined another party, and Eban and Nelly were left alone.

He at once changed his tone, which showed that he was deeply in earnest.

“Nelly,” he said, “I have sought you for long years, and however others may admire you, they cannot care for you as I do—my love surpasses theirs a hundredfold. I can give you a comfortable home, and make you equal to any of the fine ladies we have been watching to-day. You need no longer carry that creel on your back, and slave as you have been doing, if you will become my wife. I tell you that I love you more than life itself, and ask you, will you marry me?”

Nelly would willingly have stopped Eban from talking on, but had hitherto been unable to get in a word.

“I have known you, Eban Cowan, since I way a girl, but I have never for one moment encouraged you to suppose that I would become your wife, and I now say positively that I cannot and will not. I thank you for all you have said to me, though I would rather you had left it unsaid; and I would wish to be friendly, as we have always been,” she answered, firmly.

“Is that the only answer you can give me?” exclaimed Eban.

“I can give no other,” replied Nelly.

“Do you never intend to marry, then?” asked Eban.

“I am not compelled to tell you my intentions,” said Nelly.

“Do you love any one else? because I shall then know how to act,” exclaimed Eban.

Nelly thought for a moment. “I will tell him; it will be the kindest thing to do, as he will then understand that I can never marry him, and wisely seek another wife.”

“Yes, Eban Cowan, I do love another,” she said, in a low voice. “I love Michael Penguyne, and can be no other man’s wife than his. You have long called him your friend; let him be your friend still, but give up all thoughts of me.”

“I now know how to act,” muttered Eban, gloomily. “I had no idea that you cared for him; and if you choose to become a poor fisherman’s wife, you must follow your own course; only, do not suppose that I can cease to love you.”

“I cannot listen to what you say,” exclaimed Nelly, walking on rapidly, and feeling very indignant at Eban’s last remark.

He did not attempt to follow her, and she soon overtook Dame Lanreath and the friends who were accompanying her. When she looked round, Eban had disappeared. She felt greatly relieved at having got rid of him, and she hoped that, notwithstanding what he had said, he would abandon all hopes of becoming her husband.

Eban went home by another path, muttering fiercely that he would not be balked, and that Michael should pay dearly for coming between him and the girl he loved.

People little know, when they give way to their unbridled passions, into what crimes they may be led.

Day after day Eban Cowan pondered over his rejection by Nelly, and chose to consider himself especially ill-treated.

“She should have let me know years ago that she intended to marry that fellow. How can she think of preferring him, a poor, hard-working lad, to me?” he exclaimed; and dreadful thoughts came into his mind. He made no attempt to drive them from him.

Chapter Nine.

The autumn was drawing on. The pilchard harvest had not been as successful as the fishermen desired, and they kept their boats at sea in the hopes of obtaining a share of the schools of fish which still hovered off their coasts. The drift-nets now could only be used with any prospect of success, and Michael was as active and energetic as ever. He had, indeed, greater reason for working hard, as Nelly had promised to become his wife in the ensuing spring. He wished to make every preparation in his power that she might begin her married life with as much comfort as a fisherman’s wife could hope to do.

“Only we must look after granny too, and try to save her the long trudges she has had to make; and repay her, though that would be a hard matter, for all the care she took of us when we were young,” he observed to Nelly, as they were talking over their future prospects.

Nelly heartily agreed with him; but when Dame Lanreath heard of their intentions, she laughed at the notion of giving up her daily walks to market.

“More reason for Nelly to stay at home to look after the house. Wait a bit till my limbs grow stiffer than they are as yet, and till she has got a little damsel of her own to trot alongside her as she used to trot alongside me,” she answered.

“But, granny, I have been thinking of getting little Mary Lanaherne, Uncle Reuben’s granddaughter, to go to market with me while you stay at home; she is quite ready to agree to my plan,” said Nelly.

“Ah, I see you want to become a fine lady now you are going to marry, and have an attendant of your own,” said the dame, laughing. “Bide a bit till you have need of help, and let my old limbs wag on while they have life in them.”

“That will be for many years to come, I hope, granny,” said Michael; “and to my eyes you don’t seem to have become a day older since I first remember you, and that’s longer than I can remember anything else; for I mind you holding me in your arms when father came home one day and gave me a fish to play with.”

“That was a good bit ago, Michael, to be sure, and I should not like to have to lift you up now, lad, strong as my arms still are,” answered the old dame, looking approvingly at the fine manly young fisherman as he stood before her. Nelly, too, gave him a glance of tender affection, and all three laughed merrily. Their hearts were light, for though theirs was a life of toil they willingly undertook their daily tasks, and were thankful for the blessings bestowed on them.

“It is time for me to be off,” said Michael; “Uncle Reuben stays on shore this evening, so I am to act captain. We shall be back, I hope, soon after ten, as he always wishes us to be home early on Saturday night, and as the weather looks pretty thick, and there is a nice lop of a sea on, we may expect to get a good haul.”

Michael kissed Nelly’s clear brow, and bestowed his usual “buss,” as he called it, on granny’s withered cheek; then shouldering his oilskin coat, he took his way towards the landing-place at the mouth of the harbour.

David and the rest of his crew were sitting about on the rocks with their short pipes in their mouths in readiness to go on board. Uncle Reuben had come down to see them off, and seemed half inclined to accompany them.

“If it were not for these aches in my back and sides, and that I promised my dame to stay on shore this evening, I would go with you, lads. But keep your weather eyes open. I cannot say I quite like the look of the weather. It may turn out fine, but it is very thick away to the southward.”

“It will be fine enough for what we want, Uncle Reuben, and the ‘Sea-Gull’ does not mind a bit of a swell and a stiffish breeze, and we shall be back again almost before there is time to send a second hand to the bellows,” answered Michael.

“God go with you, lads,” said the old fisherman as the lads sprang on board. “If the weather gets worse, haul your nets and make the best of your way back. We will keep the light burning on the point, so that you will not miss your road into harbour at all events.”

The “Sea-Gull” was shoved off, the oars got out, and, with her attendant drift-boat towing ahead, her hardy crew soon swept her out of the harbour. Her tanned sails were then hoisted, and, close-hauled, she stood away to beat up to her intended fishing-grounds some distance to the southward, off the Gull Rock.

The old fisherman stood watching her for some time, more than once saying to himself, “I wish that I had gone, the trip would not have hurt me; but Michael is a careful lad, and, even if the weather does come on bad, he will not risk staying out longer than is prudent.”

Bad, indeed, there shortly appeared every probability of the weather becoming. Dark green seas came rolling in crested with foam, and breaking with increasing loudness of sound on the rocky shore; the wind whistled and howled louder and louder.

Uncle Reuben buttoned up his coat to the chin as he gazed seaward. At last his daughter came to call him in to tea.

“Mother says you will be making yourself worse, father, standing out in the cold and damp.”

He obeyed the summons; still he could not help every now and then getting up and going to the door to see what the weather was like; each time he came back with a less favourable report.

As it grew dark, in spite of his dame’s expostulations he again went out and proceeded to the point, where he was also joined by three or four men, who had come either to attend to the beacon which was kept burning on dark nights, or to look out for the fishing-boats which they expected would at once return in consequence of the bad weather which had now in earnest set in.

As soon as Michael had left his home, a young girl, the child of a neighbour who lived further up the harbour in the direction of the mill, came running to the cottage, saying that her mother was taken ill, and that as her father and brothers were away fishing, there was no one to stay with her while she went to call for the doctor.

Nelly at once offered to go and stay with the poor woman, and to do her best.

“No, I will go,” said Dame Lanreath; “maybe I shall be able to tell what is best to be done as well as the doctor himself. Do you run on, Nancy, and I will come and look after your mother.”

As the dame was not to be contradicted, Nelly continued the work in which she was engaged, and her grandmother set off with active steps towards her neighbour’s cottage.

Nelly had not been long alone when she heard a hasty footstep approaching. The door opened, and Eban Cowan stood before her. A dark frown was on his brow, his eyes she thought had a wild and fierce expression she had never before seen them wear. Her heart sank within her, and she in vain tried to speak in her usually friendly tone.

“Good evening, Eban; what brings you here at this hour?” she said, on seeing him stand gazing at her without uttering a word.

“Nelly, I have come to ask you a question, and as you answer it you will make me more happy than I have been for many a long day, or you will send me away a miserable wretch, and you will never, it may be, see me again.”

“I shall be sorry not to see you again, Eban, for we have been friends from our earliest days, and I hoped that we should always remain so,” answered Nelly, mustering all the courage she possessed to speak calmly.

“That is what drives me to desperation,” he exclaimed. “Nelly, is it true that you are going to marry Michael Penguyne?”

“I hope so, if it is God’s will, as you ask me to tell you,” said Nelly, firmly. “I fancied that you were his friend, as you always were mine. And, Eban, I pray that you may not feel any ill-will towards either of us, because we love each other, and are sure we shall be happy together.”

“Is that the only answer you have to give me?” exclaimed Eban, hoarsely.

“I can say nothing more nor less,” said Nelly, gently. “I am very sorry that my answer should make you unhappy, but you insisted on having it, and I can say nothing more.”

Eban gazed at her for a moment, and appeared to be about to utter a threat, but he restrained himself, and turning hastily round rushed out of the cottage.

She was thankful that he had gone, yet a feeling of undefined fear of what he might do in his present angry mood stole over her. She was well aware of his fierce and daring character, and she had heard from her granny of desperate deeds done by men whose addresses had been rejected by girls whom they professed to love.

She earnestly wished that the dame would soon come back, that she might tell her what had occurred and consult what was best to be done.

Had Nelly known what was passing in the dark mind of Eban Cowan she would indeed have had cause for alarm.

Instead of going homewards he proceeded down towards the mouth of the harbour. On turning the point he scanned the spot where the fishing-vessels lay at anchor, and observed that the “Sea-Gull,” among others, was away.

“She will be back early to-night,” he muttered, “and Michael will pass this way homeward by himself, but his home he shall never reach, if I have my will. I am not going to let him come between me and the girl I have all my life intended to marry; he has no right to her: she is too good for a poor hard-working fisherman like him, and he will make her drudge all the best days of her life. If he were out of the way she would soon come round and look on me as she used to do.”

Much more to the same effect he thought, working himself up to do, without compunction, the fearful act he meditated.

The pathway between the quay at the mouth of the harbour, where the fishing-vessels landed their cargoes, and Michael’s house, at one place between the cliffs and the water, became so narrow that two people could with difficulty pass each other. Close to this spot, however, there existed a hollow in the rock, in which a person standing was completely concealed, especially on a dark night, when it might be passed by without discovering that any one was within.

Eban Cowan stood for some time watching the distant horizon, and as the evening drew on he observed through the gloom two or three fishing-boats running under close-reefed sails for the harbour’s mouth.

“One of those is the ‘Sea-Gull’; I must not be seen in the neighbourhood, or I may be suspected,” he muttered, taking his way towards the lurking-place from which he intended to rush out and commit the crime he meditated.

Satan, ever ready to encourage those who yield to his instigations, persuaded him that he could do the deed without being discovered, and again and again he thought of the happiness he should enjoy with the pretty Nelly as his wife, as if the soul guilty of the blood of a fellow-creature could ever enjoy happiness!

There he stood listening amid the roar of the fast-rising gale for the step of his victim. Suddenly he thought—

“But suppose she hates me, I shall have done a deed and gained nothing. She may suspect that I did it. Why did I madly go and see her this evening? I had not intended to enter the cottage. Had the dame not gone away I should not have thought of it. Still, neither she nor any one else can swear that I am guilty. No eye will see me. The path is slippery: it will be supposed that he fell into the water.” Then at that moment a voice seemed to whisper to him the words Michael had uttered long before, “God sees and hears and knows everything we do or say or think.” It seemed to be that of Michael, “The darkness is no darkness to Him; the day and night to Him are both alike.”

“Oh, He sees me now; He knows what I am thinking of.”

The strong, daring smuggler trembled.

“I cannot do it; miserable I may be, but I should be more miserable still if I had it ever present to my mind that I had killed in cold blood another man who never wished to offend me.”

He rushed from his concealment and threw the weapon he had hitherto clutched in his hand far away into the water.

He was hurrying homewards, when he heard shouts coming up from the harbour’s mouth. He caught the sounds; they were cries, for hands to man a boat.

Constitutionally brave, he was ready at that moment for any desperate service. He wanted something to drive away the fearful thoughts which agitated his mind; he dreaded being left to himself; he must be actively engaged or he should go mad, if he was not mad already.

He hurried to the quay, alongside which a boat, kept ready for emergencies, was tossing up and down; she was not a life-boat, but still one well fitted to encounter heavy seas, and was used to go off to vessels which had got embayed or ran a risk of being driven on shore.

“I am ready to go off, if you want another hand,” he exclaimed.

“You will do, and welcome. Our number is now made up,” answered Uncle Reuben, who was seated in the stern of the boat.

Eban leaped in.

“Whereabouts is the vessel in danger?” he asked. “I could not make her out.”

“She is my craft, the ‘Sea-Gull,’” said Uncle Reuben. “The ‘Favourite,’ which has just come in, saw her driving, with her mast gone, towards the Gull Rock, and if she strikes it there is no chance for her or the poor fellows on board. Lord be merciful to them! we must do our best to try and save them, for no craft under sail will dare to stand near them, for fear of sharing their fate.”

Eban knew that Michael had gone away in the “Sea-Gull.” Should he risk his life to try and save that of his rival? He felt inclined to spring on shore again. The next instant Uncle Reuben gave the order to get out the oars.

Once actively engaged Eban no longer wished to quit the boat, but the wild thought rose in his mind that Michael might be lost, and then, his rival removed, that Nelly would become his.

In his selfishness he did not consider the grief she whom he professed to love would suffer; he, at all events, would not have inflicted it. He had not committed the crime he meditated, and yet might gain the object of his wishes.

Nelly had been anxiously waiting the return of Dame Lanreath; she was greatly agitated by Eban’s visit—unable to overcome the fear that he might do something desperate, but what that might be she could not tell.

She frequently went to the door to see if her granny was coming.

The night drew on, the fury of the storm increased. She thought of Michael on the raging ocean engaged in hauling in his nets. The “Sea-Gull” would surely not remain out long in such weather; the fishing-vessels ought to be back by this time. She longed to run down to the harbour’s mouth to ascertain if they had returned; then her granny might come in, and, finding her gone, not know what had become of her. The thought, too, that she might meet Eban in his angry mood restrained her.

“Oh, what is going to happen?” she exclaimed, feeling more anxiety and alarm than she had ever before experienced. “O my dear, dear Michael, why don’t you come back to me? O merciful God, protect him!” She fell on her knees, hiding her face in her hands, and prayed for the safety of him who was on the foaming waters.

She thought she heard her granny coming. She rose from the ground and, going to the door, looked out. No one was there; she heard the roaring of the breakers on the rocky coast, and the fierce wind howling up the wild glen, making the surface of the harbour bubble and hiss and foam, and sending the spray, mingled with the cold night wind, high up, even to where she stood.

“I must go and learn why he does not come,” she exclaimed. “Oh, how I wish granny would come back! she may suffer harm coming along the rough path this bleak night in the dark.”

Poor Nelly felt in truth forlorn; but hers was a brave heart, which a fisherman’s wife needs must have, or she could not endure the agitating suspense to which she must day after day throughout her life he exposed, when the tempest howls and the wild waves roar. She went in and put on her hood and cloak. In vain she strove to restrain her agitation. Again she went to the door. She thought she saw through the thick gloom a figure approaching.

“Is that you, dear granny?” she cried out.

“Ay, Nelly, though I have had a hard battle with the wind,” answered Dame Lanreath, in her usually cheery voice. “But my journey is ended, and it was well I went to poor Polly Penduck when I did, for she was in a bad way; the doctor, however, has been with her, and she is all right now.”

Nelly had run forward to lead her grandmother into the house, and she spoke the latter words on her way.

“Why, my child, what is the matter with you?” exclaimed the dame, as she saw her pale and agitated countenance.

Before Nelly could answer, footsteps were heard outside. She hurried back to the door.

“Oh! can it be Michael coming?” exclaimed Nelly. “Michael, Michael, are you there?”

“No, we be Paul and Joseph Penduck,” answered two young voices. “We are on our way home to mother.”

“Your mother is well and sleeping, but do not make a noise, lads, when you go in,” exclaimed Dame Lanreath, who had followed Nelly to the door. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“We needs be to get out of the storm, dame,” answered one of the boys. “Father told us to make haste home; but he has gone off in the ‘Rescue’ with Uncle Reuben Lanaherne to look after the ‘Sea-Gull,’ which they say has lost her mast, and was seen driving on the Gull Rock; there is little hope of any of the poor lads escaping aboard her.”

“What is that you say,” shrieked poor Nelly; “the ‘Sea-Gull’ driving on shore?”

“I forgot, Mistress Nelly, that Michael Penguyne was aboard her,” answered the thoughtless boy. “I would not have said it to frighten you so, but it may be father and the others will find them if they are not all drowned before they get there.”

“O granny, I was afraid something dreadful was happening,” exclaimed Nelly, gasping for breath. “I must go down to the harbour’s mouth. I do not mind the wind and rain; don’t stop me, granny,” for Dame Lanreath had taken Nelly’s arm, thinking she was about to fall, she trembled so violently. “Let me go, granny, that I may hold him in my arms, and warm him, and breathe into his mouth when he is brought on shore. Oh, I shall die if I stay at home, and he out struggling maybe for life in the cold foaming seas.”

“But the lads may be mistaken, dear Nelly,” urged Dame Lanreath; “it may not be the ‘Sea-Gull’ that has met with the damage, and if she has Michael and the rest, who are stout lads and know how to handle her, they may manage to keep her off the rocks, and get in safe notwithstanding.”

Nelly, however, was not to be reasoned with. She knew the way to the harbour’s mouth in the darkest night as well as by daylight; the rain and wind were nothing to her, and if Michael had got safe on shore her anxiety would the sooner be set at rest, and she should be ready to welcome him.

The dame, finding that she could not persuade Nelly to remain at home, insisted on accompanying her, for though she had tried to make her believe that Michael would return in safety, she herself could not help entertaining the fear that he had shared the fate of the many she had known in her time who had lost their lives on the treacherous ocean.

Nelly was not selfish, and though she felt that she must go forth, she was anxious that her granny should not again face the cruel storm. The dame, however, was determined to go, for she felt scarcely less anxiety than Nelly.

“Well, Nelly,” she said at length, “if you won’t let me go with you, I will just go by myself, and you must stay at home till I come back and tell you that Michael has got on shore all safe.”

Nelly yielded. She and the dame set off.

They had a fierce battle to fight with the storm, which blew directly in their faces. They worked their way onwards, holding their cloaks tight round them.

They at last reached the rocky point where, by the light of the beacon, they saw a group of men and women and boys and girls collected, with their gaze turned seaward, waiting anxiously for the appearance of the boat which had gone out over the dark and troubled ocean in search of their missing friends.

The dame and Nelly anxiously inquired what had happened. The answer made their hearts sink: the “Sea-Gull” had last been seen driving towards the rocks in an almost helpless condition; she might drop an anchor, but there was little expectation that it would hold. The only hope was that she might be reached before she was finally dashed to pieces, and those on board her had perished.

Chapter Ten.

The “Rescue” gallantly made her way amid the dark foam-crested seas, which rolled in from the westward, each appearing heavier than its predecessor.

Uncle Reuben kept gazing out ahead in anxious search of his little vessel, now encouraging his crew with the hopes that they would soon reach the spot which she must have reached, feeling his own heart, however, sink within him as he sought in vain to find her across the wildly tossing waters. The men needed no encouragement: they knew as well as he did that every moment was precious, and yet that after all they might arrive too late. Eban pulled as hard as the rest; he would do his utmost to save the crew of the “Sea-Gull,” yet he darkly hoped that their efforts might be vain.

On they pulled; often Reuben had to turn the boat’s head to breast a threatening sea which, caught on the broadside, might have hurled her over. Now again he urged his crew to redoubled efforts during a temporary lull.

For some time he had been silent, keeping his eye on a dark spot ahead. It must be the “Sea-Gull.” She was already fearfully near the rocks. The water there was too deep to allow her anchor to hold long, if holding it was at all. Another fierce wave came rolling towards them. Eager as Uncle Reuben was to make his way onward, he was compelled to put the boat’s head towards it, and to give all his attention to avoid being buried beneath the foaming billows. The boat rose safely to its summit. A glance seaward told him that now was the time once more to make way to the south. He looked eagerly for his little vessel; the same sea had struck her. He caught but one glimpse of her hull as she was dashed helplessly against the rocks. Still some of those on board might escape. Every effort must be made to save them. Though Reuben told his crew what had happened, none hesitated to pull on.

The boat approached the rock, her crew shouted to encourage those who might be clinging to it.

The “Sea-Gull” had struck on the northernmost point, within which the sea, though surging and boiling, was comparatively quiet; and Reuben was thus enabled to get nearer to the rock than he could have ventured to do on the outside, where it broke with a fury which would quickly have overwhelmed the boat.

Two men were distinguished through the gloom clinging to the rock, at the foot of which fragments of the hapless “Sea-Gull” were tossing up and down in the foaming waves. Another sea such as that which wrecked their vessel might at any moment wash the men from their hold. A rope was hove to them, they fastened it round their waists and were dragged on board. They proved to be Reuben’s two sons.

The father’s heart was relieved, but he thought of his brave young captain.

“Where is Michael, where are the rest?” he exclaimed.

“Gone, gone, father, I fear!” was the answer.

“No, no! I see two more clinging to a spar!” shouted one of the men. “The sea is carrying it away, but the next will hurl it back on the rocks, and Heaven protect them, for the life will be knocked out of their bodies.”

To approach the spot in the boat, however, was impossible without the certainty of her being dashed to pieces.

“Here, hand the bight of the rope to me,” shouted Eban, starting up; “I am the best swimmer among you—if any one can save them I can.”

As he uttered the words he sprang overboard, and with powerful strokes made his way towards the drowning men, while the rest, pulling hard, kept the boat off the rocks, to which she was perilously near.

“Here, here, take him, he is almost gone,” said one of the men in the water, as Eban approached them. “I can hold on longer.”

Eban, grasping the man round the waist and shouting to those in the boat, was hauled up to her stern with his burden. Reuben, assisted by the man pulling the stroke oar, lifted the rescued man into the boat, and Eban once more dashed off to try and save the other.

“Who is it? who is it?” asked the crew, with one voice, for the darkness prevented them from distinguishing his countenance.

No one replied. Reuben hoped it might be Michael—but all his attention was required for the management of the boat, and the rescued man, exhausted, if not severely injured, was unable to reply himself.

Eban was gallantly striking out towards the man who still clung to the spar, but he had miscalculated his strength—he made less rapid way than at first. A cry reached him, “Help, mate! help!” He redoubled his efforts; but before he could reach the spot he saw a hand raised up, and as he grasped the spar he found that it was deserted. The brave fellow, whoever he was, had sacrificed his own life to save that of his drowning companion.

Eban, feeling that his own strength was going, shouted to those in the boat to haul him on board, and he was himself well-nigh exhausted when lifted over the side. One of Reuben’s sons took his oar.

All further search for their missing friends proved in vain, and though thankful that some had been saved, with sad hearts they commenced their perilous return to the harbour.

Reuben’s younger son, Simon Lanaherne, had gone aft and sat down by the side of the rescued man.

“He is coming to, I believe.”

“Which of the poor lads is he, Simon?” asked his father.

Simon felt the man’s face and dress, bending his head down to try and scan his features.

“I cannot quite make out; but I am nearly sure it is Michael Penguyne,” answered Simon.

“I am main glad if it be he, for poor Nelly’s sake,” said Reuben. “Pull up your starboard oars, lads, here comes a sea,” he shouted, and a tremendous wave came curling up from the westward.

The attention of every one was engaged in encountering the threatened danger.

“Michael Penguyne! have I saved him?” muttered Eban Cowan, with a deep groan. “He was destined to live through all dangers, then, and Nelly is lost to me. Fool that I was to risk my life when I might have lot him drown. No one could have said that I was guilty of his death.”

Human ear did not listen to the words he uttered, and a voice came to him, “You would have been guilty of his death if you could have saved him and would not.”

He had recovered sufficiently to sit up, and, as he gazed at the angry sea around, his experienced eye told him that even now he and all with him might be engulfed beneath it ere they could reach the shore.

Nelly and her grandmother stood with the group of anxious watchers near the beacon-fire, straining their eyes in a vain endeavour to pierce the gloom which hung over the ocean. They could hear the sea’s savage roar as it lashed the rocks at their feet and sent the spray flying over them; but they could only see the white crests of the waves as they rose and fell, and every instant it seemed to their loving hearts that these fierce waves came in with greater force than heretofore.

Could the “Rescue,” stout and well-formed as she was, live amid that fierce tumult of waters? Might not those who had bravely gone forth to save their fellow-creatures, too probably perish with them?

Still, notwithstanding their fears, they listened hoping to hear the cry which those in the boat would raise as they drew near the shore, should success have attended their efforts. Again and again they asked each other, if the boat would not now be returning? Oh! how long the time seemed since they went away! A short half-hour had often sufficed to go to the Gull Rock and back. An hour or more had elapsed since the “Rescue” left the harbour, and no sign of her could be discerned.

“We must take into account the heavy seas she will have to meet; they will keep her busy for a goodish time with her bows towards them,” observed an old fisherman. “Uncle Reuben knows what he is about, and if there is a man can steer the ‘Rescue’ on a night like this he can. A worse sea, in which a boat might live, I never saw. There is little likelihood of its getting better either, by the look of the sky.”

The last remark was not encouraging; still, while a possibility remained of the return of the boat, none among the anxious group would, in spite of the rain and spray and fierce wind, leave the point.

At length a sharp-eyed youngster darted forward to the extreme end of the rock, at the risk of being washed off by the next breaker which dashed against it.

“I see her! I see her!” he shouted.

There was a rush forward. Dame Lanreath held her granddaughter back.

“You cannot bring them in sooner, Nelly,” she said, “and, my child, prepare your heart for what God may have ordered. Seek for strength, Nelly, to be able to say, ‘Thy will be done!’”

“I am trying,” groaned Nelly; “but O granny, why do you say that?”

“It is better to be prepared for bad tidings before they come,” answered the dame; “but it maybe that God has willed that Michael should be saved, and so let us be ready with a grateful heart to welcome him; but whichever way it is, remember that it is for the best.”

The dame herself, notwithstanding what she said, felt her own heart depressed.

A simultaneous shout arose from the men and boys who had gone to the end of the point.

“The boat! the boat! It is her, no doubt about it,” they cried out, and then most of them hurried away to the landing-place to welcome their friends and assist them on shore.

The dame and Nelly followed them. Some still remained at the point, knowing that there was yet another danger to be passed at the very entrance of the harbour, for a cross sea breaking at its mouth might hurl the boat, in spite of the efforts of the rowers, against the rocks, and those who had toiled so long, worn out with fatigue, would require assistance, for, unaided, their lives might be lost.

As the boat drew near her crew raised a shout in return to the greeting, of their friends. Perfect silence followed as the “Rescue” neared the dangerous point. In an instant it was passed, though a sea breaking over her deluged the crew.

“Are they all saved?” shouted several voices.

“Some, but not all; but our boys are here: tell my dame,” shouted Reuben as the boat glided by.

Nelly heard the answer. With trembling knees she stood on the landing-place supported by Dame Lanreath, while the light of several lanterns fell on the boat and the figures of those in her as she came alongside.

Eager hands were ready to help the well-nigh exhausted crew on shore. Nelly tried to distinguish the countenances of the men—the light falling on her pale face as she stooped over.

“He is here, Nelly; Michael is safe,” cried Uncle Reuben, and Simon, with two or three others, speedily assisted Michael on shore.

Nelly, regardless of those around, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed his lips and cheeks, while the dame with others helped him to move away from the quay.

“I shall soon be strong again, Nelly,” he whispered. “God be praised for His mercies to us. My sorest thought was, as I felt myself in the breakers, that you and granny would be left without me to help you.”

At the moment that Nelly’s arms were about her betrothed, a man in the boat, refusing the aid of others, sprang on shore. As he passed, Dame Lanreath caught a glimpse of the haggard features of Eban Cowan. He rushed on without stopping to receive the greetings of any of those gathered on the quay, and was quickly lost to sight as he made his way up the glen.

“Eban seems in a strange mood,” observed Simon. “He might have stopped till Michael and all of us had thanked him for his brave act; he seems as if he was sorry he had done it, or was wishing that he was with the other poor fellows who are lying out there among the rocks.”

Michael was too weak to walk. Uncle Reuben invited him to come to his cottage; but he wished to return home, and there was no lack of willing arms to carry him.

“Where is David Treloar?” he asked. “If it had not been for him I should have been washed off the spar, but he held me on till I was hauled on board.”

“David! poor fellow! he is among those who are gone,” was the answer. “If it was he who was on the spar with you, he would not, it seems, quit it till he thought you were safe; and meantime his strength must have gone before help could reach him.”

“Then he lost his life to save mine,” said Michael, deeply grieved. “And how was I saved?”

“By that brave fellow, Eban Cowan, who jumped overboard, and brought you on board,” answered Uncle Reuben.

“Where is he, that I may shake him by the hand, and thank him?” inquired Michael; but Eban was not to be found.

Michael hoped the next morning to be able to go to the mill and thank Eban.

Nelly wondered at what she heard, recollecting Eban’s visit to her a few hours before; but she said nothing. Indeed, by that time, with a sail, a litter had been rigged, on which his friends carried Michael to his cottage, Dame Lanreath and Nelly following them.

The rest of the population of the village hastened to their homes, several with hearts grieving for those who had been lost. They did not, however, find any lack of friends to comfort them—for all could sympathise where all knew that the like misfortune might some day happen to themselves. Uncle Reuben, too, had ample cause for grief. The little vessel on which he depended for the subsistence of his family had gone to pieces, and it would be a hard matter to obtain another. And honest David and the other lads in whom he was interested were gone; but his young boys were saved, and he felt thankful for the mercies granted him.

Michael, carefully watched over by Nelly, and doctored by the dame, soon recovered his strength. As soon as he was strong enough, he told Nelly that he must go and tell Eban how thankful he was to him for saving his life.

Nelly, on this, gave him an account of what had occurred on that eventful evening of the wreck. He was greatly astonished.

“But he is a brave fellow, Nelly; and though I cannot say what I should have been ready to do to him had I known it before, yet he saved my life, and risked his to do so, and I must not forget that. I must forget all else, and go and thank him heartily.”

“Go, Michael,” said Nelly, “and tell him that I bless him from my heart, and wish him every happiness; but do not ask him to come here. It is better for his sake he should not be seeing me and fancying that I can ever care for him.”

Michael promised to behave discreetly in the matter, and set off.

The heavy gale was still blowing. He wondered as he went along how the path was so much steeper and rougher than it used to be, not aware how greatly his strength had decreased.

On reaching the mill he saw old Cowan standing at the door. He inquired for Eban.

“Where is he? That’s more than I can tell you, lad,” he answered. “He went away the other evening and has not since come back. I do not inquire after his movements, and so I suppose it is all right.”

Michael then told the old man of the service his son had rendered him.

“Glad he saved thy life, lad; he is a brave fellow, no doubt of that; but it is strange that he should not have come in to have his clothes dried and get some rest.”

None of the household could give any further account of Eban.

Michael, again expressing such thanks as his heart prompted, returned home.

Several days passed and rumours came that Eban had been seen on the way to Falmouth: and his father, who had become anxious about him, setting off, discovered that he had gone on board a large ship which had put in there to seek shelter from the gale. He had left no message, and no letter was received by any of his family to say why he had gone, or what were his intentions for the future.

During the winter two or three seizures of smuggled goods were made; they belonged to the band of which Eban was supposed to have been the leader: and old Cowan, whose venture it was known they were, became gradually downcast and desponding. His fishing-boats were unsuccessful; he offered one for sale, which Uncle Reuben and Michael purchased between them; another was lost; and, his mill being burned down, he died soon afterwards broken-hearted, leaving his family in utter destitution.

In the spring Michael and Nelly married. The wedding, if not a very gay one, was the merriest which had occurred in the village for many a day, nor were any of the usual customs in that part of Cornwall omitted.

Dame Lanreath declared that she felt younger than she had been for the last ten years, or twenty for that matter, and Uncle Reuben had recovered from his rheumatism with the warm spring weather. The pilchard harvest in that year was unusually early and abundant, and Michael was able to increase the size of his house and improve its appearance, while he gave his young wife many comforts, which he declared no one so well deserved. No one disputed the point; indeed, all agreed that a finer and happier young couple was not to be found along the Cornish coast.

They were grateful to God for the happiness they enjoyed, and while they prayed that it might be prolonged, and that their lives might be spared, they did not forget that He Who had the power to give had the right to take away. But, trusting to His mercy and loving-kindness, they hoped that He would think fit to protect them during their lives on earth, while they could with confidence look forward to that glorious future where there will be no more sorrow and no more parting.

The End.

William H G Kingston

"Mountain Moggy"

Chapter One.

The succession of mountain ranges, precipitous and rugged, which extend from the shores of the Irish Sea to the boundaries of England, rising tier above tier, and culminating, at different points, in the heights of Snowdon, Cader Idris, and Plinlimmon, gives to wild Wales that romantic beauty for which it is so justly celebrated. That mountain region, too, guarded by the strong arms and undaunted hearts of its heroic sons, formed an impassable bulwark against the advance of barbarian invaders, and remained for many years, while Saxon England was yet pagan, the main refuge of that Christian religion to which Britain owes its present greatness. Yet subsequently, on account of the inaccessible nature of the country, the inhabitants, separated from their more enlightened fellow-subjects, remained for a long period almost as ignorant as their ancestors in the dark ages; and, till of late years, retained many of the grosser superstitions and customs of those times.

A young traveller was climbing the side of one of these mountain ranges facing the ocean, the silvery waters of which could be discerned in the distance, when he observed, far up, a hut. Solitary and cheerless it looked, scarcely to be distinguished from the sombre colouring of the surrounding ground and the rocks and bushes amid which it stood. It was weather-worn and dilapidated, and appeared altogether unfit to be the abode of a human being; indeed, a thin wreath of peat smoke ascending from an aperture in the roof alone made it likely that it was inhabited. Its appearance offered no temptation to the young stranger to turn aside from the path he was pursuing, and he continued his ascent till he gained a rocky pinnacle, from whence he could watch the sun dipping into the ocean; and hence he could look down, on one side, over a confused mass of barren hills and fertile valleys, rocks, and precipices, heights crowned with trees, peaks bare and rugged, and glens with sparkling torrents dashing and foaming amid them; while on the other side, towards the ocean, he saw before him a wide and smiling valley, with a stream meandering through it, and green meadows and groves of trees, from among which a church spire reared its pointed summit; and near it a cheerful village of white-washed cottages and other dwellings of more pretension; and there were sheep feeding, and cattle wending their way slowly homeward, all speaking of peace and security.

“I could not have selected a more lovely spot to spend an evening in, had I been allowed a choice,” said the young traveller to himself, as he took his seat on the highest point he could find. “As I cannot find my home, I could not be better off. I thought that I knew perfectly well the place my family have got to, but I am fairly puzzled with the Welsh names. I ought to have kept my brother’s letters in which he had clearly written it down. Whether it is Twrog-y-Bwlch, or Llwyd-y-Cynfael, or Dwyryd-y-Ffetiog, I am sure I don’t know. I hit the right post-town, of that I am nearly certain. There’s a village in the bottom. I might go down and inquire, but then I probably should not find my way back again over the mountain to the inn where I left my traps. I hope that I may hit it off to-morrow. It’s very tantalising, and provoking too, to be so near home, and yet not able to find it. It was very stupid to lose the letter. They do say midshipmen are very careless chaps, and that I am no exception to the rule. Well, I have no reason to grumble. I haven’t enjoyed such a sight as this for many a day, though it’s something like being mast-headed, except with the difference that I may go down when I like. I should enjoy it more if I had a messmate to talk to about it. The air is wonderfully fine up here. It makes me feel inclined to shout out at the top of my voice, ‘Rule, Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, And Britons never, never, never will be slaves,’ Hurra! That’s it. Hurra, boys! ‘We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again.’”

Thus the happy young midshipman gave full scope to the exuberance of his spirits, feeling very sure that no one was listening to him. As he ceased, a curiously wild, mournful strain struck his ear, ascending from below him on the west, and forming a strange contrast to the merry notes he had been singing. It was like the noonday song of the joyous lark, as he soars into the blue sky, answered by the midnight croak of the raven as he sits on the old abbey’s ivy-covered wall. He listened. It seemed rather like a continued shriek than a song, or the fearful cry of the fabled Banshee as she flits by the family mansion in Ireland, to warn the inmates, as is ignorantly supposed, that one of their number must prepare to quit the world, its pleasures and its sorrows. The young midshipman’s mind was, however, too well trained to indulge even for a moment in any such fancies, for he owed his education to a wise, religious, and loving father. Yet he was sorely puzzled at first to account for the wild strains which floated through the air, till he caught sight of the ruined hut he had observed on his way up, and discerned a large rent in the roof, through which he supposed the sounds uttered by its inmate must be ascending. He was too far off to distinguish the words; but that there were words uttered, and probably as strange as the music itself, if music he could call it, he was very certain. Now the strains rose to a high pitch, now they swelled, now decreased into a low moan scarcely audible.

“Some poor mad creature,” said the midshipman to himself. “I should think nobody but a mad person would live in such a place as that; in truth, if anybody had to live there, its solitude and its forlorn condition would be enough to drive them out of their senses; it would me, I know; only I should forthwith set to work to make it habitable. To be sure, I shouldn’t be worse off than Tom and I were when we were cast away on that coral island in the Pacific, except that there we had summer all the year round and abundance of food of one sort or another. Here it must be terribly cold in winter, and as for food, a person would soon starve if he were compelled to live only on what the hillside produces.” The young midshipman had got into the habit of talking to himself, either during his night watches, or, it is just possible, while at the mast-head, at which post of honour, in some ships, the young gentlemen of his rank used to spend a considerable portion of their existence.

The strange singing continued for some time. As he looked down from his rocky height he saw a number of persons coming up the hill, apparently from the village towards the hut. They appeared from their movements to be children. They got close to the hut, and were hid from his sight. Now they seemed to be running away—now they returned, leaping and shouting, so that their shrill young voices reached to where he sat. Suddenly he saw them all running down the hill, just as children run, jumping and pushing against each other, and evidently in high glee. The midshipman was considering that it was time for him to return to his inn for the night, when a loud shriek, which came from the direction of the hut, struck his ear, and he saw a bright light streaming through the aperture in the roof. “Something is the matter,” he exclaimed, as jumping from his seat he ran down the mountain towards the hut: “the cottage or its inmate is on fire; I must do my best to put out the flame, at all events.”

Chapter Two.

An old woman was the sole occupant of that cheerless hut on the bleak hillside just described. She sat, on that evening, on a low stool before the hearth, on which a few clods of peat, smouldering slowly with some scarcely dry sticks on the top of them, served as an apology for a fire, and threw out the smallest possible heat to warm the shrivelled palms held up ever and anon before it. As she sat, occasionally rocking herself backwards and forwards, she sang, in a voice which sometimes sounded high and shrill, till it rose into almost a shriek, and then again sank down into a long-continued moan. She uttered words often with great rapidity, though even the poor creature herself might scarcely have been able to explain the burden of her song. The gentle breeze, pleasant in the cheerful sunshine, sighed through the rents in the tottering walls, and amid the branches of the solitary, crooked pine-tree, which bent its riven head over the building, its distorted limbs creaking and groaning as they swayed to and fro; while an owl shrieked his twit-to-hoo to the departing sun, as he prepared to go abroad with other creatures of the night in search of prey; and cold grey twilight covered the mountain-side. There still sat the lone old woman, crouching over the mocking fire. Dark and drear was the hovel—floor it had none, save the damp, cold earth—nor was there a chimney or other outlet for the smoke, except a hole which a branch of the ill-favoured pine-tree had made in the roof, in one of his most restless moods. More light came through this hole than through the window, the broken panes of which were stuffed with rags, dry grass, and heather, though not tight enough to prevent the wind from whistling, and the rain, snow, and sleet from driving in upon the wretched inmate. Except where the solitary gleam of cold evening light fell upon the crouching figure of poor Mountain Moggy, all else in the hovel was gloom and obscurity. Little, however, did Moggy heed the weather. Winter or summer, chilling blasts or warm sunshine, the changeful seasons brought no change to her. Her brain was on fire, her heart cold and forlorn, “icy cold, utterly forlorn and deserted,” so she says, and all feeling for outward things has long since departed.

Why does Moggy start, clasp her bony hands, open wide her almost sightless eyes, and mutter, “Yes, yes—that’s it. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us. But it’s hard, very hard to forgive our foes. Does God find it so hard to forgive me?” Then again she starts off in her wild song.

Once more she is silent, and listens to some noises outside. She seems sorely distressed. Again and again she starts. The noises increase, children’s feet and voices are heard around the hut, and—is it possible?—a stone comes whizzing through the glassless window across the darkened space, and a heavy thump announces that it has found a destination; another, and another follows—some come in sideways, and one striking the window bar glances off and reaches the hearth, whence it drives before it a lighted stick which sends out sparks on every side and causes a faint gleam of light in the hitherto gloomy room. Shouts of laughter accompany each stone; but the sun has set, the sonorous bell of the distant church gives notice, too, that evening has arrived. The children’s ears catch the sound. “Away, away! Home, home!” they shout, as they run off from the solitary hut. Out of its window at that moment a bright light shone forth, but they did not heed it as they chased each other down the steep mountain-side, crying out, “Good-night, old witch. We’ll stone you again, old Polly Forty Rags. If we hear any more of your witcheries we’ll make you wish you’d kept out of this country. Good-night, and bad luck to you, Old Mog.” Notwithstanding the words they used, there was terror in the voices of most of the children. Some of them shouted, “She’s coming after us! The witch is coming after us! She’s mounting her broom, and out she’ll ride. Run—run—run!” On this the urchins shrieked louder, and ran faster and faster down the slope. One boy, more daring than the rest, and superior in appearance to most of them, lingered behind, and finding a stone remaining in his pocket of those with which he had, like his companions, provided himself to attack the old woman, he turned round once more, and flung it in the direction of the hut, saying, as he did so, “That’s my parting gift, old Moggy. Ha, ha! I see the old lady is going to have a feast tonight, for she has lighted up her banqueting-hall. But I would rather not be one of the guests, though.” Pleased with what he considered his own wit, he shouted out again, and ran after his idle companions, a prolonged cry which came from the hut hastening his steps, for he was in no degree free from the ignorant superstition of the rest of the urchin troop.

Chapter Three.

A good log was burning brightly on the hearth, and filling with its glowing, cheerful light the dining-room of Dr Morgan, the new rector of the parish, where he with his wife and the younger members of his family were collected. The rector sat in his easy-chair, his book had fallen from his hand, for he was dozing after a hard day’s work of physical and mental labour in the abodes of the sick and afflicted of his widely-scattered parish. His wife had a cradle by her side, but she held its usual occupant in her arms, putting it to sleep with a low lullaby, while a group of older children, boys and girls, sat at the table variously occupied. Charles and Anna having some fresh foreign postage-stamps, arranged them in a book according to the different countries from whence they came, and were preparing a short account of each—a plan their father had recommended, so as to give an interest to this otherwise very useless pursuit.

“This must surely be American,” said Anna, holding up a stamp. “How like a well-done photograph is the head. Can it be that of Washington?”

On this William, who was engaged professedly in learning his lessons for the next day, looked up. The rest decided that although the stamp was American, as it was the head of a somewhat sour-looking old gentleman it could not be that of the great Washington, but of one of the later Presidents of the United States. The children were talking in an undertone, so as not to disturb their father.

“Old Polly Forty Rags, the witch, came from America,” said William. “But it was from some place which the English don’t know about; a wild, barren sea-coast, just like the mountain-side up there, where they say that she used to practise her witch tricks on the vessels which came near, and many and many’s the one she has sent to the bottom or driven on the rocks.”

“How did she practise her witch tricks?” asked Arthur, who did not very clearly understand his brother’s meaning.

“How!” exclaimed William. “That’s more than I can tell. I’m only repeating what those who know all about the matter say.”

“Isn’t she a very wicked old woman then?” asked Mabel, with simplicity.

“Wicked? I should think so! as wicked an old hag as you ever heard of,” answered William. “It would be a good thing to rid the world of such a monster; but they say she can’t be killed; not if she was soused over head and ears in the river or thrown into the fire. That’s the nature of witches.”

Anna, who was giving the finishing rub to a stamp just put in, heard the last words, and, looking up, inquired with a slight tone of irony in her voice, “What did you say about witches, Willie? Who has been telling you those remarkably wise things about them?”

“Oh, the people about here, and the other fellows at school,” answered Willie in a low tone and somewhat hesitating manner, for he was not fond of having to reply to his sister’s pointed questions.

“Oh, the people about here,” said Anna, repeating his words. “Is it possible they can believe such nonsense?”

Willie did not reply. “Anna wouldn’t think it nonsense if she was to see Old Polly Forty Rags,” he muttered. After being silent for some time he added, “If ever there was an old witch she is one.”

“You said she came from America, Willie. Why, that’s where Frank’s ship has been to, isn’t it?” said Arthur.

“Of course it is,” cried Willie, as if a bright thought had occurred to him. “I wonder whether he heard anything of her there? He’ll soon be at home, and then he’ll tell us.”

“If she didn’t send his ship on the rocks,” remarked Arthur.

“She’d better not have tried to do it, or we’d pay her off for it,” said Willie, as if speaking of some heroic purpose.

“But I thought you said that she couldn’t be killed; and if she couldn’t be killed, she couldn’t be hurt, I should think,” observed Arthur, who was called the philosopher of the family.

“Well, I don’t know: they say witches can’t be killed, and that Old Polly Forty Rags has lived hundreds and hundreds of years,” said Willie, justly considered the most thoughtless of the family. “Nothing does hurt her either. You can’t think what fun it is to hear the stones bounce against her, just as if she was made of straw. If anything could hurt her, I know a big stone I sent in at her window this evening would have given her a cracker she wouldn’t forget in a hurry. It’s my belief that she didn’t care for it more than she would if it had been a pea out of a pea-shooter.”

Anna’s attention was again drawn to her brother’s whispered conversation. “What are you saying about throwing stones?” she asked. “At whom have you been throwing stones?”

“Why at old Mountain Moggy, of course, or Polly Forty Rags as they call her. Who else should I throw at? She’s as hard as she is wicked; and they say she has a whole suit of elephant’s skin under her rags, and that’s one of the reasons the stones don’t hurt her.”

Anna had been so busy examining some little three-cornered Cape of Good Hope stamps, that she had not till now clearly comprehended what Willie was speaking about.

“You throw stones at Mountain Moggy!” she said in an incredulous tone.

“Of course we do, and awful fun we had this very evening,” answered William, boldly. “We heard them go in at the window and thump against the old witch. The clock struck, and we had to run away, or we should have given her more of it. But it was just as well that we were off, for some of the fellows saw her lighting up her house for her witcheries, and there’s no doubt but that she’d have sent down some of her imps after us if we hadn’t made good use of our legs to get off.”

“What do you really mean, Willie?” said Anna, now quite interested. “You cannot tell me that you have been stoning that poor miserable old woman on the mountain?”

“Haven’t we though,” said Willie, carelessly, crossing his arms on the table and beginning to pore over his book.

“Willie says that she’s a wicked black witch, with red eyes and a blue tongue,” remarked little Mabel.

“Don’t stuff the little ones’ heads with such abominable nonsense, Will,” said Charles, looking up from his book. “There’s nothing I hate to hear so much; it’s wrong, and you have no business to do it.”

“No, indeed; it’s very wrong to tell stories about her, even in fun,” remarked Anna.

“Nonsense and stories, indeed!” cried Willie, indignantly. “They are neither one nor the other. If she isn’t black she’s near it; and I never said she had red eyes and a blue tongue; but if you two were to hear her screech and howl, as I have, you’d confess fast enough that she was a witch.” And Willie turned back to his book with the air of an injured person.

Poor boy, he had not had the advantages of his brothers and sisters, though worldly people would have said that his prospects were far better than theirs. They had been carefully trained in the way they should walk from their earliest days by their parents, who, though not possessed of worldly wealth, felt that they might yet give them the richest of heritages. William had not, like the others, been brought up entirely by his parents. His godmother, Miss Ap Reece, had offered to leave him her property, provided she might have entire charge of him, and his parents somewhat hastily consented. By her he had been well fed and well clothed, but not well educated. She was capricious, fond of gossip, and self-indulgent; and continually she would, in order to be rid of him, send him down amongst the servants, who, as her country residence was in a remote village, were more than usually ignorant. There he imbibed many of their prejudices, and learned to believe in many of their superstitions. Meanwhile, happily, the good seed sown in his earlier days was not entirely eradicated, though he and his brothers and sisters always exhibited in their subsequent lives the different systems of cultivation to which they had been subjected. The residence of William with Miss Ap Reece was brought to an abrupt termination by the failure of the County Bank, in which most of her money was placed. Her means were in consequence so straitened that she was obliged to ask Dr Morgan to take William home.

It was soon after this that the conversation took place which we have already recorded.

Mrs Morgan had been too much absorbed with her infant, and a book she occasionally read, to listen to the undertone conversation carried on by the rest of her children. Her husband continued dozing in his chair, but his sleep was soon interrupted, as was the conversation of the young people, by the violent ringing of the hall-door bell. A servant came in directly afterwards to say that the doctor was wanted immediately. Dr Morgan at once left the room, and when William, sent by Mrs Morgan, went out to inquire why he was summoned, it was found that he had quitted the house without leaving any message to say where he had gone. So startled were the younger ones by the sudden noise, that Arthur upset the gum-bottle over the beautiful new stamp-book. The little fellow looked very much alarmed at what he had done, and possibly in some families angry words and blows would have warned him to be more careful for the future; but Charles and Anna had learned that “he that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city”; and the constant practice of this principle made it now easy for them to say to their brother, who sat crying and looking very sorrowful, “Never mind, little fellow; we shall soon make it clean.” Then warm water had to be procured, and the injured book cleansed, and a few more stamps stuck in, and the rest put away, and scraps and writing materials cleared off the table. Books were then got out, and lessons looked over for the next day. Mrs Morgan left the room for some time to hear the younger children say their prayers, and to see them put to bed. When she re-entered the room, Dr Morgan had not returned. Dr Morgan’s prolonged absence did not create any alarm. He was a Doctor of Divinity, but he had also, in his younger days, devoted much time to the study of medicine and surgery, so that he was qualified to become a regular practitioner. However, he had taken orders in the Church of England, but he never regretted the time he had spent in walking the hospitals, for, biding his time, he had now a means of access, which he otherwise might have lacked, to even the most hardened and profligate. Those who would not have called him in as a Christian minister to advise them regarding their souls, were thankful to get him to attend to the ailments of their bodies. Once in a house he never left it without making himself beloved and respected by its inmates, and insuring for himself, and for his glad tidings, a favourable reception. Although he was not looked upon as a popular preacher, it was observed that wherever he went there was a marked change in the religious conduct of the people.

Such was Dr Morgan. His great difficulty was to give that superintendence to the education of his children which he felt they required, without at the same time neglecting the multifarious duties of his position. His parishioners gained what his family lost. But the strict discipline by which he endeavoured to make amends for the want of that constant watchfulness so important in training the youthful mind did not answer the same purpose. Yet after all he could do, he knew that he must fail altogether, had he not gone daily, constantly, to the Throne of Grace for strength and wisdom for himself, and for protection and guidance for those committed to his charge.

Mrs Morgan had returned to the sitting-room; the elder children had put down their books. It was bed-time. They always waited for family prayers. When the Doctor was absent Mrs Morgan or Charles read them, but as he was momentarily expected, his wife and son were unwilling to usurp his office. At length the hall-door bell rang. It was the Doctor. He appeared unusually sad and serious. The family assembled. His voice, generally so firm, trembled as he prayed.

When he rose from his knees, shading his eyes with his hand, he said, after he had given them his blessing—

“Go to bed immediately, and be up betimes, for I wish you to breakfast an hour earlier than usual, and to accompany me directly afterwards to visit a sick, and I fear a dying person.”

The younger children would all have been well pleased at this invitation, had it not been for their father’s very grave manner; yet no one ventured to ask him the cause of this, and it was, perhaps, not without a slight misgiving that some of the party laid their heads on their pillows that night.

Chapter Four.

Dr Morgan gave no explanation of what had occurred till Charles and Anna had left the room. He then called his anxious and ever helpful wife to his side. “I much want your assistance, dearest Maria,” he said in a tone which showed the depressed state of his feelings; “I was summoned just now to visit a person in a most melancholy condition. You have heard of the forlorn old creature—Moggy, she is called by the country people—who lives in that wretched hovel we can see high up on the side of the mountain. She has been dreadfully burnt.”

The Doctor’s wife, ever ready with help and sympathy, in spite of the numerous maternal cares to which she had to attend, immediately exclaimed, “Poor old creature! I am sure that she much wants comforts. Shall I not at once send up some sheets and cotton wool? and is there anything else you can think of?”

“The comfort that is wanted, dear Maria, is nearer home,” answered the Doctor, taking his wife’s hand. “I have a sad story to tell you. On reaching Old Moggy’s hovel I found her with her hands and feet horribly burnt; so much so, that, should she survive, which I think it possible she may not, she will, I fear, never recover their use. I found that sturdy old Welshwoman, Jenny Davis, watching by her, and tending her with the care of a daughter. After I had dressed the poor creature’s burnt limbs, and done all I could to alleviate her sufferings, Jenny told me that when crossing the mountain that evening on her way home, and having nearly reached the bottom, she observed an unusual light streaming out of the window of Old Mountain Moggy’s hovel. Believing that the hut must be on fire, she hurried up towards it, though she feared that she should be too late to render any effectual assistance to its half-witted inmate. So indeed she would, had not another person most providentially arrived before her. On looking in at the window as she passed she saw a young gentleman—a tourist, she supposed—kneeling down by the side of the poor creature; his great-coat was off, he having with it extinguished the flames with which he said that he had found her almost surrounded. Happily, from the great number of under-garments she wore, only the outer rags had caught. He had been sitting on a rock above the hovel, and hearing a scream, and seeing a light break forth through a hole in the roof, he ran down, on the chance of something being wrong, and was undoubtedly the means of saving the poor creature from instant destruction. He and Jenny together lifted Moggy on to her straw bed, and in so doing a piece of burnt stick still smouldering fell out from among her clothes. This was evidently what had set her on fire, but how it had come there, was the question. Jenny was loud in her praise of the young gentleman. He was so gentle, and kind, and didn’t mind touching the dirty old creature, and helping to place her in an easy position. He took out his purse, and observing that he hadn’t much money, he gave her a handful of shillings, as he said, to help to pay the doctor and to buy her some proper food and clothing. Fortunately he saw a boy crossing the mountain, and running after him he gave him a shilling to go and call a doctor. The lad naturally came to me. The young gentleman would not tell Jenny his name, saying, ‘names don’t signify.’ He had to get back to his inn on the other side of the mountain, and as it was growing dark he could wait no longer; but, as Jenny said, ran off as fast as a deer up the steep, singing and jumping as merry as a lark. He told Jenny that, if he could, he would come back to learn how the poor old creature might be getting on, but that he feared he should be living too far off to reach her on foot. This account was, I own, like a gleam of sunshine, though it threw into a yet darker shade the sad account of an act of which I am compelled to tell you. Having dressed Old Moggy’s hurts, I observed several stones, some lying on the bed, and others scattered about the floor of the hut. A large one I especially remarked on the hearth, and which I had no doubt had struck the embers of the fire, and been the immediate cause of its bursting into a flame, and igniting the poor creature’s clothes. I asked Jenny if she could account for the stones being, as they were, scattered about in every direction; and she then gave me a history of a piece of barbarous cruelty, the result of a thoughtlessness and an amount of ignorance I should scarcely have expected in the actors. Jenny, though in most respects a true Welshwoman, is free from the ignorant superstition which forms so sad an ingredient in the character of the uneducated peasants of these mountain districts, and was grieved when she found that poor Old Moggy had become the victim of the gross superstition of her neighbours, by whom she is reputed to be a witch who has flown across the sea from distant parts for the purpose of taking possession of the wretched hovel on the mountain. ‘I do think, sir,’ said Jenny, ‘if the poor creature had had the power of flying, she’d have flown to a better sort of a place than this poor shed, scarcely fit to shelter a gipsy’s donkey from a snow-storm. When once the mind strays away from the truth, it’s impossible to say what follies it won’t believe. People don’t seem to see the foolishness and nonsense of their own stones. If they’d seen her, as I have, in her right mind, they’d know that a friend of the Evil One couldn’t talk as she talks; and as for flying, poor old creature! she can scarcely drag one foot after the other,’ Jenny Davis is a thoughtful and sensible woman, though her exterior is somewhat rough,” observed the Doctor, who was evidently unwilling, sooner than he could, to repeat the story he had heard. He continued, however: “Jenny gave little heed to these foolish stories, till one day one of her boys came from playing on the mountain-side, with a scared look, and almost breathless, saying that the witch had run after him, shrieking out, and uttering the most dreadful threats. On cross-questioning the child, she found that he did not actually see Moggy running after him, but that his companions said she was, while the shrieks and cries were the result of his imagination. She determined, however, to go and see the old woman herself. Being a woman of action, she immediately set off. When she got near the hovel she found a number of boys yelling, hooting, and throwing stones at it. On her demanding why they did so, they said that the old witch was within, and had done them all some mischief. She had stolen the ducks of the mother of one of them, had milked the cows of a second, and a third declared that she had prevented the butter from coming in his mother’s churn. One urchin asserted that his father’s horse had died in consequence of her incantations, and another, that she had given his younger brother the croup; indeed, every one had some sort of complaint to make, and vehemently declared that they would pay her out. Whilst she was arguing with them the door opened, and Old Moggy appeared, an unattractive figure, bent with age, covered with rags, and her countenance weather-beaten and scared, and expressive of a melancholy, wild, and restless spirit. The boys, on catching a momentary glimpse of her (for she instantly again closed the door), turned round, and scampered down the mountain. Jenny confessed that she at first felt inclined to follow them, but once more the door slowly opened, and the poor creature looked out to ascertain if her tormentors had gone off. Not seeing them she came out, and Jenny heard her in a plaintive voice thanking God for having delivered her from her enemies; then she broke into a low wail, the words she uttered being disconnected and incoherent. She was on her knees, with her hands clasped and her countenance upturned towards heaven. Jenny’s heart was more touched than she had expected. Going up to the old woman, she said, ‘These bad boys have been teasing you sadly, I fear, Moggy.’ A vacant stare was at first the only reply she received, but on repeating her words Moggy seemed to gather their meaning, and answered, ‘Ay, sadly, sadly; but ye knows what we have been taught to say by One who loved us, and died for us. “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.” So ye see that I forgive them, and I pray for them. I pray that they may never be poor and helpless as I am, that they may never be so afflicted in mind and body, and that no evil may fall on their heads; and God will hear my prayers just as much as He will the prayers of the great, and wealthy, and learned, and young, and strong, and happy,’ Then she suddenly stopped, and began to shriek wildly and wring her hands, moaning out, ‘No father, no husband, no child—all, all gone. Oh, my child, my boy, my hope, my pride!’ Jenny tried to soothe and comfort her, and after a long time succeeded in leading her back into the hut, where she became more tranquil, but still apparently was unable to give any connected account of herself. Jenny then, from the basket she was carrying to market, gave her some food, for which she looked grateful, but said nothing. After this, by little acts of kindness, Jenny gradually obtained the helpless creature’s confidence; and daily, whenever able, went at the same hour to disperse the boys, who after school hours have, it sterns, been in the habit of assembling, for their amusement, to torment her. Jenny had often threatened to complain to the parents of the boys, and, should they not attend to her complaints, to place the whole case before the magistrates. She had complained to several whose children she recognised, but they either took no notice of what she said, or were very angry with her; and she had therefore resolved, the next time she found any boys ill-treating the old woman, to put her threat into execution. ‘Yes, sir, and that I must do, even though some be gentlefolks’ sons; one be your son, sir, and sorry I have to speak it. It’s that young Master William of yours, and he is the most daring and outrageous of the lot,’ she added. ‘It’s a shame, sir, I’m sure you’ll allow, that they should go on so; for a more harmless sorrow-stricken soul I have never met in my life than poor Old Moggy here. All she’s gone through would make a book, and it’s not to be wondered at that with all her trials, and care, and the cruelty she meets, she is often crazy like. Maybe she’s listening now, and knows what I say, for at times she has got as much sense as any one; and it’s then that she feels her loneliness, and poverty, and wretchedness, and that makes her go off again as bad as ever, so it seems to me, sir.’ I would not at first believe the truth of the accusation brought against William, but on closely questioning Jenny, I found that, without doubt, it is unfortunately the fact that one of our children is capable of thus cruelly ill-treating one of his fellow-creatures; and that he is so ignorant as not to be aware of his crime; indeed he has a vague idea that he was rather performing a meritorious act.”

After sitting silent for some time, and grieving over the delinquencies of her son, Mrs Morgan, like a tender mother, endeavoured to find some excuse for his conduct; for one of the hardest trials which parents—who have learned to look upon sin in its true light—have to bear, is to discover that any one of their children is guilty of a crime. The Doctor, however, upright himself, and having a clear and distinct view of right and wrong, would not allow himself to find any excuses for the crime, though anxious as his wife for the good of the criminal; nor did he fail to blame himself, as Mrs Morgan blamed herself, for allowing their child, during the most impressible years of his life, to go from under their charge.

“Still,” argued the Doctor, “William has been told what is right and wrong; he has read the Scriptures. He has infringed one of the chief commandments in a most cruel and cowardly manner. I must not be indulgent towards a crime which, if his victim dies, the legal authority of his country will pronounce to be manslaughter. I will endeavour, however, first to ascertain how far he is sensible of his fault by showing him its consequence. Should he give no proof of penitence I must resort to severer measures. I purpose to take all the children with me to-morrow morning to Old Moggy’s hut, and I trust that the sight William will there witness will prove, as it must if his heart is not hardened, a sufficient punishment for his act.”

“I hope and pray it may,” said Mrs Morgan. “I fear, though, that Miss Ap Reece was most injudicious in her management of him, and that he has now been allowed a long course of self-indulgence; and I believe that nothing more effectually hardens the heart and makes it indifferent to the feelings of others, to their sorrows and physical sufferings, than such a mode of treatment.”

Long did the Doctor and his wife talk over the subject, and then kneeling, they earnestly placed the matter before the Throne of Grace, seeking from thence guidance and strength. How little, in many instances, are prosperous, healthy, happy children aware that the chief cause of their prosperity, health, and happiness, is to be found in the earnest, trustful prayers of God-fearing parents. Unhappy the children who have not praying parents! thrice blessed those who have, and who, at the same time, set high value on their parents’ prayers, and learn betimes to pray aright, and to pray for them as well as for themselves.

Chapter Five.

The sky was bright and blue; a fresh breeze, invigorating and pure, came from the distant sea; the sun, just risen above the mountain tops, shone down with undiminished lustre on the smiling valley, and all nature sparkled with life and light, as the young Morgans, having finished breakfast, assembled at the hall-door to accompany their father on his proposed walk. The elder ones remarked that he looked graver than usual, but hoped that the fresh air and exercise would soon restore his spirits. They all enjoyed a walk with him, for he generally took care to make it interesting, by giving them information on one or more of the various natural objects they met with. There was not a tree, a flower, or a stone, about which he had not something to say which was well worth hearing. Charles called them “Father’s peripatetic lectures.” This morning, however, the Doctor was unusually silent. His daughter Anna walked by his side, affectionately waiting, in the hopes of an opportunity to bring forward some subject to enliven him. Charles also accompanied him. The rest of the children kept behind, wondering where he was going; Willie especially sauntering at some distance, and thinking that he would rather have been out by himself or with some of the boys with whom he had lately associated. Charles, finding that his father was not inclined to give one of his lectures, bethought him of a subject likely to interest him.

“I say, father, I wonder when Frank will be here. His ship was expected at Plymouth every day. I sent a letter for him to Fox, giving him full directions how he was to find his way here, so that if he could get leave he might come up at once. My only fear is that he may not have any cash for his journey. I begged Fox to advance it, but Frank may not think of asking him. He’ll have a great deal to tell us about the Pacific and the coral islands, the Sandwich Islanders, and the other natives, once horrible savages, now mostly Christians. And those people of Fiji—the Black Cannibals of the Pacific as they were called—I want to know if they are as bad as has been represented.”

“Yes, your brother Frank will have much to say,” remarked the Doctor, and again relapsed into silence.

“I hope he may bring Tom Holman with him. I should like to see the man who saved his life, that I might thank him as he deserves for his bravery,” said Anna. “Dear Frank, if it had not been for Holman we might never have seen him again.”

“Yes, indeed, I should like to see Holman, the fine and gallant fellow,” exclaimed Charles. “The puzzle will be how to get him here. I know that seamen have difficulty in obtaining leave till their ship is paid off, and then there is the expense of the journey. However, I will do my best to manage that.”

“And I will help you,” said Anna. “I will sell some of my fowls, and the egg money of last year, which I have never spent, and old Mrs Taffety’s present, which mamma says I have a right to do just what I like with. Oh, there will be no difficulty about money matters if Frank can get leave for Tom Holman. It will be very nice to see him and to thank him, though it will be difficult to thank him enough.”

Dr Morgan had not joined in the conversation of his elder children. He appeared to be absorbed in his own thoughts. Once or twice he glanced round to ascertain if William was following. He continued for some time along the road leading to the village, and then suddenly turned into a path leading up the mountain. William began to feel not very comfortable when he saw this. Still his father might possibly intend to cross over the mountain. He lingered still farther behind, and when he saw him turn off again up the uneven path which led to poor Old Moggy’s hut he was strongly inclined to run away.

Surely his father would not wish to go inside the hut. What could he have to say to the old woman? However, go on he must. Fortunately, Charles dropped behind the Doctor, and Anna and William hurried up to him.

“Charley, is papa really going into the witch’s den?” he exclaimed in a tone of alarm. “She will be doing him some harm, I am sure.”

“Nonsense, Willie,” answered Charles. “I did not fancy that a fellow with a head on his shoulders could be such a goose.”

“Goose or no goose, I don’t wish to fall into the old witch’s clutches, nor papa, nor any of us either,” muttered William, as Charles walked on again rapidly to catch up their father, and to give a helping hand to the two younger ones. Willie’s foolish fears increased when he saw his father walk up to the door of the hut, and still more alarmed did he become when the Doctor, lifting the latch, went in, and then turned round and beckoned to him to enter, though Arthur and Mabel were allowed to remain outside. Most unwillingly he obeyed; but when he got inside the door, not a step farther could he bring himself to advance, and from the furtive glances which he ever and anon cast through the doorway, it was very evident that he would make his escape if he dared. Even Charles and Anna drew back from the pitiable object which met their sight. The light streaming through the window fell on a low pallet, on which, covered with a sheet, lay the form of Mountain Moggy. By her side sat Jenny Davis, whom William recognised as her champion who had threatened him and his companions with condign punishment if they ever again attacked the old woman. Something dreadful was going to happen—William scarcely knew what. A glance his father cast at him made him understand that he must not move. Of course Jenny Davis had told everything. After exchanging a few words with Jenny, the Doctor lifted the sheet from off Moggy’s feet.

“William, come here and witness the effects of your cruelty,” he said in a stern voice, very unlike that in which he was accustomed to address his children. “Now look at those poor burnt hands. You, and those with you, I have no doubt, caused all the pain this poor woman is now suffering; and should she die, at whose door, think you, will the guilt lie?”

William could not answer. The Doctor, taking out some salves he had brought with him, began to dress the poor creature’s limbs. Anna could not refrain from tears, while she went forward to assist her father and kind Jenny. William stood by without uttering a word, and feeling as he had never felt before.

When the sufferer’s hands and feet were once more covered up, the Doctor directed Charles to call in the younger children.

“Listen to what Jenny Davis will tell you,” he said, when they were all assembled round the bed.

“Ah, sir, I have a tale to tell which would soften a heart of stone; but I hope none of these young people have hearts of that sort,” remarked Jenny, fixing her eyes on William. “She has told me how it all happened, and it may be a warning to that young gentleman never to throw stones at any human being, even though they may be deserted; or, for that matter, at any living creature. They cannot tell where the stone may strike, and what harm it may do. Well, sir, Old Moggy was sitting at her poor fire when those cruel boys came up here again to play off their cowardly tricks. They talk of her imps doing mischief, though they were the imps, and they were doing the mischief, I’m thinking. Stone after stone was thrown in on her. At last one struck the hearth and sent a burning stick under her feet. While she stooped down to remove it, another large one gave her a blow on the head which must have stunned her, for she fell to the ground and her clothes began to burn. The agony she was suffering brought her in some degree to her senses again, when she found herself surrounded by flames, and believed that she was going to be burnt to death. There was nobody near that she knew of to help her, and she couldn’t help herself; she knew that, so she prayed for the help of God. Just then the door burst open, and the young gentleman I told you of ran in, and throwing his coat over her, put out the fire. I came in soon after, and helped to put her on the bed. I think that the young gentleman burnt his own hands not a little in tearing off the burning clothes which his coat couldn’t cover, but he said it was just nothing, and wouldn’t let me look at them even before he went away.”

“What a brave, noble fellow!” exclaimed Charles. “I should like to have made his acquaintance.”

“So indeed should I,” cried Anna. “Do not you know his name, Jenny?”

“No, my sweet miss, I don’t,” answered the Welshwoman. “But I think I know where it’s written, and that’s where the names of the cruel, and selfish, and heartless will never be found.”

“God bless him! God bless him!” said a deep voice from the bed.

The children started; it was the voice of Old Moggy. They had not supposed she was listening, much less that she was capable of speaking. The rest of the children remembered William’s remarks on the previous evening, and all eyes were turned on him. He stood white as ashes, and trembling in every limb. While they had before been speaking, the window had been darkened by a person passing before it. William had remarked it, and he had taken it into his head that it was that of a person come to carry him off to prison for his misdeeds. The rest had been so interested in what they were hearing that they had not observed that a stranger was near them.

“Ye said that she knows the truth; ay, that she does, and practises what the Word of Truth tells us; for instead of railing she blesses, and from her heart forgives them who have ill-treated her,” said Jenny. “Poor, harmless, weary soul that she is! Those young ones who stand there can know little of the sorrows and trials she has been called on to endure. She has seen loss of parents, and property, and husband, and child, and her good name, and all that we think makes life pleasant; and now that she has found her way to this lone place, to die in peace, the Evil One has made these lads come up here to mock and torment her. I mind reading of a good prophet going to a certain village in a foreign land, and the lads came out and mocked him, and called him old bald-head, and what do ye think happened? Why, two she-bears came out of a wood and destroyed forty and two of them. I don’t mean to say that Old Moggy is like the old prophet, but yet she is aged and friendless; and those who abuse and ill-treat her are, in the eyes of the Almighty, doing a great wickedness; that they are, I’m sure.”

While Jenny was speaking, the lips of the sufferer were seen to move; and in the same deep tones which had before been heard, the words came forth, “but forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. Yes, yes: oh, I forgive them; they didn’t know any better; they thought I was a witch; they thought I could work charms, and had bad power. Oh! they would not have done as they did if they had known of my weary, weary, aching heart; my poor boy underneath the sea—my husband drowned before my eyes—my sad, sad days, my sleepless nights—my wandering brain—my hunger and thirst—my wretched, wretched life for long, long lonesome years. All these things you did not know of, young gentleman, when you and your companions threw stones at me. Don’t think I would curse you for it. No, no. Come near, my children. I bless you, ay! from my heart, all of you. You who ill-treated me and you who never did me harm.”

Slowly and reluctantly, with awe in their countenances, the children drew still nearer to the bed. The old woman’s voice had dropped through weakness and exhaustion, yet she continued—

“My lot has been very hard, very hard; yet I have had a Friend above who has upheld and comforted me. And yet I have had many trials, many trials, many trials. My brain reels and wanders. I think of my husband and my boy, my only boy, many fathoms deep beneath the cold, cold waves, and then my head turns and my heart changes into stone, and I forget where I am and what has happened.”

The old woman began to ramble, and suddenly burst forth in the wild song which she had been singing on the previous evening.

Jenny Davis shook her head, observing, “She’ll not be right after this for some time. When the fit comes on her there’s no more sense to be looked for till she has had some rest.”

“I will send her up a quieting draught and some wholesome food, which will probably do her more good than any medicine,” said the Doctor, taking Anna’s hand, and motioning the others to move towards the door.

William had hitherto not spoken a word. “Papa, may I take her up the medicine and food?” he said, and big tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Yes, William, you may,” was the answer.

Dr Morgan and his children had got outside the hut, and were on their way down the steep side of the mountain, when they heard a cheery shout behind them. Turning round, Anna instantly sprang up the hill, and in another moment was in the arms of a young gentleman who was running down to meet them.

“It is Frank! It is Frank!” burst from the lips of the rest.

“Why, father! Charley! who would have thought it?” cried the young stranger, warmly greeting them; “and Willie, and Mabel, and Arthur! What big people they have become! I little expected to have found you so soon; and you were in that poor old woman’s hut, too! Well, that is curious! The truth is, I am lost, or rather I couldn’t find you. I mislaid Charley’s letter, and though I thought I knew the name of the place, I found, when I got into the country, that I hadn’t the slightest notion of what it was; and after wandering about for a couple of days, I determined to write to old Evans, at Bangor, and to await his answer at the inn on the other side of the mountain.”

“Then, Frank, you are the young gentleman who saved Old Moggy’s life,” said Anna. “How delightful!”

“Oh, did I? I merely threw my jacket over the poor creature’s legs, and put out the fire which had caught her clothes and would have burnt her,” answered the midshipman. “I am very glad I was of use, though it’s not a thing to be proud of. It was very fortunate, however, for me, for I don’t know how otherwise I should have found you. There is one thing I should like to do, and that is to thrash the heartless young monkeys who threw stones at the poor woman. If I can find them I will.”

William looked down, overwhelmed with shame, and almost wished that Frank would thrash him.

“Then what brought you back to the hut, my boy?” asked the Doctor.

“Oh, to look after the poor old woman,” said Frank, “I understood from the nurse—Jenny Davis she told me was her name—that she has no friends, and so I thought it was but right and proper to come back and see how she was getting on. I dropped a bundle with some old shirts and other things in at the window; but seeing some people there, not dreaming that they were all of you, I of course wouldn’t go in. I waited, expecting you soon to go away, and fortunately I made you out, or I should have gone back to my inn, and not known that I had been close to you.”

“Bless you, my boy, bless you! may you ever act in the same way from principle, and not merely from the impulse of the heart, good as that may be,” said the Doctor, warmly, pressing Frank’s hand, and undoubtedly feeling the contrast between his conduct and that of William. “And now let us hear something about yourself,” he continued, in a more cheerful tone than he had hitherto been speaking in.

The young sailor had plenty to talk about, though, as he remarked, he found his words apt to block up the hatchway, he was in such a hurry to get them out of the hold.

Charles and Anna were eager to hear about Tom Holman, and William would have liked to hear what his brother was saying, but, in shame, he hung back some way behind the rest, and when they reached the house his father told him to go to his room, and wait there till summoned Frank saw that there was something wrong, but forbore to inquire, hoping soon to have an opportunity of pleading for the culprit.

“Ah, that comes, whatever it is, of his being brought up by old Becky Ap Reece,” he thought to himself. “I am heartily glad he is free of her, though he may never get a farthing of her money. He was a plucky little chap, and with good training something might be made of him; but she treated him like one of her poodles, and would soon have made him of no more use in the world than a puppy dog.”

Though Frank Morgan was thoughtful, he was one of the merriest fellows under the sun, and among the lightest of heart though not of head. Frank’s return brought life and spirit into the house; for Charles, though highly esteemed, was grave and somewhat reserved; Anna was sedate and quiet; and William, since his return home, had been very troublesome, and was looked upon generally as an arrant pickle; while the Doctor and Mrs Morgan were so much occupied that they were unable to think of amusements for their children. Everything, however, was to give way in order to make Frank enjoy his short visit at home; and picnics and several pleasant excursions were planned that he might find the time as pleasant as possible.

Chapter Six.

Dr Morgan loved William fully as much as he did the rest of his children, but he saw that correction was necessary to cure him. Instead of being allowed to welcome Frank with the rest of the family, William was sent to his room, where he remained by himself, not knowing what was next to happen. He was very sorry for what he had done; he had seen the fearful consequences of his cruelty, by which he might have deprived a fellow-creature of life; indeed, he knew not even now whether Old Moggy might not die; and he also saw his own folly in believing that a poor weak old creature, who could not preserve herself from injury, could injure others in the way she was accused of doing, and he wished that he had not thrown stones at her. These thoughts made him very uncomfortable, and he would have been glad to go anywhere, or do anything which would enable him to cast them away from him. It was a great relief when his father came with the medicine and other things for Old Moggy, and told him that he might take them to her, but must return immediately to his room, without stopping to talk to any one.

“Solitude is good for our spiritual welfare, to allow of reflection, but we must not permit it to hinder us in the performance of the active duties of life,” observed the Doctor to his wife, when he told her how he purposed treating William. “He wished to take the things to her, and he is the fittest person to do so. It is well that he should feel that he is useful and doing his duty; but at the same time it is necessary that he should understand that the so doing cannot exonerate him from the consequences of his transgressions.”

William hastened out of the house with his basket. He knew that if he met any of his school companions they would ask him how long he had turned apothecary’s boy, what wages he got, and whether he made the pills as well. He determined not to mind. Still he anxiously looked about, fearing some might appear. He ran on, therefore, till he reached the steep part of the path up the mountain. As he climbed up his heart again failed him, for he began to fear that Jenny Davis would at all events scold him, and that perhaps Moggy, seeing him alone, would say something disagreeable. Still, as he had volunteered to go, it would be arrant cowardice if he turned back. He reached the hut and looked in at the window. Jenny saw him, and saw that he had a basket in his hand.

“Come in, come in, my good young sir,” she exclaimed.

The words encouraged William, and he entered.

“It’s like your father’s son to come and visit the poor and the afflicted,” she added. “I’m sure I thank ye, and so does she who lies there, though she’s ill able to speak now.”

Moggy, whose senses had by this time returned, heard her.

“Ay—bless you, young gentleman! bless you!” she muttered. “I forgive you, and thank you, and am your debtor; and there’s One above who’ll forgive you if you go to Him.”

It surprised and puzzled him that Moggy bore him no ill-will, after all the injury he had inflicted on her. He did not stop to inquire how this was, but, having left the contents of his basket, bent his steps homeward. As he wound his way by the path down the mountain-side, at a far more sedate pace than was his wont, he thought over the matter. Suddenly the words of the Lord’s Prayer occurred to him—“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.”

“That’s it; she has been very wicked, and so she forgives me that she may be forgiven,” he said to himself. “But then I have been very wicked too, and I have nobody to forgive. I don’t know anybody who has done me harm; I wish that somebody would, and then I might forgive them.” He reached home, and made his way to his room again. No one came near him all day. At dinner-time Anna stole up with a plate of meat and vegetables. She placed it before him, but he felt very little inclination to eat. Anna was about to quit the room; Willie stopped her.

“I know I am very wicked, but I don’t know what to do!” he exclaimed, sobbing. “I wish that papa would come and tell me.”

Anna reported these words to their father. The Doctor might have hastened at once to Willie, but he judged it wiser to allow the good impression that had been formed to take root. He therefore sent him up the Bible, by Anna, and begged him to read the answer of Paul to the gaoler at Philippi. Anna showed him other texts of Scripture—“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy”; and then pointed out warnings against those who wrong and oppress the poor and the afflicted.

“I know, I know that I have done very wrong, and am very wicked,” sobbed William. “Do you think God will pardon me? I do not feel as if I could do anything to make God forgive me, or love me, or be kind to me again.”

Anna stopped to collect her thoughts before she spoke; she then said—

“I am very sure that you never can do anything to make God forgive you, dear Willie; and yet I am sure that God will forgive you if you seek Him through the Mediator He has given us. God loves to be gracious. If you really are sorry for what you have done, if you repent, not because your fault has brought you into trouble and disgrace, but because you have offended God, then God will assuredly pardon you, for He has promised in His Holy Word to do so. He says ‘Knock and it shall be opened to you, seek and ye shall find’; so you see, dear Willie, you may be pardoned if you seek it in the right way.”

And she spoke of God’s love in sending His blessed Son to save us from our sins, and of the Holy Spirit that He gives us to soften our hard hearts and make them tender, as well as to teach us always what we ought to do.

When she ceased speaking he was sobbing, but not bitterly.

“Pray for me, Anna,” said he; “I am not able to pray for myself.”

“Oh, be sure all those who love you will pray for you,” she answered, kissing him. “Papa and mamma pray for us night and morning, I am certain of that; and it makes me very happy and confident to think so. But still, dear Willie, remember always that we must pray for ourselves.”

“Yes, I know, and I will try,” said William, as his sister left the room.

The evening approached. Charles brought him up some tea and bread-and-butter, but said nothing. No one else came near him, not even Frank. He thought that Frank might have come, but still he could not complain. How different had been his brother’s conduct and his own towards poor Old Moggy! He had thought her a witch, and thrown stones at her, and called her all sorts of bad names; while brave Frank had risked burning himself to save her, and had kindly treated her, and given her money, and come back to see how she was faring.

“And they say that there are no such things as witches, or ugly ghosts wandering about, or such-like creatures,” he thought to himself. “I always fancied there were, but papa must be right, and I am sure I hope that there are not. And as God loves us I don’t think He would let such things be, to come and frighten us, certainly not to harm or frighten those who love Him. How very, very foolish I have been, to believe all the nonsense I have heard.”

With these thoughts, repentant Willie fell asleep. He did not see that his parents entered, when the rest of the family were gone to bed, and bending over him observed how placidly he slept. Then they knelt down together and earnestly prayed for his spiritual welfare. He had sorely felt their absence all day, and was inclined to believe that their love was estranged from him. How far was this from the truth! Thus it is that our Heavenly Father deals with His erring children. He shuts Himself out from them. He allows evil to overtake them, but not the less does He love them. He thus afflicts them that they may more fully feel their dependence on Him, and return like the prodigal to His arms.

Chapter Seven.

Frank had to return to his ship, but after a short cruise he wrote word that he had again got leave to go home; and this time he hoped to be accompanied by his shipmate, the preserver of his life, Tom Holman. The family at the rectory were as eager to see Tom as they were before. Some changes had taken place among them. Willie was very different to what he had been. His masters remarked that he was much improved. From being the most idle, he was now one of the most attentive and obedient of their scholars. His parents, too, believed that they had discovered a real change of heart. His godmother, Miss Becky Ap Reece, had died and left him her heir, her property realising a far larger sum than had been expected; indeed, it was surmised that the poor lady must have lost a considerable portion of her income at cards, or she would have been able to live in better style, or have done more good with it than she had done.

As soon as William heard that cousin Becky’s property had been left to him, though of course he was ignorant of its value, he entreated that he might give it to Old Moggy to make her comfortable.

“What, all, Willie? all your fortune?” asked his father, with a feeling of pleasure about his heart.

“O yes, papa, I do not think that I have a right to spend any of it on myself, while she is suffering in consequence of my wickedness,” answered Willie, with perfect sincerity.

“I rejoice to hear you say so, my dear boy, but the matter is not left in your power, nor indeed in mine. Until you are of age, the interest of the capital can alone be spent; and I, as your guardian, have authority only to expend it on your proper maintenance and education. It is only, therefore, by denying yourself all luxuries and amusements, and by saving pocket-money, with which I am directed to supply you, that you can help poor Moggy as you desire.”

“Oh then, that is what I will do,” exclaimed Willie. “Don’t give me any pocket-money, or let me have any amusements which cost money. That’s almost what I wanted to do; though I should like to set her up as a lady, or in a comfortable house, with a servant to attend on her.”

“That would not be wise, Willie,” remarked Dr Morgan. “You would expend all your means on one person, giving her more than she requires; and though it would save you trouble, you would be prevented from benefiting others; whereas you should calculate the means at your disposal, and take trouble to ascertain how much good you can possibly do with it. I am also bound to give you your pocket-money, provided I do not find that you make a bad use of it. You must decide how it is to be spent, and of course you are at liberty to return it to me to spend for you.”

“Oh, that will do, that will do!” exclaimed Willie, with pleasure in his tone. “But you will help me, papa, in doing what is best with it?”

“I have already anticipated some of your wishes with respect to poor Moggy, and we will see what more can be done to make her comfortable. She says that she prefers Windyside to any other spot on earth, and has no wish to move from it.”

On a fine day, when the sun was shining brightly over mountain and moor, and his beams were lighting up the pine-trees and the once dark, ruinous hovel on the hillside, Dr Morgan with most of his children took their way towards Old Moggy’s abode. It was greatly changed for the better. A chimney was now to be seen rising above the roof, which had been fresh tiled; there was glass in the window, a latch on the door, which had been repaired, and the lichen-covered walls had been scraped, fresh pointed, and white-washed. When the party got inside they discovered an equally agreeable change. A thick curtain divided the room; a screen kept off the draught when the door was opened; the walls were whitened, and there was a cupboard, and a table and chairs, and several shelves, on which rested some neat crockery. On the inside of the curtain there was a comfortable bed, and some thick matting on the floor. Old Moggy was seated in a large easy-chair, with her feet on the old stool, which before was one of her sole articles of furniture, and good Jenny Davis was making up a nice fire of coals, on which to cook some wholesome meat and vegetables which she had just brought from the market.

“She’s getting quite strong and hearty, with the good food and kindness,” answered Jenny to the Doctor’s question, “How is Moggy to-day?”

“She can talk to ye as clear and sensibly as any one; ay, and there are some glorious things she has been saying to me, which have done my soul a world of good.”

“Ay, Doctor Morgan, in one thing Jenny speaks truth. I don’t feel the poor demented creature I was a few short months ago,” said Moggy; “and it’s your tender kindness, and that of your dear boy, Master Willie, and the rest of your children, has brought about the change which ye see in me. I am clothed, and in my right mind; and yet, through the mercy of God, I never, even when my mind was wrong, was cast out from Him. I still sought Him, and found Him. He watched over me and protected me.”

“Be assured, Moggy,” said the Doctor, “that we are well repaid for what we have done for you. But I must not stay. I came up with my children to-day to see how you were. You require no doctoring, and so I must away. Anna, however, will remain with the rest, as she has brought up a book to read, which may interest you.”

When the Doctor had gone Anna took a seat by Moggy’s side, and Willie begged Jenny to give him some employment which might be of use.

“There’s little enough, my sweet young master, that is fit for you to do,” answered Jenny. “There are those few pots and pans to clean, and some cups and saucers, and plates and spoons, and knives and forks, but sure that’s not work fit for a young gentleman’s hands.”

“Oh, any work is fit for me, if it is to serve Moggy,” said William, rubbing away at the articles which were placed by his side.

Anna read on in her sweet, low voice. The book contained a true history of one who bore suffering and affliction with patience and perfect resignation to the Divine will for long, long years, till health came back and she enjoyed peace and happiness in this world, and departed full of joy and hope. Moggy, who seemed deeply interested, instantly applied the history to herself.

“That’s me, that’s me,” she muttered. “I have got peace and comfort, and it’s a happiness to have all these loving, dear children round me.” She paused and sighed deeply, as if a recollection of the past had come suddenly on her, for she added, “But ah, who can bring back the dead—those who lie far, far away in their ocean grave? No joy for me here till I know that I am departing to meet them.”

“Dear Moggy,” said Anna, interrupting her gently, and fearing that she might give way to her feelings too much, “you have more than once promised that you would give us some of your past history. We should very much like to hear it, provided you do not dwell too long on the more painful portions.”

Moggy looked up at her with a sad expression in her eyes.

“Ah, sweet Miss Anna, you do not know what you ask,” she answered. “If I were to tell you my history without the sad portions there truly would be little to tell; but I will not therefore deny you. It will do me good, maybe, to know that those I love are acquainted with my griefs, and can pity me, and as it were share them with me.”

“We know that you have had sore troubles, and we pity you for them, and we have all learned to love you because you bear them so patiently,” said Anna; “therefore if it gives you pain do not talk of your past history.”

“Ay, that is kind in you, Miss Anna, to say, but I have the wish now to tell you all; what I have been, and how I came to be as I am,” said Moggy. “Master Willie, ask Master Charles to come in (Charles had returned outside the cottage to botanise), then I’ll tell ye all, yes, all. Often and often I’ve thought of the past, so it does not seem strange to me as it will to you, dear Miss Anna, but ye will not weep for me, for it’s long, long since I wept for myself.”

A shout from William made Anna run to the door, and from thence she saw Charley shaking hands with their brother Frank, and Willie running down the hill towards them. Another person stood by, who must be, she was certain, Tom Holman. Looking into the cottage again, and crying out, “Frank has come! Frank has come!” she also ran down the hill towards her brothers. There were warm greetings, and smiles, and laughter; and then Frank sang out, “Hillo, Tom, come up here. My brothers and sister want to thank you for enabling me to get back and see them; and tell them how you picked me out of the water and saved my life, and have taken such good care of me ever since.”

Tom had, with true politeness, gone some way off out of ear-shot of the brothers and sister when they met. The latter words were addressed to him, and with the activity of a seaman he sprang up the hill towards them. He did not quite come up to the idea Anna had formed of him. Though dressed as a seaman, he was somewhat different to the commonly-received notions of what a British tar is like; still less could he be compared to a refined pirate or dashing rover of romance. He was an ordinary sized, sunburnt, darkish man of middle age, with a somewhat grave expression of countenance. When he spoke, however, a pleasant smile lit up his firm mouth, and his eyes beamed with intelligence. Anna, Charles, and Willie went forward, and putting out their hands one after the other, shook his cordially, and thanked him, in a few simple words, for the manly services he had rendered Frank; each hoping to find means of proving their gratitude in a more substantial way than by words alone. Tom answered them in a pleasant voice, evidently gratified by the way they had treated him.

“Why you see, Miss Morgan and young gentlemen, it was your brother first did me a service, and a very great one too, and so I felt very grateful, and a liking to him, and that made me have my eye oftener on him when there was any danger abroad, and be oftener talking to him; and so, do ye see, all the rest followed in course.”

“We never heard of Frank doing anything for you,” answered Anna. “We thought that the obligation was all on his side.”

“Come, Tom, don’t talk about that just now,” cried Frank. “I say, Anna, how’s Old Moggy? I’m glad to see that you have painted up her abode. I must go up and see her at once, and introduce Tom to her; she’ll like to hear about the foreign parts he has been to.”

Saying this, he ran up the hill towards the hut. The rest of the party followed more slowly. Tom remained outside; the young Morgans entered. They found Frank seated opposite to Moggy, talking away to her, and telling her how happy he was to see her so comfortable. The poor old woman was much gratified with the attention paid her.

“But where is Tom?” cried Frank. “Willie, tell him to come in. I want to introduce him to Moggy. He will be interested in her, for a kinder heart than his does not beat in the bosom of any man, woman, or child that I know of.”

Tom soon made his appearance, doffing his tarpauling as he entered, and taking a seat to which Frank pointed, nearly opposite Moggy.

For a minute or more after Tom had taken his seat Moggy was silent, when bending forward, and shrouding her grey eyebrows with her withered hand, with unexpected suddenness she said, in a deep, low voice, and a strange inquiring expression in her countenance—

“Who are you, and where do you come from?”

“A seaman, mother,” answered Tom, “and shipmate for many a year with young Mister Morgan here.”

The old woman scarcely seemed to understand what was said, but kept muttering to herself, and intently gazing at Tom.

“Come, Moggy, you’ll stare my shipmate out of countenance, for he’s a bashful man, though a brave one,” cried Frank, who fancied that his friend did not like the scrutiny he was undergoing. Frank produced the effect he wished, and Moggy at once resumed the placid manner she had of late exhibited.

“Your pardon, sir; strange fancies come over me at times, though it’s seldom now I get as bad as I used to be,” said Moggy. “I forgot how time passes, ay, and what changes time works, but I will not trouble you with my wild fancies. Your honoured father has shown me how I may put them to flight by prayer, by looking to Him who died for us, and then all becomes peace, and joy, and contentment.”

“Moggy was just going to give me an account of her early days when you arrived,” said Anna.

“I shall like very much to hear all about her, if Moggy will put off her history till another day,” remarked Frank. “I promised to return home again without delay, so we must not remain any longer.”

“Remember, children dear, time is in God’s hand, not ours. We propose, but He disposes as He knows best. He may think fit to let me live, to enjoy the comforts you have provided for me in my old age, or He may think fit to call me home; but while I live my wish will be to please you if I can benefit you, and my last prayers will be for your welfare.”

“Oh, you must live on for many a day, and we must hear your story over and over again, till we know it by heart,” cried Frank, about to go.

“Once for me to tell and once for you to hear would be enough, my dear lad,” said Moggy, shaking her head.

“Good-bye, mother, good-bye,” said Tom, his heart evidently touched by the poor old woman’s condition.

“Fare thee well, my son, fare thee well. May Heaven prosper thee and guard thee on the perilous waters,” answered Moggy, gazing intently at him as before. “So like thy countenance, and thy manners.”

The rest of the party uttered their farewells, and leaving the hut, took their way down the mountain.

Chapter Eight.

Frank was the life of the family in the drawing-room, and Tom interested and astonished the inmates of the kitchen with the accounts he gave them of his own adventures and his young officer’s exploits and gallant deeds. It is possible that some of his companions might have preferred hearing him sing a rollicking sea song, and seeing him dance a hornpipe, as most seamen are represented as doing on all possible occasions; but they soon found out that such was not Tom Holman’s way. He could talk, though, and laugh, and be very merry at times, and never seemed unhappy; and Mary Jones, Mrs Morgan’s old nurse, declared that he was the pleasantest, and nicest, and quietest, ay, and more than that, the best young man she had seen for many a day. Not that he was very young, for he was certainly over forty. Tom Holman was more than pleasant—he was an earnest, Christian seaman. Happily there are many such now-a-days, both in the Royal Navy and in the merchant service—men who are not ashamed of the Cross of Christ. Tom and Mrs Jones soon became fast friends, and it was through her that the way in which he and Frank first became intimate was known to Mrs Morgan and the rest of the family.

“You see, Mrs Jones,” said Tom, as he sat with her in the housekeeper’s room, “I was pretty well a castaway, without friends, without home, without any one to care for me, or show me the right course to sail on. I had got hold of some books, all about the rights of man, sneering at religion, and everything that was right, and noble, and holy; and in my ignorance I thought it all very fine, and had become a perfect infidel. All that sort of books writ by the devil’s devices have brought countless beings to destruction—of body as well as of soul. Our ship was on the coast of Africa, employed in looking after slavers, to try and put a stop to the slave trade. I entered warmly into the work, for I thought that it was a cruel shame that men, because they had white skins, more power, and maybe, more sense, should be allowed to carry off their fellow-men and hold them in bondage. I was appointed as coxswain of the boat commanded by Mr Morgan. Often we used to be sent away in her for days together from the ship, to lie in wait for slavers. The officers on such occasions used to allow us to talk pretty freely to one another and to express our minds. One day I said something which showed Mr Morgan what was in my mind—how dark and ignorant it was. He questioned me further, and found that I was an infidel, that I had no belief in God or in goodness, and that I was unhappy. Some officers would have cared nothing for this, or just abused me, called me a fool, and let me alone; others, who called themselves religious, would have cast me off as a reprobate. But Mr Morgan, whom I always thought only a good-natured, merry young gentleman, did neither; but he stuck to me like a friend. Day after day, and night after night, he talked to me, and reasoned with me, and read to me out of the blessed Gospel, for he never was without the Book of Life in all our expedition. (See Note 1.) Whenever he could get me alone he pleaded earnestly with me, as a friend, nay, as affectionately as a brother. In spite of myself, he made me listen to him, and I learned to love and respect him, even when I thought myself far wiser than he was. He persevered. I began to see how vile I was, how unlike a pure and holy God; and then he showed me the only way by which I could become fit to dwell with God. It seemed so plain, so simple, so beautiful, so unlike any idea man could conceive, that I, as it were, sprang to it, just as a drowning man springs to a rock, and clutching it, lifts himself up clear of the tangled weeds which are dragging him to destruction. From that moment I became a changed man, and gained a peace and happiness of which I knew nothing before.”

“Dr Morgan’s regards, and he hopes you’ll step into the dining-room, Mr Holman,” said the parlour-maid, opening the door.

Tom was soon seated among the family circle, his manner showing that he was perfectly at his ease without the slightest show of presumption.

“Tom, they want to hear about our adventures, and I’ve told them that I must have you present to confirm my account, lest they should suppose I am romancing,” said Frank, as Tom entered.

“They wouldn’t think that, Mr Morgan,” answered Tom. “But, however, I’ll take the helm for a spell if you get out of your right course.”

“I don’t doubt you, old shipmate,” said Frank. “But before I get under weigh with my yarn I want you to give them a few pages out of your log before you and I sailed together.”

Tom guessed what this request meant. “Well, sir, if your honourable father and mother and you wish it, I’ll tell you all I know about myself. For what I know to the contrary, I was born at sea. My first recollections were of a fearful storm on the ocean. We were tossing about in a boat. One of them, whom I for a long time afterwards thought was my father, had charge of me. He was a kind-hearted man, and looked after me most carefully. He went by the name of Jack Johnson, but sailors often change their names, especially if they have deserted, or have done anything for which they think that they may be punished. He always called me Tom, and I didn’t know that I had any other name till he told me that my name was Holman, that he had known my father, who was a very respectable man, who, with my mother, and many other people, had been lost at sea. He said that he had saved me, and that we, with a few others, were the only people who had escaped from the wreck. We had been picked up by a ship outward bound round the Horn. Two of the men died, the rest entered on board the whaler, and as the captain could not well pitch me overboard he was obliged to take me; for indeed Jack, who was the best seaman of the lot, refused to do duty unless I was put on the ship’s books for rations. It was a rough school for a child, but I throve in it, and learned many things, though some of them I had better not have learned. The captain seemed a stern and morose man, and for many months he took no notice of me; but one day as I was trying to climb up the rattlins of the lower shrouds I fell to the deck. He ran to me, lifted me up, and carrying me to his cabin, placed me on his own bed, and with an anxious countenance examined me all over to find where I was hurt. He rubbed my temples and hands, and Jack, who followed him into the cabin, said he looked quite pleased when I came to again. I was some weeks recovering, and he watched over me all the time with as much care as if I had been his own child.

“‘Ah! the man’s heart is in the right place, and I’d sooner sail with him than with many another softer-spoken gentleman I’ve fallen in with,’ remarked Jack one day after I had recovered.

“We heard from one of the crew, who had before sailed with the captain, that he had a little son of his own killed from falling on deck, and this it was which made him take to me.”

“Yes, God has implanted right and good feelings in the bosoms of all His creatures,” observed the Doctor. “But when they are neglected, and sin is allowed to get the better of them, they are destroyed. None of our hearts are in their right place, as the saying is. They are all by nature prone to ill. The same man who was doing you the kindness might in other ways have been grievously offending God.”

“Ay, sir, it might have been; but it would not become me to find fault with one who had rendered me so great a service,” said Tom. “After I was well, he used to have me into his cabin every day to teach me to read and write, and the little learning I ever had I gained from him. We had been out four years, and the ship had at last got a full cargo, and was on the point of returning home, when we fell in with another ship belonging to the same owners. The captain of her had died, and the first mate had been washed overboard, and so the supercargo invited our captain to take charge of her. As he had no wife nor children living at home, this he consented to do, and thus it happened that I remained out in the Pacific another four years. Tom for my sake went with him to the other ship. We were nearly full.

“‘One more fish, and then hurrah for old England, lads,’ sung out the captain, as three sperm whales were seen spouting from the mast-head.

“All the boats were immediately lowered. Jack was in the captain’s boat. Away they pulled from the ship in chase. Those sperm whales are sometimes dangerous creatures to hunt. We saw that the captain’s boat was fast, that is to say, he had struck the whale. Away went the boat, towed at a great rate. Suddenly she stopped—the whale rose. The captain pulled in to strike another harpoon into her. The monster reared her powerful tail and struck the boat a blow which split her clean in two. We had not a boat left to go to our shipmates’ assistance; the other boats were far away in other directions. The wind was light, but we were able to lay up towards the spot where the accident had occurred. We could at length see the wreck of the boat and two men clinging to her. I hoped that one might be Jack and the other the captain; for they were, I may well say, the only two people I cared for in the world, or who cared for me. Eagerly I looked out. ‘It’s Jem Rawlins and Peter Garvin,’ I heard some one say. My heart sank within me. Jem and Peter were got on board. They were, of all the crew, those I had the least reason to like. They told us that the poor captain had got the line entangled round his leg, and had been drawn down when the whale sounded, and that Jack had been killed by a blow from her tail. It seemed wonderful that they themselves should have escaped, considering the fury with which the whale attacked the boat. Thus was the last link broken which, as it were, connected me with my lost relations, and I might say that I had not a friend in the world. All I knew about myself was that Jack had saved me from the wreck of a ship called the ‘Dove,’ which, with my name, ‘Tom Holman,’ he had tattooed on my arm. He had also put into a tin case the belt I had on and one or two other little articles, which tin case was in his chest. It was unanimously agreed on board that I should be his heir, so I succeeded to the chest, the chief article of value in which was the tin case. I took it out, and have ever since preserved it carefully, though with little hope of finding it of use. I had become very fond of reading, and had read all the books in the captain’s cabin. There were not many of them, and there was not one which had religion in it, and I am very certain that there was not a Bible on board. I only knew that there was such a book from the captain, who had read it at home, and I heard him only a few days before his death regretting that he had not got one. I believe our ship was not worse than others, and to the best of my belief not one of the South Sea whalers we fell in with had a Bible on board. The crews, as a rule, were lawless reprobates, and the masters petty tyrants, who cared nothing for the men, provided they would work to get their ships full. We sailed for England by the way of Cape Horn. I wished to go there because I wished to see what sort of a country it was, and to enjoy the amusements of which I heard the men talking. We had a prosperous passage till we were in the latitude of the Falkland Islands, when we were caught in a heavy gale, and after knocking about for some time in thick weather, when no observation could be obtained, we found ourselves with breakers under our lee, and a rocky shore beyond. The masts were cut away and anchors let go, but to no purpose; the ship parting from her anchors was driven on the rocks. Nearly half the crew were washed away, and the rest of us succeeded in gaining the shore, soon after which the ship went to pieces, and all the cargo which we had toiled so hard to collect was returned to the sea from whence it was obtained. Very few provisions came on shore, but there was a fair supply of canvas and plenty of ropes. We at once therefore put up a tent for ourselves, and placed all our more valuable possessions under cover. With some spars which came on shore we formed a lofty flagstaff, on which we hoisted a flag, in the hope that it might be seen by some passing vessel. There were springs of good water near the shore, and as long as our provisions lasted we got on pretty well, but when they began to fail the men looked at each other and asked, ‘What next?’

“‘Oh, some ship must be passing soon, and will take us off,’ cried out two or three, who were unwilling to be placed on reduced rations.

“‘But suppose no ship does pass, lads, what will you do? I have to tell you that, with the greatest economy, our provisions will not last another ten days,’ said the first mate, who was now captain. ‘It is barren and sandy here, but maybe, if we push our way across the island, we may find a richer country, and some animals on which we may live.’

“Some agreed to the mate’s proposal, others determined to remain on the sea-shore. I accompanied the mate. The provisions were equally divided, and those who remained said they would try and catch some fish, in case theirs ran short.

“‘Try and catch them at once, then,’ said the mate; ‘don’t wait till you are starving.’

“In our party was a man who had been in South America, and could use the lasso with dexterity. He and another man fitted two lines for the purpose, in the hope of finding some wild animals. The rest laughed at them, declaring that in an island where there was not a tree to be seen, and only some long tufts of grass, it was not likely that we should find anything but snakes and lizards. We had made good some ten miles or so, when we came upon a scene of desolation such as I have seldom elsewhere met with. Far as the eye could reach the surface of the ground was one black mass of cinders. The men looked at each other.

“‘Little prospect of finding any animals hereabouts,’ observed one of the men.

“‘Not so sure of that,’ said the mate, kicking up the ashes with his foot. Under them appeared some blades of green grass just springing up.

“‘To my mind the fire has run across the island at this part, which seems to be somewhat narrow, for from the top of that rock I climbed I could make out the sea on either hand; and thus, you understand, it may have driven the animals, if there are any, over to the other parts beyond, where I hope we may find them.’

“‘But how is it that the animals didn’t run our way?’ asked one of the men.

“‘Because the country where we have been is barren and sandy, and they have gone to the opposite side, which is very different. To the best of my belief we shall find herds of wild cattle feeding on the other side if we bravely push on. Here goes, who’ll follow?’

“Saying this, the mate walked on quickly into the sea of cinders. I ran after him, and the rest followed. The mate supposed that the fire had occurred only a short time before we reached the island, and had been put out by the storm which had driven us on shore, or rather by the rain which accompanied it. We had to sleep that night in the middle of the cinders, without a drop of water to drink. Some of the men grumbled, but the mate told them that they ought to be thankful, because there was no chance of our being burned, which there might be if we were sleeping in the long grass.

“‘Ah, lads, every situation has its advantages, if we will but look for them,’ he remarked; and I have often since thought of that saying of his.

“On we went, the mate leading, the men often unwilling to proceed till he uttered a few words of encouragement. At last the sun’s rays, bursting out from between the clouds, fell on some green grass which clothed the side of a hill before us. It was a welcome sight; and still more welcome was the sight of a herd of cattle which appeared before us as we got clear of the burnt district. It was important not to frighten them. We advanced carefully, the two men with lassoes leading, hiding ourselves among rocks and bushes, and keeping to leeward of the herd. To our great satisfaction, the animals as they fed moved on towards us. Suddenly the men with the lassoes threw them round the neck of a cow, the nearest animal to us. We sprang forward, laying hold of the ends, one party hauling one way, one the other. In spite of all her violent struggles, we had her fast, and one of the men, rushing in, hamstrung her, and she was in our power. This capture raised our spirits, for we felt sure that we should never want food on the island, as we might catch the oxen in pitfalls if not with lassoes. The mate was asked how he came to suppose that there were cattle on the island.

“‘Just because a shipmate, in whose word I could trust, told me he had seen them,’ was the answer. ‘What better reason for believing a thing would you require?’

“We camped where we were, and the South American showed us how to cut up the heifer and to dry the meat in the sun, so that we had as much pure meat as each of us could carry. As our companions had enough food for some days longer, the mate wished to see more of the island before returning. We saw several large herds of cattle, which fed on the long grass covering the face of the country, which was generally undulating. We were several days away, and as we caught sight of the flagstaff, we thought of the pleasure the supply of meat we had brought would afford our companions. We saw the tents, but no one came to meet us. We shouted, but there was no shout in return. We feared that they might be ill, or even dead. We reached the tent, but no one was within; we looked about, we could find no one. The mate was looking seaward. He pointed to the offing, where, sinking below the horizon, the white sail of a ship was seen. It was more than probable that our shipmates had gone in her, but whether with their own will or carried off by force we could not conjecture. Some of the men were very angry, but the mate observed that was wrong. Our shipmates, probably, could not help themselves. They might have supposed we should not return, and, if they had gone with their own will, might have been unable to leave any message for us. The mate was a truly charitable man, for he was anxious to put the best construction on the conduct of our shipmates. There, however, we were left, with a diminished party, with the possibility that another ship might not approach the coast for many months to come. The summer was drawing to a close. It had been somewhat damp and cold, and we expected that the winter would be proportionally severe.

“‘We may get off, but we may possibly have to stay; and if we are wise, lads, we shall prepare for the worst,’ said the mate; and telling the men what would be wanted, forthwith began the work he advised.

“We were to build a couple of huts, to cut and dry turf for fuel, and to kill some cattle and prepare the flesh; to hunt for vegetables or herbs, which might keep off scurvy, and to do various other things.

“‘Example is better than precept, Tom, as you will find,’ observed the mate to me. ‘I never tell men to do what I am not ready to do myself. That’s the reason they obey me so willingly.’

“I’ve ever since remembered the mate’s words, and told them to Mr Morgan; and I am sure he never orders men to do what he is not ready to try and do himself if necessary. It was fortunate for all that the mate’s advice was followed. Some comfortable huts were got up, and a store of provisions and fuel collected before the winter began. It set in with unusual seventy, and I believe that we should all have perished from cold, and damp, and snow, had we not been prepared, though I do not remember that the frost was hard at any time.

“Some of the men abused their companions for going away without them.

“‘Let be,’ said the mate; ‘all’s for the best. We don’t know where they are now, but we do know that we are not badly off, with a house, clothing, food, and firing. These islands are not so much out of the way, but what we are certain to get off some day or other, and in the meantime we have no cause to complain. Let us rather be thankful, and rejoice that we are so well off.’

“I remembered those words of the mate afterwards. It is now my belief that the mate was a God-fearing man, but religion had been so unpopular among those with whom he had sailed, that he was afraid of declaring his opinions, and just went and hid his light under a bushel. What a world of good he might have done us all if he had spoken out manfully! As it was, all that precious time was lost. The mate did speak to me occasionally, but timidly, and I did not understand him. How should I? It was not till long afterwards, as Mr Morgan knows, that I became acquainted with Christianity. Before that I was as a heathen; I knew nothing of Christ, nothing of God. The winter passed away, the spring returned, and the summer drew on, and not a sail had been seen. All hands became anxious to get off, and from early dawn till nightfall the flag was kept flying, and one or more of the party were on the lookout from Flagstaff Hill. At length a sail hove in sight. Nearer and nearer she came. ‘Would our flag be seen?’ was now the question. The wind was off the shore, she tacked, she was beating up towards us. From her white canvas and the length of her yards she was pronounced to be a man-of-war corvette, and her ensign showed us that she was English. Some of the men declared that they would rather live the rest of their days on the island than go on board a man-of-war; but the mate told them that they were very foolish, and that if they did their duty they would be better treated than on board most merchantmen. I shared their fears, for I had heard all sorts of stones about the treatment of men on board men-of-war, which I have since found to be absurdly false. The end was that we all stood ready to receive the boat when she reached the beach. A lieutenant with a midshipman came in her. They were very much surprised to hear that we had been a whole year on shore, observing that we must have saved a good supply of provisions from the wreck. When the mate told them of the wild cattle, and that we could catch some, they begged us to do so, saying that the purser would purchase the meat from us for the ship’s company. They accordingly returned on board, but soon came back with the butcher, and by the next day we had six or eight fine animals ready for them. The officer kindly gave us permission to carry off any of our property which could be stowed away on board. From the considerate treatment the men received, they all volunteered into the service, and I was rated as a ship’s boy, and from that day to this have belonged to the Royal Navy of England. The mate was promised promotion if he would join.

“‘At all events I do not wish to eat the bread of idleness,’ was his answer. ‘I’ll do duty in any station to which I am appointed.’

“The corvette was bound round the Horn, so back again into the Pacific I went. We touched at many places in Chili and Peru, and then stood to the west to visit some of the many islands in those seas. I had been about a year on board when one day an object was seen from the mast-head, which was made out to be a boat.

“There was one man sitting up in her, but three others lay dead under the thwarts. The man was brought on board more dead than alive, and had it not been for the watchful care of our surgeon he could not have long survived. At first he was nothing but skin and bone, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, but when he got some flesh on him I recognised him as one of my shipmates who had deserted us on the Falkland Islands. He had not, it seemed, discovered any of us, and of course in two years I was so grown that he did not know me. So one day, sitting by him, I asked him how it was he came into the plight in which we found him. He told me many circumstances of which I was cognisant, and how the ship was wrecked on the Falklands, and how part of the people had gone off into the interior, and deserted those who wisely remained on the sea-shore. ‘Never mind, they must have got their deserts, and perished,’ he added; and then he told me a ship appearing the day after we left, they had all gone on board. They soon found that the crew had been guilty of some foul deed; the captain and mate had been killed, with some others, and the rest had determined to turn pirates. My shipmate was asked if he would do so. They swore if he did not that he must die. To save his life, he with the rest consented to join them. I will not repeat the account he gave of all the crimes which he and his companions had committed. He said that he had protested against them, and excused himself. From bad they went on to worse, and frequently quarrelling, murdered each other. The end was that this ship was cast away on a reef, one boat only escaping, and of the people in her, after she had been nearly a month drifting over the ocean, he alone survived. We who had been left alone on the Falklands had reason to be thankful that we had not gone off in the pirate ship. Had we done so, who among us could have said that we should have escaped the terrible fate which overtook our shipmates? From the time I learned the Lord’s Prayer, there is no part I have repeated more earnestly than ‘Lead us not into temptation.’ My poor shipmate never completely recovered from the hardships to which he had been exposed; his mind, too, was always haunted with the dreadful scenes he had witnessed, and he often told me that he never could show his face in England, lest he should be recognised by those he had wronged. He died the day before we made the coast of England. The ship was paid off, but I found the naval service so much to my taste, and there was so little on shore to attract me, that I the next day joined another fitting out for the Indian station. After this, I visited in one ship or another most parts of the world. But I think, Doctor Morgan, you and your lady and the young gentlefolks will be getting tired, so I’ll put off an account of my adventures till another evening. One thing I must say now, though. I looked upon it as a blessed day on which I joined the ‘Rover,’ where I met Mister Morgan, and yet there was a day which I have reason to call still more blessed, when we were off the coast of Africa.”

“Well, well, Tom. Don’t talk of that now,” said Frank. “I just did what every Christian man should do. I put the truth before you, and you believed it. I did not put myself to any inconvenience even to serve Tom, while he risked his life to save mine. That was after the ‘Rover’ had come home and been paid off, and we belonged to the ‘Kestrel,’ and were sent out to the Pacific. I had an idea before we went there that we were to find at all times calm seas and sunshine. I soon discovered my mistake. We were caught in a terrific gale when in the neighbourhood of coral islands and reefs. I had gone aloft to shorten sail, when the ship gave an unexpected lurch, and I was sent clean overboard. I felt that I must be lost, for the ship was driving away from me, and darkness was not far off, when I saw that some one had thrown a grating into the sea, and immediately afterwards a man leaped in after it. He was swimming towards me. There seemed a prospect of my being saved. Still, how the man who had thus nobly risked his life for my sake, and I could ever regain the ship, I could not tell. I struck out with all my strength to support myself, and prayed heartily. I soon recognised Tom Holman’s voice, cheering me up. He clutched me by the collar, and aided by him I gained the grating. Two or three spars had been thrown in after it, and, getting hold of them we formed a raft which supported us both. By the time we were seated on it the ship was far away, and it seemed impossible that in the dangerous neighbourhood in which I knew that we were, the captain would venture to return on the mere chance of finding us, should we indeed be alive. Our prospect outwardly was gloomy indeed, though we kept up hope. I was sorry when I thought that we should be lost; that Tom had, as I fancied, thrown away his life for my sake. However, we will not talk of that now. We were drifting, that was certain, and might drift on shore, or we might be driven against a reef, when we must be lost. It was now night, though there was light enough to distinguish the dark white-crested seas rising up around us, and the inky sky overhead. Still we knew that there was the Eye of Love looking down on us through that inky sky, and that though the rest of the world was shut out from us, we were not shut out from Him, without whose knowledge not a sparrow falls to the ground. I say this to you, dear father and mother, because I wish to show my brothers and sisters the effect of your teaching. I wished to live, but I was prepared to die. The water was warm, and as we had had supper just before I fell overboard we were not hungry, so that our physical sufferings were as yet not great. Hour after hour passed by; the raft drove on before the wind and sea. We supposed that it must be near dawn, for it seemed as if we had been two whole nights on the raft, when we both heard the sound of breakers. Our fate would soon thus be decided. As far as we were able, we gazed around when we reached the summit of a sea. There were the breakers; we could see the white foam flying up like a vast waterspout against the leaden sky. We were passing it though, not driving against it. A current was sweeping us on. The dawn broke. As the light increased our eyes fell on a grove of cocoa-nut trees, rising it seemed directly out of the water. The current was driving us near them. We sat up and eagerly watched the shore; we had of ourselves no means of forcing on the raft a point towards it, or in any degree faster than we were going. Had we been driven directly towards it, on the weather side, which, in our eagerness, we might have wished, we should probably have been dashed to pieces; but the current took us round to the lee side, and finally drifted us into a little bay where we safely got on shore. You already know how we lived luxuriously on cocoa-nuts and shell-fish, and about the clear fountain which rushed up out of the rock in the centre of our island, and how our ship came back after some weeks to water at that very fountain, and found us safe and well; and so I will bring my yarn to an end.”

“We cannot be too thankful that you were preserved, my dear boy, when we hear of the terrific dangers to which you and your brave friend were exposed,” exclaimed Dr Morgan. “I will not now speak of our debt to him, never properly to be repaid, but I would point out to you all, my children (what struck me as Frank was speaking), how like the way in which he and Tom were preserved, is that in which God deals with His people who put their trust in Him. We are in an ocean of troubles, with darkness around us. We dimly discern breakers rising up on one side, breakers ahead. We can do nothing to help ourselves, except pray on and trust in Him. We see at length a haven of safety before us. Our eagerness gets the better of our faith, but the current of His mercy drifts round and away from what is really a peril, and we are carried on into calm waters, and find shelter and rest from danger and trouble.”

Note 1. The author has a dear friend, a naval officer, who was, as is here described, the instrument of bringing some of his shipmates to a knowledge and acceptance of the truth; one especially, from being an infidel, became a faithful follower of Christ. His bones lie sepulchred under the eternal snows of the Arctic pole. How consolatory to believe, that amid the fearful sufferings that gallant band was called on to endure, he, with many others—it may be all—were supported by faith and hope to the last. We say all, for we cannot say what influence he and other Christian men may have exerted over their companions during the long, long years they passed in those Arctic regions ere they perished.

Chapter Nine.

Several circumstances had prevented the young Morgans from paying a sufficiently long visit to Old Moggy to enable her to give them her promised history. Jenny reported that she was better in mind and body than she had ever known her, and as the time for Frank and Tom’s departure was drawing near, the whole party resolved to go up to hear her tale. They did not fail to carry a few little luxuries which were likely to please her. They found her as usual, seated before her fire, for even in the summer she seemed to enjoy its warmth, on that bleak hill’s side. What with chairs, benches, and stools, a log of wood, a pile of turf, and a boulder which Charley rolled in, all found seats. Anna had to exercise a little diplomacy to induce Moggy to begin before so formidable an audience. The poor creature was inclined to chide Tom for not having come up oftener to see her, when she discovered that he was going away.

“I took a liking to your face and your manner my son, from the first minute my eyes fell on you; and it would have been a slight thing for ye to have come up and cheered the old woman’s well-nigh withered heart,” she observed, in a more testy tone than she was accustomed to use.

“Well, mother, don’t blame me,” answered Tom. “Many’s the time I’ve come round this way, but feared to intrude, or I would have come in, and I’ll not now miss the chance another time.”

This promise seemed to satisfy Moggy, and after a little hesitation she began.

“Once I was blithe and gay as any of you dear young people. I had a home, and parents, and sisters. There were three of us, as pretty and as merry as any to be found in the country around. We merrily grew up into happy maidens, as merry as could be found, and the glass told us, even if others had been silent, that we were as pretty too. We sang and laughed from morn till night, and, alack, were somewhat thoughtless too; but we were not idle. Our parents had a farm, and we helped our mother in the dairy, and there was plenty of work for us. It was a pleasant life. We were up with the lark and to bed in summer with the sun, and in winter we sat by the fire when the cows were housed and the milk was set in the pans, and all our out-door work was done, and knitted or spun, or plied our needles, and chatted and sung; and guests came in, and some of them came to woo; and we thought not of the morrow, and taught ourselves to believe that the pleasant life we led would never have an end. Ah! we were foolish—like the foolish virgins who had no oil for their lamps, as all are foolish who think only of the present, and prepare not for the future. Bad times were in store for us, such as all farmers must be ready to encounter. Storms injured the crops, and disease attacked our cattle; a fire broke out in the farm buildings; and the end was that father had to throw up the farm, to sell his remaining stock, and to go forth almost penniless into the world. Barely enough remained to pay our passage to America. I was about to go with the rest of my family, when one I had loved right well, an honest, steady youth, entreated me to remain. He might soon have enough to wed. He had a sick mother whom he could not leave, or he would have gone with us. If I went we might never meet again. I consented to remain, so that I could obtain service in which to support myself. A kind, good mistress engaged me. She was more than kind, she was wise; not worldly wise, but her wisdom was from above. She taught me that wisdom. By her means my eyes were opened to things about which I before knew nothing. I saw that God had dealt mercifully with me; that what I thought was a misfortune was a blessing. I was thus led out of darkness into light. I was happy, with a new happiness of which I before knew nothing. My intended husband enjoyed it likewise; we both embraced the truth—my only sorrow being that those who had gone away knew nothing of it. Thomas lived at a distance, but whenever he could he came over to see me. My kind, good mistress often spoke to him, and approved of my choice. Time wore on. We waited to hear of those who had crossed the sea. Sad tidings came at length. My mother had died on the voyage. My father, heart-broken, and my sisters had landed and found a home, but they missed her who had been their guide and their friend; and they wanted me to go out and join them, and some cousins who lived a few miles off from where I was at service, and Thomas also, if he would marry me. I told my kind mistress.

“‘If Thomas loves you, and will take you to that foreign land, I will not say you nay,’ was her reply.

“She gave me leave to go and deliver the message to my cousins, charging me soon to return. My cousins were not averse to my sister’s proposal, and talked with pleasure of the many kindred who would meet in that far-off settlement, for far off it seemed to them. On my return I found the front door of my mistress’s house closed. I went round and gained an entrance through a window at the back. What was my horror to find her bathed in blood, fallen from the arm-chair in which she sat before the fire. I kneeled down to examine where she had been hurt, and was about to raise her up when the door was burst open; some men rushed in; I was seized. No one aided my dear mistress. A surgeon at length came. He pronounced her dead. These cruel men had allowed her to die unaided. I was accused of being her murderess. My horror, my indignation, at the way she had been treated, my grief, my agitation, impressed them with the conviction that I was guilty of the foul crime which had been committed; for murdered she had been, of that there was no doubt. Branded as a murderess I was borne off to prison. Many thought me guilty. It was cruelly said that I was found red-handed by the side of my victim. But even in prison I sought support, and obtained it whence alone it was to be afforded. As King David, I could say, ‘I have washed my hands in innocency. I cried unto the Lord and He heard me.’ Oh, my young friends, keep innocency. Do what is right in the sight of the Lord, and never need you fear what man can do unto you. There was one, however, on earth who knew me to be innocent—my Thomas. He obtained leave to visit me in prison, obtained the best legal aid by the sacrifice of his savings, and the evidence against me broke completely down. I was acquitted. I scarcely knew how, or what occurred. I entreated Thomas to let me become his wife, that I might repay him by devoting my life to his service. We married; we were happy; and by watchful care I was enabled to make his wages go farther than before his marriage. More than a year had passed away; we had a child born, a son. We believed that he would prove a blessing to us. Some few more years had fled by. Again and again my sisters urged that we would go out to join them. At length they were both about to marry, and our father would be left alone. Thomas agreed to go. I thought with delight of showing my young son to my father, of assisting and supporting him in his old age, and more than all, of imparting to him those blessed truths which I myself had found such a comfort to my soul. We sailed in as fine a ship as ever put to sea, with many others about to seek their fortunes in the New World; but scarcely had we left the shores of England a hundred leagues astern than we encountered a fearful gale, which washed away the bulwarks and some of our boats, strained the hull, and shattered our masts and spars. It was but the beginning of disasters. But, dear young people, I cannot dwell on that most grievous period of my existence. The storm had injured our provisions. After the storm came a calm, more dreadful than the storm; our water began to run short. Did any of you ever feel the pangs of thirst? Day after day our shattered bark lay rolling on the burning ocean. There was the constant gush of water to tantalise us, for by undiscovered leaks the sea had found an entrance, and in every watch the pumps were kept at work. We were thankful when a breeze came, and once more the ship moved across the ocean; but the breeze increased into a gale more fearful than the first. On, on we drove; the leaks again increased. Day and night the men were kept toiling at the pumps; my husband worked like the rest. In vain, in vain; they could work no longer; the water was gaining on us; the raging seas were washing over our decks. The strength of the men was exhausted. Some of the women offered to try and work the pumps. The night was coming on. I resolved to labour, that I might aid to save my husband’s life, our boy’s, my own.

“My boy had clung to me. I gave him, so I thought, to his father, to watch over, while I laboured like the rest. Would you hear what occurred? My heart has grown into stone, or I could not bear to tell it. The raging seas broke more and more frequently over the ship. The dreadful cry arose, ‘The ship is sinking, the ship is sinking!’ I flew towards my husband—my child was not with him. He had not received him from me. Frantically I rushed along the deck; it was with no hope of safety, but to die with my boy in my arms. Once more I was approaching my husband; a flash of lightning revealed him to me at the moment that a vast sea came sweeping down on the ship. It seized him in its cruel embrace, and bore him far, far away, with many other helpless, shrieking beings. Thankfully would I have followed, but I sought my boy. In vain, in vain! I felt myself seized by a strong arm, and lifted into a boat. I lost all consciousness for the next instant, it seemed. I found the boat floating alone amid the tumultuous waves. My husband and my boy were gone. They said there were other boats, and that some might have been saved in them. I know not if any were saved. Neither my husband nor our child did I ever again see; the cold, cruel waves had claimed them. For many days we lay tossed about on the foaming waters. We were more dead than alive when a sail appeared in sight. How I lived I know not; it was, I believe, because all my feelings were dead. I felt nothing, thought of nothing; I was in a dream, a cold, heavy weight lay on my heart and brain. I knew not what was going on; the past was a blank, the future was darkness. We were lifted on board—carefully tended. The ship was bound, with settlers, to the same port to which I was going. Those who had been saved with me told my story. Some of the passengers were going to the far-off West, to the very spot where my father and sisters had settled. Their hearts were touched with compassion by my misfortunes, and they bore me with them. Truly they were followers of the good Samaritan. Day after day we journeyed on towards the setting sun. At length we reached my father’s house; he and my sisters scarcely knew me, so great was the havoc grief had wrought. Kind and gentle treatment by degrees thawed my long frozen faculties, and I began to take an interest in the affairs of the farm. In that region the native tribes, the red men of the prairie, were fierce and warlike, and often were engaged in deadly contests with the whites. Years—many years, passed by, during which our people enjoyed peace. A storm, however, was brewing, to burst with fury on our heads. It came; in the dead of night the dreadful war-whoop of the red men was heard. On every side arose those horrid cries. Our village was surrounded; young and old, men and maidens, were ruthlessly murdered. My old father and sisters were among the first slain. Some few bravely made a stand. They fought their way out through the savages. I felt my arm seized by some friendly hand, and was borne on amid them. Armed friends came to our assistance, and the savages were driven back through the smoking ruins of our home. All, all were gone; relatives, friends, and property. Those who had accompanied me to the country, all, all were gone. I was among strangers; they pitied me, but pity cannot last long in the human breast. There is only One whose tender pity never wanes; and it is only that human pity which arises from love of Him which can stand all tests, and can endure for ever. I was left alone, alone in that far-off land. My reason gave way. An idea had seized me—it was to visit that mighty ocean beneath which slept my husband and my child. I wandered on. I know not how I found my way, often through vast solitudes where foot of man but rarely trod, till I reached the more settled states. Food and shelter were rarely denied to the poor mad woman, though of the roughest sort. At length I reached the eastern cities; scant was the charity I found within them, I gained the sea-coast; I gazed upon the ocean, with its majestic billows rolling up from the far-off east. They seemed to me like mighty monuments raised to the memory of those who slept beneath. For many years I had lived on that wild sea waste, when I was seized and carried to a prison. I demanded to know my crime. I heard myself branded as a pauper lunatic, and was placed on board a ship to be returned to my native land. Sad, sad was my heart. I had many companions in my misery—helpless beings whom the strong new world would not receive. We were placed on shore to starve, or live as best we could. I wandered on towards the spot where long, long years before, I had lived a happy maiden. No one knew me; I was branded as a witch, and fled away. Should I go to the relatives of my husband? Thomas had spoken of them as kind and charitable. I reached the village; every one looked at me with suspicion as a vagrant. Well they might, for a vagrant I was, poor, wretched, and despised. I had been there in my happy days with Thomas; but the place itself looked strange. I inquired for his father, Farmer Holman. ‘Dead many a year ago; all the rest gone away; never held up his head since his son went off with that jade who murdered her mistress.’ Such was the answer I received. The words fell like molten lead upon my brain. I fled away. I wandered on, not knowing whither I was going, till I reached these sheltering walls on the mountain-side.”

Tom had been greatly agitated on hearing the name of Holman. Frank and Anna had exchanged surprised glances with each other.

“Dame, do you remember the name of Jack Johnson on board the ship which foundered with so many on board?” asked Tom.

“Ay, that I do. He was one who took a great fancy to my precious boy,” answered Moggy, gazing earnestly at Tom.

“It is strange, mother, but such was the name of a kind seaman who for many years acted as a second father to me; and still stranger, that he always called me Tom Holman,” exclaimed Tom, as he sat himself down on the stool at her feet, and drawing a tin case from his pocket, took from it a variety of small articles, which he placed in her lap.

She gazed at them with a fixed, earnest look for some moments, and then, stretching out her arms, she exclaimed, “Come to me, my son, my boy—long lost, now found! I cried unto the Lord, and He heard me out of my deep distress. You bear your father’s name, you have your father’s looks. Wonderful are the ways of the Lord. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. The Lord hath restored me tenfold into my bosom. Blessed be the Name of the Lord!”

Tom threw his arms round the old woman, and sobbed like a child.

“Mother, mother, I have found you, I have found you!” he cried out, as he kissed her withered cheek.

What mattered it to him that she was aged and infirm, poor and despised? She was his mother, of whom he had dreamed in his youth whom he had always longed to find. He would now devote himself to cherish and support her, and cheer her few remaining days on earth.

“My dear children,” said Dr Morgan, who had entered soon after Moggy had begun her history, “let us learn, from what we have heard, never to cease to put our whole trust and confidence in God. Whatever happens, let us go on praying to God and trusting in God, for let us be assured that He always careth for us.”

The End.

W H G Kingston

"The Mate of the Lily"

Chapter One.

Jack Radburn, mate of the “Lily,” was as prime a seaman as ever broke biscuit. Brave, generous, and true, so said all the crew, as did also Captain Haiselden, with whom he had sailed since he had first been to sea. Yet so modest and gentle was he on shore that, in spite of his broad shoulders and sun-burnt brow, landsmen were apt to declare that “butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”

A finer brig than the “Lily” never sailed from the port of London. Well built and well found—many a successful voyage had she made to far distant seas. Jack Radburn might have got command of a larger craft, but Captain Haiselden, who had nursed him through a fever caught on the coast of Africa, and whose life on another occasion he had saved, thus closely cementing their friendship, begged him to remain with him for yet another voyage, likely to be the most adventurous they had ever yet undertaken.

Jack Radburn, who was my uncle, stayed when on shore—not often many weeks together—with his sister, Mrs Musgrave, my mother.

Though he was my uncle, I have spoken of him as Jack Radburn, mate of the “Lily,” as did everybody else; indeed, he was, I may say, as well known as the captain himself. My mother, who was the daughter of a clergyman long since dead, had not many acquaintances. She had been left by my grandfather with little or nothing to depend upon, when her brother introduced to her my father, then first mate of the ship to which he belonged.

Her greatest friend was Grace Bingley, who lived with her mother, wife of a ship-master, a few doors off from us.

Uncle Jack had consequently seen much of Grace Bingley, and had given her the whole of his warm honest heart, nor was it surprising that he had received hers in return, and pretty tightly he held it too. Even my mother acknowledged that she was worthy of him, for a sweeter or more right-minded girl was not, far or near, to be found.

Some four years before the time of which I am now speaking, my father sailed in command of a fine ship, the “Amphion,” for the Eastern seas. The time we had expected him to return had long passed away. My mother did not, however, give up all expectation of seeing him, but day after day and week after week we looked for him in vain. The owners at last wrote word that they feared the ship had been lost in a typhoon, but yet it was possible that she might have been cast away on some uninhabited island from whence the crew could not effect their escape. My mother therefore still hoped on and endeavoured to eke out her means so as to retain her house that my father might find a home should he return.

I was setting off with Uncle Jack for the “Lily,” which was undergoing a thorough repair, and he seldom failed to pay her one or two visits in the day to see how things were going on, when two seamen came rolling up the street towards us in sailor fashion, and looking, it seemed to me, as if they had been drinking, though they may not have been exactly drunk. As they approached one nudged the other, and, looking at Uncle Jack, exchanged a few words.

They would have passed us, when he, having noticed this, hailed them—

“What cheer, my hearties, have we ever sailed together?”

“Can’t say exactly, sir, for we’ve knocked about at sea so long that it’s hard to mind all the officers we’ve served under. But now I looks at you, sir, I think you used to come aboard the ‘Amphion’ before she left Old England. We heard say you were the captain’s brother.”

“The ‘Amphion!’” exclaimed Uncle Jack, eagerly, looking hard at the men. “Can you give me any news of her?”

“Aye, sir, but it’s bad news.”

“Out with it, whatever it is,” exclaimed Uncle Jack, fixing his eyes on the man, to judge whether he spoke the truth.

“It’s a matter of over four years gone by when we sailed for the Eastern seas. We had been knocking about in them parts for some months, when we were caught in a regular hurricane, which carried away our topmasts and mainyard, and did other damage. At the same time we sprang a leak, and had to keep the pumps going without a moment’s rest. When night came on, and a terrible dark night it was, sir, matters grew worse and worse, not a hope but that the ship would go down, though we well-nigh worked our arms off to keep her afloat. Howsomedever before long, she struck on a reef, though she hadn’t been thrashing away on it three minutes when she drove off, and the water came rushing in like a mill stream. ‘Out boats,’ was the cry. Bill here and I, with three others, got into the jolly-boat, but before another soul could spring aboard her she drifted away from the ship. We felt about, and found a lugsail and an oar. To go back was more than we could do, and it’s our belief that scarcely had we left her than the ship went down. As our only chance of keeping the boat afloat was to run before the sea, we stepped the mast and set the lug close reefed, hoping to come upon some land or other. When morning broke no land was in sight. We thought we saw what looked like it far away on the starboard quarter, but we could only go where the wind drove us. Three days we scudded on without a drop of water or bit of food to put into our mouths. I speaks the truth, Bill, don’t I?”

“Ay, ay!” said Bill, looking as if he did not even like to think of that time; “you does, mate.”

“Go on,” said Uncle Jack.

“Well, first one went mad and jumped overboard, then another died, then another, and I thought that Bill would die too, when down came a shower, and with the help of our sail we filled an empty breaker which we had in the boat. Then we knocked down a bird which came near us, and that gave us a little more strength. Then three flying-fish came aboard, which kept us for three days more, and after that we caught a small shark, but the water came to an end, and we were both so well-nigh done for that neither Bill nor I could hold an oar to steer by, nor knew where we were going—I speaks the truth, don’t I, Bill?”

“I suppose you does, but I don’t mind much what happened then. I was too bad,” said Bill.

“Well, as I was a-saying, I thought it was all over with us, when a ship hove in sight and took us aboard. She was a foreign craft, and not a word of what her people said could we make out, any more than they could understand us. We were not over well treated, so we ran from her the first place we touched at; and after knocking about for a long spell in them South Sea islands among the savages, in one craft or another, we got home at last. What I’ve told you is the blessed truth; ain’t it, Bill?”

Bill grunted his assent to this assertion; he evidently was not a man of words.

My uncle cross-questioned the men, but could get nothing more out of either of them. Whether or not he was perfectly satisfied I could not tell. Still it seemed too probable that the “Amphion,” with my father and all hands, was lost.

Having lodged the seamen so as to find them again, my uncle returned with me to my mother. She was prepared for the information he had to give her. She had for some time been persuaded of what everybody else believed, that my father was lost, and she now knew herself to be a widow. It was a severe shock to her notwithstanding. She looked at me and my five brothers and sisters, all younger than I was.

“What shall I do with these fatherless children?” she asked, while her eyes filled with tears, thinking more of us than of herself; “my means are almost exhausted, for my dear husband saved but little, and I shall not have the wherewithall to pay the rent of this house, much less their food and clothing.”

“God has promised to provide for the fatherless and widows,” answered Uncle Jack; “while I have a shilling in my pocket it shall be yours, Mary. Harry, too, is able to support himself. We’ll take him aboard the ‘Lily,’ and soon make a prime seaman of him.”

My mother looked at me, grieving at the thought that I must so soon be taken from her. Then other thoughts came into her mind.

“But you, my dear Jack, require all the means you possess for yourself. Grace has promised to become yours whenever you desire it.”

“I know that,” answered Uncle Jack. “I prize her love, but we are both young and can wait, and true as mine is for her it must not overcome my duty to you and yours. Captain Haiselden talks of some day going to live on shore, when he will give up charge of the ‘Lily’ to me, or I may obtain a larger craft and shall make enough for Grace, and you, and myself, I hope. At all events, my dear sister, you and the children must not starve, and we shall have Harry here making his fortune. So cheer up, Mary, and trust in God.”

“I do, Jack, I do,” she answered, taking his hands, while the tears still flowed down her pale cheeks. “Harry will do his duty, I know, and some day be able to help me, and I must try to do what I can for myself, though I fear it will be but little.”

“You have friends who will be glad to lend you a helping hand,” said Uncle Jack, who judged of others by himself. “We may have, I trust, a successful voyage, and all will go well, Mary.”

Much more he said to the same effect. My mother appeared comforted, at all events she grew calm, and as Captain Haiselden consented to take me on board as an apprentice, she set herself busily to work to prepare my outfit, while my sister Mary, who was next to me, and my two younger brothers were sent to school, and Grace Bingley came in every day to assist her in her task.

How industriously Grace sat working away with her needle, every now and then jumping up to prevent Frank or Sally from getting into mischief! Some of the larger garments were certainly not for me. My mother had promised to overhaul Uncle Jack’s wardrobe and supply what was wanting, according to a list he gave her. I should like to describe Grace as she sat in the bay window opposite my mother with the work-table near them, but it will suffice to say that she was young, fair, and pretty, with eyes that seemed to have borrowed their colour from the sky. My mother had assumed the widow’s cap, and might from her clear complexion, and her brown hair braided across her brow, have been taken for Grace’s elder sister. Though the heart of Grace must have been sad enough I suspect, she talked cheerfully, endeavouring to distract my mother’s mind from the thoughts of the past as well as the approaching parting from me. I came in occasionally and found the two sitting as I have described, but I was generally on board the brig with Uncle Jack, assisting in fitting her out, and thus got initiated into many of my duties before I ever went to sea. The captain often came on board during the evening to see how we were getting on, but during the day he was mostly engaged in looking out for freight in addition to the cargo he intended to ship on his own account. He was just the man the crew were willing to serve under, his countenance exhibiting sense and determination, and a kindly spirit beaming from his eyes; his hair grizzled rather by weather than by years; his figure, of moderate height, broad and well knit, betokening strength and activity.

We were to sail for Singapore, after which we were to proceed eastward to trade with the various islands in that direction.

We expected to have the “Lily” ready for sea in about a week, when just before this time Captain Bingley, who had been long absent in command of the ship “Iris” of some four hundred tons, returned home. I was at my mother’s one evening when Uncle Jack, with Grace Bingley, came in. She looked, I thought, somewhat out of spirits. My mother thought so too, and asked her the cause. She hesitated for a moment as if to master her feelings, and then said—

“It is, I have no doubt, for the best, and father wishes it. Mother and I are to accompany him on his next voyage round Cape Horn and up the western coast of America, then across the Pacific to Java, and so round the world. I cannot refuse to go, and of course we should both like to see strange lands, as well as being with father, but I had hoped to be able to remain with you, Mary, and you know how happy I should have been in doing so.”

My poor mother looked much distressed. “Of course, if your father wishes you to go you have no choice, but I shall miss you greatly.” She could scarcely restrain her tears as she spoke.

Uncle Jack became very grave as he heard what Grace said.

“You sail round the world! Has your father positively determined on this?” he asked.

I guessed his thoughts; he was ready enough to encounter all the risks and perils of the sea himself, but he was very unwilling that Grace should be exposed to them. What if the ship should be wrecked! What if sickness should break out on board, or a mutiny occur, or should she be captured by an enemy! He dreaded dangers for Grace which he did not take into a moment’s consideration in regard to himself, but he strove not to allow her to perceive his anxiety.

“Father is not a person, as you well know, to be turned from his purpose,” she answered, trying to smile. “Mother has promised to go, and I cannot let her go without me. She or father might fall ill, for he is not so strong as he was, and I ought to be ready to nurse them, and I hope, my dear Jack, that we shall be back as soon as you are, though my chief anxiety is leaving Mary; and Harry also away. Perhaps, too, we may meet; my father doesn’t know exactly where we shall go after we leave the China seas; it must depend upon the freight obtained.”

“It is a wide region, and I was hoping that I could picture you when I was away, safe at home,” answered Uncle Jack, but he refrained from saying more. He was unwilling to create any anxiety in Grace’s mind. He certainly, however, looked more distressed than any of the party.

After this Grace could be less at our house than usual, as she had to help her mother in preparing for their voyage. The “Iris,” she told us, was to be got ready for sea with all despatch. Uncle Jack and I one evening went on board to have a look at the ship that, as he observed, he might at least know what sort of a craft Grace was sailing in. The cabins were comfortably fitted up and well suited for the accommodation of the captain’s wife and daughter, as well as for a few other passengers. I asked him what he thought of the ship.

“She’s a fine enough vessel, but I can judge better of her if she were loaded, and I should like to know what sort of a crew she has,” he answered. “Captain Bingley is a good seaman, and I respect him as Grace’s father; but he wants to make money, and he may be tempted to overload his ship, or visit dangerous places to obtain freight.”

I did not see the parting between Uncle Jack and Grace, as I went on board the “Lily” the night before we sailed. I had already wished good-bye to my dear mother and all the young ones, and as she had to look after them, she could not come to see us off. I know very well what she must have felt, and I heartily wished, when the moment came for leaving, that I could have remained to comfort and protect her. My going away must have brought back to her recollection with painful vividness the time when my kind father last sailed I suspect she thought that she might never see me again; still she knew that I must work for my livelihood, as I did myself, and I was going to begin the profession I had chosen, and for which I had long had a desire. For dangers and hardships I was ready, fully persuaded that, though I might encounter, I should get through them.

We were at sea at last, running down channel with a fair wind. Uncle Jack had had no difficulty in obtaining a good crew, for when he could find them, he picked up old shipmates, who were always glad to sail with him. He had promised Timothy Howlett and Bill Trinder to look them up, and they, having spent the last shilling in their pockets, were glad to ship on board, he hoping that they having been before in those seas might be useful. James Ling was second mate and Sam Crowfoot boatswain, making up the complement of our officers, besides which there was our supercargo, Edward Blyth, a young but very intelligent man, who had already made a voyage to the Eastern seas, understood Dutch as well as the Malay languages, and was thus able to act as interpreter at many of the places where we were going. He was well informed on many subjects also, and possessed a good knowledge of natural history. I must not forget “Little Jem,” the smallest boy on board. Instead of being knocked about and bullied, he was somewhat of a favourite among the men, with whom, however, he was pretty free and easy in his way of talking; but they liked him all the better for that. To the officers he was always respectful, well-mannered, and, being very intelligent and active, was consequently a favourite with them.

We had on board four carronades and a long gun, as where we were going it was necessary to have the means of defence, but they were stowed below during the first part of the voyage. We had also a supply of cutlasses, pistols, and boarding pikes for all hands, which ornamented the fore bulk head of the main cabin, though occasionally taken down to be cleaned and polished, so that they might be of use when wanted.

Uncle Jack took great pains to teach me navigation, and, as I had learnt mathematics at school, I was soon able to take a good observation with my sextant and to work out the calculations correctly. A knowledge of seamanship I found was not to be obtained so rapidly, though Crowfoot, the boatswain, was always ready to give me instruction and express his opinion how a vessel ought to be handled under all possible circumstances, but a large amount of presence of mind, and what may be called invention, has to be exercised on numerous occasions, for which no rules can be laid down.

“Now, Harry, you see wits is what a sailor wants. You’ve got learning, and with learning you can pick up navigation pretty smartly. I haven’t got the learning, and so I can’t get a mate’s certificate; but I’ve got the wits and have been many a long year at sea, and so I am fit for a boatswain, and can take charge of a watch with any man,” he remarked.

The wind favouring us after we left the chops of the channel, we ran into the north-east trades, which took us to within two or three degrees of the equator; and after that we had the calms and heavy rains which are invariably met with, and were sometimes wet to the skin, at others roasted in the hot sun. No one suffered, however, and after getting out of them, we picked up a fine south-east trade wind. This carried us down to twenty-six degrees south. The meridian of the Cape was passed about the fiftieth day after leaving the Lizard. We ran down our easting on parallel forty south. The brig was going about eight knots before the wind, when one morning there was a cry of “Man overboard!”

Uncle Jack, who had been below, sprang up the companion-ladder, and, looking over the side, saw that it was little Jem, who had fallen from the fore yardarm. Ordering all hands to brace up the yards and the man at the wheel to put down the helm, while he threw off his jacket, he leaped overboard and struck out for the boy.

“Heave a grating here!” he shouted. “Harry, don’t come,” and I, who was on the point of following, did as he directed.

The captain was on deck a moment afterwards and made ready to lower the lee quarter boat. Every one on board, as may be supposed, was busy pulling and hauling and bracing up the yards and backing the main topsail, so that there was no time to see what had become of the first mate and boy, but the captain had his eye upon them. It was sharp work, for we knew the lives of our fellow-creatures depended upon our exertions. I wished that I had possessed the strength of two men. As soon as the brig was hove to, I took one glance to windward. I thought I saw Uncle Jack and the boy, but I also saw what filled me with alarm, a huge albatross flying above, apparently about to swoop down upon them. It was but a glance, for I sprang over to the other side to jump into the boat, eager to be among those going to save them. The second mate was already in the boat, three other hands following. As soon as we got under the stern of the brig, we saw the captain standing aft, pointing in the direction we were to steer. The second mate, I thought, appeared very cool.

“Give way, lads,” he shouted. “We shall be up to them before that bird strikes either of them on the head, for it seems that is what he is trying to do.”

A long rolling sea was running, and only when we were at the top of a wave were those ahead of us visible to the mate, who stood up every now and then the better to watch them.

“There’s that bird making another swoop!” he exclaimed, and soon afterwards he cried out, “He has risen again. Give way, lads! He may not have struck both.”

I did give way as may be supposed. If one had been struck, might it not have been Uncle Jack!

“He has hold of the grating at last!” cried the mate. “I see him waving his hand. There comes the bird again!”

Once more my heart sank within me. I could not turn round to look, or I might have missed my stroke. The boat seemed to be making but fearfully slow progress as I watched the brig rising to the seas, and as she pitched into them, throwing the spray over her bows. There stood the captain pointing with his hand, as if to encourage us to persevere. On and on we pulled, I expecting every moment to hear the mate exclaim that the albatross had made a fatal swoop. At last I heard a voice, though a very weak one, cry, “Take the boy in first.”

I knew it was that of Uncle Jack; I saw him lift little Jem up while he held on to the gunwale. The two men in the bow then hauled him in, and next the grating on which he had supported himself.

Uncle Jack sank down utterly exhausted. We passed the boy aft. He seemed to be dead. We then dragged the first mate into the stern-sheets, but could not attend to him, for we were compelled to keep our oars going to get the boat round as soon as possible. Uncle Jack lay without moving. I saw that one of his shoes was off. He presently came to. His first thought was for the boy, whose hands and chest he began to chafe as well as his weakness would allow.

The second mate, I thought, might have spared a hand to help him, but he looked on, it seemed to me, with indifference, jealous that the first mate should have behaved so gallantly, or—although I tried to put the thought from me—angry that he had escaped. We pulled away until rounding the stern of the brig, we got alongside, when a cheer burst from the crew as they saw that we had the first mate and little Jem safe. Eager hands stood by to lift them or board, for even Uncle Jack was still too weak to help himself. While the boat was being hoisted up the captain directed Mr Blyth and me to carry the boy into his own cabin, he and two of the men following with the first mate, who was placed in his own berth. We, in the meantime, had got the boy’s clothes off him and had wrapped him up in a dry blanket, while we kept chafing his chest, arms, and feet until he breathed freely. He soon returned to consciousness, and looking about him was much surprised to find where he was.

“Where’s Mr Radburn? Oh, sir, have you got him safe?” was his first question.

He is all right, my lad.

“It’s that bird, sir; it’s that bird, sir! Oh, save me from it!” he continued crying out.

“The bird won’t hurt you, and Mr Radburn is safe in his cabin, I hope,” answered Mr Blyth, in a kind voice.

As soon as I could I went to see how the first mate was getting on. He had swallowed a cup of hot tea, for we were just going to breakfast, and this had greatly restored him; and though the captain had advised him to be still, he was putting on his dry clothes, and in a short time joined us at table.

Uncle Jack said that he had felt the tips of the bird’s wing pass over his head each time that it swooped down, but that he had taken off his shoe and attempted to defend himself, until the bird had seized upon it and carried it off. “It will find the shoe a tough morsel to digest,” he added, laughing; “but truly I have reason to thank God that it did not strike either little Jem or me with its sharp beak, and I was so exhausted that if the boat hadn’t come up when she did, I should have been unable to keep him longer at bay.”

Either Mr Blyth or I stayed by “Little Jem” all day, the captain and first mate every now and then looking in. By night he was well enough to be removed to his own berth forward, where the men promised to look after him.

The captain and Mr Blyth complimented the first mate on his gallant conduct, but he seemed to think he had done nothing out of the way.

“There is one thing a man should consider before he jumps overboard, and that is, whether there is too much sea on to allow of a boat being lowered, for if there is he will not only lose his own life, but cause the loss of others,” observed the captain. “It is a hard matter, however, to lay down a rule. Still it is very certain that we should do our best to save the lives of our fellow-creatures.”

We once sighted an island, which I believe was one of the Crozet group. In rather over three months we entered the Straits of Sunda, when, as we were approaching shores the inhabitants of which were addicted to piracy, we got up our guns from the hold and mounted them, and overhauled our firearms. Before long we had a good chance of requiring them, for when running through the Straits of Banca, between that island and Sumatra—while nearly becalmed—we made out three large prahus full of people, pulling towards us. Whether their intentions were friendly or the reverse we could not ascertain, but we certainly did not like their looks; a breeze, however, sprang up and we stood on our course. Soon afterwards we came in sight of the fine town of Singapore, founded in 1819 by Sir Stamford Raffles, who made it a free port. At that period a wretched village stood on its site, the neighbouring harbour being the rendezvous only of a few trading prahus. It is now a magnificent city, and upwards of a thousand square-rigged vessels anchor annually in the roads. On the hills beyond it can be seen the residences of the merchants, surrounded by plantations of spice-trees, while excellent roads with bridges over the streams run in all directions.

Besides English churches and chapels, there are Chinese Joss houses, Hindoo temples, and Mohammedan mosques, while large numbers of Chinese and Malay cottages form the suburbs. The Chinese are here seen in considerable numbers, being the most industrious part of the population, and include many wealthy merchants. There are Klings from Western India; Arabs, chiefly shop-keepers; Parsee merchants; Bengalese, mostly grooms and washmen; Japanese sailors, many of whom are also domestic servants; Portuguese clerks, and traders from Celebes, Boli, and other islands of the vast archipelago.

Having discharged part of our cargo, we took on board such articles as we heard were in demand among the natives with whom we hoped to open up a trade. In the interval Mr Blyth proposed that he and I should make a trip into the interior. We could not, however, go far, for the island is only about twenty-seven miles in length and eleven in breadth. We were particularly warned not to venture into the forest, as we should run a great risk of being carried off by tigers, large numbers of which infest the jungles, and, it is said, kill a Chinaman a day, they being the chief workers in the plantations. The captain gave me leave to accompany the supercargo, and we hired two small Timor ponies for our excursion. We had not got far when we met a party of men carrying between them the skin of a large tiger, propped up on a sort of platform formed of bamboos, looking very fierce, with its mouth open and tail on end. They were on their way to the government office to receive the reward given for every animal killed, just as payment was made in former years in England for the head of each wolf put out of existence. The animal had been caught in a pit covered over with sticks and leaves, the usual mode in which they are trapped. We kept a sharp look-out, with our pistols ready to shoot a tiger should one attack us. We heard several roars, and a huge beast crossed the road in front of us. After this we did not feel altogether comfortable, expecting every moment that it would spring out from the jungle and carry off one or both of us.

We returned to the city, however, without an actual encounter. I cannot stop further to describe this interesting place. In a few days we sailed for George Town on the eastern side of the island of Penang, the seat of Government of the British possessions in the Straits of Malacca, Penang is larger than Singapore, a considerable portion being rocky, and those most industrious of mortals, the Chinese, form the chief part of the population. After discharging the cargo we had brought from England for this place, we again sailed, steering through the straits of Singapore for the eastward.

Chapter Two.

We were bound for Kuching, the capital town of the province of Sarawak in Borneo, where Mr Brooke, who went out in 1839 in his yacht the “Royalist,” had, by his judgment and intrepidity, established a thriving community, of which he had been appointed the chief or rajah. The captain and supercargo had mapped out our future course. This was to be along the north coast of Borneo, through the Sooloo archipelago, across the sea of Celebes to the coast of Papua, and thence through the Banda sea to Timor, whence we were to return home along the southern coast of Java. It took two days to get up to Kuching, the capital of the province of Sarawak, after we had entered the mouth of the river on the banks of which it stands. On either side were hills covered with jungle, with here and there clearings where the peaceably-disposed natives had established themselves.

Mr Blyth and I had an opportunity, in company with a gentleman who was making a shooting expedition, of taking a trip into the interior. I wish that I could describe the magnificent vegetation, the gigantic trees, and the curious animals we saw. One of the most curious was the mias. What is a mias? will be asked. It is the native name of the far-famed ourang-outang, the principal wild inhabitants of this region. We were proceeding through the forest, with our guns, when one of our Dyak companions came running up to tell us that he had seen a mias, and that if we made haste we might be in time to shoot it.

We hurried on, the Dyak leading the way, until we entered a thick jungle. He pointed to a tree far above our heads. Upon looking up we saw a great hairy body and a huge black face gazing down upon us, as if wondering what strange creatures we could be. Mr Blyth and our friend fired; whether they had hit the mias we could not tell, but it began to move away among the higher branches at a rapid rate. Led by the Dyak we followed, when again we caught sight of it on the branch of a tree, where it remained for a minute or more. By this time we were joined by several other Dyaks, whose shouts appeared to frighten the ourang-outang, which tried to get along the edge of the forest by some lower trees, keeping, however, beyond the reach of our rifles. The Dyaks, flourishing their weapons, rushed on ahead of us hoping to have the honour of killing the monster. We had lost sight of them for a few seconds, when we heard fearful shrieks and shouts, and running forward, we saw that the mias had either voluntarily descended the tree, or had fallen to the ground, and had rushed at one of the natives, who, unable to escape, was standing with his spear ready to defend himself. We were afraid in attempting to kill the mias that we might shoot the native, when, just as the creature was about to seize the man with its mouth and formidable claws, our friend fired and the animal fell, shot through the heart.

On measuring the mias, from the top of its head to its heel, we found that it was four feet two inches long, while its outstretched arms measured seven feet three inches across. Its head and body were of the size of a man’s, the legs being very short in proportion. This mias was of the larger species, many being under four feet high, and some of the females not more than three feet six inches.

We saw a frog, with large web feet and inflated body, fly from the top of a tall tree. It was about four inches long, the back and limbs of a shining black hue, with yellow beneath. Our friend had promised us a rich treat at supper, and he produced a fruit which he told us was the Durian. It was of the size of a large cocoa-nut, the husk of a green colour, and covered all over with short stout spines. It grows on a lofty tree, somewhat resembling the elm. It falls immediately it is ripe; but the outer rind is so tough that it is never broken by the fall. There are marks which show where it may be divided into five portions; these are of a satin whiteness, and each one is filled with an oval mass of cream-coloured pulp, in which are two or three seeds about the size of chestnuts. This pulp is the eatable part. Its consistency is that of a rich custard. As to describing its taste, that is more than I can do. It is not acid, nor is it sweet, nor juicy, but yet, as we ate it, we agreed that none of these qualities were wanting, and that it was the most delicious fruit we had ever met with. The Mangosteen, which comes to perfection in Borneo, is another splendid fruit of a sub-acid flavour, better known than the Durian. But I must not stop to give long descriptions either of the animals or fruits we met with. Blyth and I had to return, as we could not long be absent from the brig.

Often had the now smiling plantations through which we passed been plundered by blood-thirsty pirates, and the heads of their inhabitants carried off. A visitor on board gave us dreadful accounts of the atrocities committed by the pirates in the seas through which we were to sail.

“We will show them that they had better not attack us,” observed Captain Haiselden, pointing to our guns. “The ‘Lily’ is a match for all their fleets put together.”

“Not if the ‘Lily’ is caught at anchor or in a calm; you may then find that they are too much for her,” was the answer. “These prahus often carry sixty men or more, with guns and small arms, and you would find it no easy matter, were you to be attacked, to beat them off.”

“They’ll not stop us; but we will keep a bright look-out for them,” answered Captain Haiselden.

We had a fine breeze as we ran along the coast of Borneo, and although we saw in the distance not a few long suspicious-looking prahus, we sailed too fast for them to overtake us. We saw one of these crafts lately captured, which had been brought to Kuching. She was about ninety feet in length, and of proportionate beam. In the bow she carried a long twelve-pounder gun, and six swivels on each broadside, besides which she had thirty or forty rifles or muskets on board, and other small arms, swords, pistols, and pikes. She pulled eighty oars in two tiers, and had had a crew of a hundred men. Over the rowers, extending the whole length of the vessel, was a light flat roof composed of fine strips of bamboo covered with matting, which, notwithstanding its lightness, was very strong. This deck served as a platform, on which the fighting men stand to fire their muskets or hurl their spears, while the rowers below them sit cross-legged on a shelf projecting outwards from the bends of the vessel.

The Dyak piratical vessels are called “Bang Kongs.” Although they are a hundred feet in length by ten in beam, they draw but little water, and are both light and faster than the Malay prahus. They have long overhanging stems and sterns, are propelled by eighty paddles, and are as swift as any craft afloat. Some mount a few small swivels, and each carries a certain number of Malays armed with muskets, besides which they have their regular crew of Dyaks, whose weapons are spears. From drawing so little water they are much dreaded, as they can run up the shallowest river, when their savage crews, landing, commit most horrible atrocities on the inhabitants living near the banks.

We had left Sarawak about three days, when it fell almost calm; still the vessel was making some way through the water. I was stationed forward to keep a look-out. As I turned my eyes around the horizon ahead I fancied that I could distinguish what appeared just like a small number of black dots rising above it. Before I sang out, however, asking the boatswain, who had come on the forecastle to take my place, I ran aloft, with a spy-glass slung to my back, to satisfy myself whether I was right or not. Reaching the fore-topmast cross-trees, I took a steady look in the direction I had seen the dots I was convinced that they were prahus, though whether large or small I could not be certain, pulling towards the coast of Borneo. I counted six altogether. On my return I went aft to report what I had seen to the captain.

“We will keep away a little, and pass astern of them. They may possibly not have seen us, or if they have, they’ll think it prudent not to come nearer.”

The first mate on hearing my report also went aloft, and on his return corroborated it. I confess that I felt somewhat uneasy at the sight of these vessels. They might be peaceable traders, but they might be pirates, who, should they find us becalmed, might try to obtain a rich booty such as our vessel would afford them.

I was surprised that my uncle and the captain took the matter so coolly. I watched the strangers until they were no longer to be seen from the deck. After some time we again hauled up and stood on our course to the eastward. Later in the day, on going aloft, I again caught sight of the prahus, as I believed them to be, but as they were very low in the water, they were scarcely visible to any but a sharp pair of eyes, such as I possessed.

In the afternoon I was taking a turn on deck with Mr Blyth, the captain and first mate being below, and the third mate in charge of the brig, when I observed a small cloud coming up on the port bow.

“There’s wind in that cloud, I’m sure,” I said to my companion. “I’ll point it out to the mate, for he doesn’t seem to see it.” I did so.

“That’s all you know about the matter, youngster,” he answered in a scornful tone.

“We shall be taken aback if we don’t shorten sail, and I don’t know what will happen,” I remarked to Blyth, when I rejoined him. “I have a good mind to run down and tell the first mate.”

Scarcely had I said this, and was about to spring down the companion-hatch, when Mr Ling sang out—

“Ready, about ship!”

The helm was put down, the yards were being braced round, and the brig’s head brought to the wind, when, as I looked up, I saw every sail aback. At that moment I heard the voice of the captain, who had just come on deck, shouting, “All hands shorten sail and save ship,” but the order was given too late. The squall I had seen coming up just then struck her, and in one moment, with a fearful crash, the main-mast fell. I should have been crushed had I not by tumbling head first down the hatchway avoided it; the next instant the foremast followed, and the bob-stays giving way, dragged the bowsprit on board. The moment the crash was heard the first mate sprang up the companion-ladder shooting me with his head on deck again. I looked round expecting to see many of the crew killed. My eye first fell on Mr Blyth, who was holding on by a stanchion, and apparently uninjured. The second mate, too, excepting a blow on the shoulder, had escaped, while of the crew, though they looked very much astonished, not a man was seriously hurt. Several of them, indeed, who had been below, had only rushed up on hearing the crash of the falling masts. They were gazing with open eyes on the utterly dismantled state of the brig, lately so taunt and trim, waiting for the captain’s orders what to do. But what had become of him? He was nowhere to be seen. At first I feared that he had been knocked overboard, but as I looked about I caught sight of a man’s legs sticking out from under a mass of sails and rigging. Knowing that it must be the captain, I ran to drag him out, calling on Blyth to assist me.

We soon got him free, but he did not move; we feared that he was dead. At Blyth’s suggestion, with the help of two of the men, we carried him below and placed him on his bed.

Greatly to our relief he in a short time began to show signs of life.

“He will soon come round,” said Blyth; “I will watch him, so do you go on deck, Harry, where I am sure you will be wanted, and tell the first mate how he is getting on.”

I hurried up, and reported the captain’s state to my uncle.

“Thank heaven!” he exclaimed; “I had no wish to take his place, but I must attend to the work before us—we have plenty of it.”

He then turned round to the bewildered crew—

“We must first haul in all the gear trailing overboard, my lads, and then get up jury-masts,” he shouted out, hurrying along the deck to examine the state of things forward.

Having got the spars and rigging on board, we commenced unbending the sails and unreefing and coiling away the ropes. As we got the yards free we stowed them amidships, that we might use those of them which were most suitable for jury-masts. The wind had in the meantime been increasing, and the sea was getting up. All we could do was to keep the vessel before it, while we laboured hard to rig a jury-mast forward that we might, as soon as possible, get sail on the brig to steady her. She was now rolling fearfully, and it was with difficulty even that we could keep our feet. I looked out more than once in the direction where I had seen the prahus, fearing that should they discover our present defenceless condition they might attack us, for although we might fight our guns it would be at a great disadvantage.

The gale blew harder and harder. I had not heard for what port the first mate intended to steer, though I of course knew that he would endeavour to make one as soon as possible, either Sarawak or Singapore; but as the gale was at present blowing us away from both of them until we could get up jury-masts and haul our wind it would be impossible to reach either the one or the other. There were numerous dangers in the way which would at all events have to be encountered.

We were moving sluggishly on amid the fast rising seas, when I saw an object in the water, still at a considerable distance ahead. Now it appeared on the summit of a sea, now it sank into a hollow. It looked so much like the wreck of a vessel that I reported it to the first mate.

“Maybe some unfortunate craft capsized by the squall, a fate which might have been ours had not the masts given way,” he observed. “We’ll endeavour to keep close to her in case any of the crew may have escaped and be clinging to the wreck.”

As we got nearer I jumped up on the forecastle, when I saw that the object was a vessel of some sort, but not an European craft. She was a prahu, probably one of the fleet we had before seen. In a short time I perceived that there was some one on board clinging to the stern, which was the highest part out of water.

I at once told the first mate. He and the second mate held a short consultation as to the best means of rescuing the person—pirate as he might be, we could not leave him to perish.

Some spars had been lashed to the stump of the foremast on which a royal had been set, and this enabled us to have the brig somewhat under command. Ropes were got ready to heave to the man. The boatswain, who took the helm, steered the vessel so as to pass close to the wreck without the danger of running her down. Immediately the brig’s side touched her a rope was hove to the man, who was standing up ready to catch it.

“Haul away!” he shouted, as he clutched it firmly, and several willing hands being ready to haul him in. The next instant he was on board the brig, while the wreck, bounding off from us, dropped aft, about, it seemed, to plunge beneath the foaming seas.

“Why, my lad, who are you?” asked the first mate, who had assisted him on board.

“I am an Englishman,” was the answer of the stranger, but he in vain tried to say more.

“Though you are pretty well sun-burnt, you have an Englishman’s face sure enough, though you seem to have lost the use of your tongue.”

“Long, long time no talk English,” replied the man, who seemed to understand pretty clearly what was said to him. We had too much to do, however, to spend time in asking him questions.

Before night we had some spars lashed to the stump of the main-mast, which enabled us to set a little after sail and bring the vessel to.

It was of the greatest importance not to run further eastward. Happily the wind shifted, and getting the vessel’s head round we steered for Singapore. The gale, too, began to abate, and the sea to go down, so that we were able to carry on our work with less difficulty than had before been the case. The dangers in our course were numerous, but we hoped, by constant vigilance, to avoid them.

Chapter Three.

We had an anxious time of it as we made our way back to Singapore, between islands innumerable and coral reefs below water, on which it was often with difficulty we avoided running. The first mate was seldom off the deck, and Crowfoot, the boatswain, showed that he did not boast without justice of his seamanship.

It is on such occasions that a sailor has an opportunity of proving what he is made of. The wind continued fair and the weather fine, or our difficulties would have been greatly increased. The less I say of the second mate the better. Uncle Jack did not trust him, and while it was his watch on deck constantly sent me up, or made an excuse for running up himself to see how matters were going on. He insisted also on taking his share in attending on our poor captain, who remained in his berth unable to move, and, as we feared, in a very precarious state. Blyth and I assisted in nursing him, but the second mate, through whose carelessness the brig had been dismasted and the captain injured, refused to take the slightest trouble to help us—indeed, he kept out of the cabin altogether. The young man we had rescued from the Malay prahu gradually regained his recollection of English, but from the first he showed an unwillingness to talk about himself, and I observed that he kept aloof as much as possible from the crew. When I asked his name he said it was Ned Light, that he had been wrecked somewhere to the eastward, and, narrowly escaping with his life, had been taken prisoner by the pirates, who had kept him ever since in bondage. He appeared to be more ready to talk to little Jem than to any one else, and the two were constantly together. When I tried to find out from the boy what account Ned gave of himself, Jem was remarkably reticent. At length, however, one day he said, “He seems to be afraid of some of the men, sir. He thinks that they intend to do him harm, but I cannot find out why he has got that idea into his head. I told him that he might trust you and the first mate, but he only answers, ‘Better not talk.’”

All had gone well in consequence of the constant watchfulness and untiring efforts of the first mate, when, as we were within about four days’ sail of our destination, while rigging out a boom on which to set a square sail, one of our best hands, Dick Mason, fell overboard. The brig was running about four knots through the water, and as Mason could swim well, no one felt much apprehension about his safety. The sails were instantly clewed up, and the only boat which had escaped injury was at once lowered. Ned and I, with Crowfoot, the boatswain, and two other hands jumped into her and pulled away towards our shipmate, who was striking out boldly to meet us. Before the boat was lowered, however, the brig had run some distance, and we had a considerable way to go. Just as I was going down the side I saw a black fin rising above the surface, passing close under the stern. The boatswain I knew had seen it too, for he urged us to use our utmost exertions to reach Mason, and sang out to him to keep splashing about with all his might. We did our best, making the oars bend again. We were within half a cable’s length of the poor fellow, when a fearful shriek reached our ears. I instinctively turned round just in time to see his head disappear beneath the bright surface. There was a ripple where he went down, and as we got up to the spot and looked into the depths of the ocean we could see a struggling human form surrounded by a ruddy tinge, and the glittering white of the shark’s lower jaws. Ned, who was in the bows, plunged down his boat-hook, but Mason’s hands were already far below the point he could reach. The next instant the shark had disappeared with its prey.

All hope of recovering even the body of our poor shipmate was gone, and we returned with sad hearts on board.

“He is a great loss to us,” remarked the boatswain. “He was one of the men I could always trust, and that’s more than I can say of some of the rest.”

“But Tim Howlett and Trinder are smart hands, surely?” I observed.

“They may be, but I don’t like their goings on. If others trust them, it’s more than I do.”

“I am sorry to hear you say that of the men,” I remarked. “I fancied that they were about the best men we have on board.”

“You haven’t seen as much of them as I have, or you wouldn’t say that of them,” replied the boatswain.

“I’ll give a hint to the first mate of what you think,” I said.

“No use in doing that. He generally has his weather eye open, but he’s too generous to believe evil of a man unless he has strong proof. You must leave him to find the matter out for himself.”

At last we sighted the island of Singapore. Instead, however, of bringing up before the town we made a signal for three boats, which towed us into the new harbour. There we came to an anchor close to the shore, and were able to refit much more rapidly than we could have done in any other place. Our crew generally laboured away from sunrise to sunset without complaining. But Howlett and Trinder grumbled at the additional work they had to perform. The second mate seemed always out of humour, and went about his duty in a listless fashion, frequently abusing the men without any cause for so doing. The captain, who was getting better, would not allow himself to be taken on shore to the hospital, asserting that he was much more comfortable on board with Mr Radburn, Blyth, and me to look after him, than he should be there. We, however, persuaded him to let us send for a doctor, who came, and, greatly to our relief, assured us that he was going on favourably, although it might be a long time before he would be able to attend to his duty on deck. The first mate had asked Ned if he would enter in place of Mason, but he did not—as I thought he would have been glad to do—accept the offer.

I spoke to him, advising him to remain, assuring him that he would be well treated.

“The first mate and boatswain are kind to me, but I think, sir, I had better ship on board another vessel homeward-bound,” he replied.

I asked him, however, to remain a day or two, which he agreed to do. Next morning, when the hands were mustered for work, Howlett and Trinder were not to be found. I was sent on shore to look for them, it being supposed that they were not far off, but after a long search I had to return on board and say that I could not find them. There was a creek a little way off lined with mangrove bushes. The captain therefore directed Mr Blyth and me to take one of the boats and pull up it with four hands, all of us well-armed, thinking that the deserters might have concealed themselves somewhere on its banks, hoping to get an opportunity of making their way over to Singapore.

We had got a short distance up the creek when I saw a vast number of dark objects hanging to the bows of the mangrove trees.

“Are those things fruit, or are they the nests of birds?” I asked, pointing them out to Mr Blyth.

“Neither one nor the other,” he answered: “those are bats, or, as they here are called, flying foxes. As we return they will be on the move, and you will then see what they are like.”

“I will take the present opportunity,” I answered, and steering the boat closer in to the shore I observed that there were thousands and tens of thousands of the creatures hanging by their claws to the boughs in a most curious manner as thick as a swarm of bees. With a boat-hook we pulled off two or three, which falling inboard were picked up. They showed, however, no fear, nor did they make any attempt to escape, but licked our hands and appeared perfectly at ease. The head was like that of a miniature fox, and the skin was beautifully soft. Blyth told me that they live upon fruit, large quantities of which they consume. On reaching the head of the creek we found a hut, in or about which it was supposed that the runaways might have concealed themselves, but we could discover no traces of them, and consequently judged that it would be useless to search further in that direction.

The dusk of evening had come over as we pulled down the creek, and the bats had begun to stir. Presently the whole air was filled with them as they took their flight towards the plantations where they were about to forage. They looked, with their wings stretched out, of wonderfully large size, so as literally to darken the sky.

The next day passed and still we could hear nothing of the two men. The captain on this sent Blyth and me over to Singapore, where we found that they had entered on board a homeward-bound ship and had sailed. With the assistance of the agent we succeeded in replacing them by two other Englishmen, and we also engaged four Lascars, fine active-looking fellows, who were likely to prove of much use, as they could endure the heat of the sun better than could our own men.

The captain inquired whether the man we had picked up had entered.

“He has been working very steadily,” answered the first mate, “but Harry shall ask him if he intends to remain.”

When the men knocked off work I went forward to speak to him.

“Well, Ned, what have you determined on?” I asked; “the captain wishes to know whether you will enter.”

“I will very gladly do so, Mr Harry,” he answered. “I like you and the first officer, and as I have no friends at home who care for me, I am in no hurry to get back to old England.”

“Why were you unwilling to enter before?” I inquired.

“Well, sir, I don’t mind telling you now. It was on account of those two fellows, Howlett and Trinder. I have served with them before, and us I know a thing or two about them, and that they are mutinous, ill-disposed rascals, I was afraid that they would find me out, and some dark night heave me overboard, or knock me on the head.”

“On board what ship did you serve with them?” I asked.

“On board the ‘Amphion,’” he answered. “They and several others of the crew, tarred with the same brush, stole a boat and deserted from her, leaving us so short-handed that, one of the officers and two other hands being washed overboard, when the ship caught in a typhoon we were unable to manage her, and she drove on a reef and was lost, we who remained scarcely escaping with our lives.”

“The ‘Amphion!’” I exclaimed, much astonished. “Why, that was my father’s ship! Did you say the captain escaped?”

“Yes; all of us, except one poor fellow, got safely on shore, but it was a wild place, and we found ourselves among savages, who threatened to take our lives, but they did not, though they ill-treated us, and made us work for them.”

“Do you think the captain is still alive? Can you pilot us to the place?” I inquired eagerly.

“All I can say is that the captain was well in health, though sadly cast down, when I last saw him,” answered Ned. “As to finding the spot where we were wrecked, that is what I fear I cannot do, for I don’t know even the name of the country; and as I am ignorant of navigation, and was soon afterwards carried away by the Malay pirates, who took me about with them from place to place, I have lost all reckoning, though I calculate that it was somewhere away to the eastward. I think, however, that I should know the country if I saw it again, though these islands are so much like one another that I could not be certain; but do you say, sir, that you are Captain Musgrave’s son? I have only heard you called Mr Harry, and I did not know it before, or I should have spoken to you.”

“Yes, Captain Musgrave, who commanded the ‘Amphion,’ was my father, and we have long given him up for lost,” I replied. “Do you think that he remained at the place where the ship was wrecked, or was he carried off by the pirates?”

“He was not carried off by those who took us, for he and the first mate and two seamen had gone up the country, and so escaped. Three others were taken with me, but what became of them I do not know, may be they were drowned or krissed by the Malays, as I never saw them again; indeed, it is a wonder that I am alive, seeing what I have gone through. The fellows who first got hold of me did not keep me long, but sold me to another gang. They and I were afterwards wrecked, and when we were trying to make our escape on board some canoes we had built, we were overtaken by another fleet of pirates, who killed most of my companions. They spared my life, but sold me after some time to the people to whom the prahu belonged, from the wreck of which you picked me up.”

“You must come aft and narrate what you have told me to the first mate,” I said.

I ran down to tell the captain and first mate, who directed me to bring Ned below, that they might hear his story. Having cross-questioned him far more than I had done, they were perfectly satisfied that he had spoken the truth, though they found it impossible to make out where the ‘Amphion’ had been wrecked. They put a chart before him, but he was utterly unable to guess where the wreck had occurred, or even to point out Singapore, where we then were. Thus we were left in doubt whether the ‘Amphion’ had been lost on the coast of Borneo or on that of Celebes or Gillolo, or even as far east as New Guinea.

Ned’s account made my uncle and me more eager than ever to continue the voyage. The captain fully entered into our feelings, but at the same time he felt that it was his duty to attend to the interests of the owners, and to visit only the places where trade could be carried on. The Dutch, who hold possession of Java and many of the Spice Islands to the eastward, throw so many difficulties in the way of commerce for the sake of keeping it in their own hands, that the captain had been directed not to visit any of their ports if he could avoid doing so. Our object therefore was to trade chiefly with the natives, from whom we were more likely to learn something about the wreck of the “Amphion” than from the Dutch, for it was considered that if they had had any communication with the survivors of her crew, means would have been found to send home an account of the occurrence. Now, as I have said, nothing had been heard of the “Amphion” when we left England, nearly four years after the time it was supposed she had been lost, beyond the statement made by the two men who said they had escaped from her. Ned’s account showed that the owners were right in their conjectures as to the possibility of her having been cast on some desert shore, instead of having gone down, as was more generally believed, in a typhoon. By working night and day, we at length got the “Lily” ataunto, and we were thankful when being towed cut of harbour we found ourselves with a fair wind standing to the eastward. We had the same dangers of coral reefs, sand banks, and low islands to encounter as before, but we were in a better condition now to avoid them.

Having passed the island of Labuan—since taken possession of by the English—on the north-west of Borneo, we stood along the coast until we rounded the northern end of that large island. To give some idea of the size of Borneo, I may say that the whole of England, Ireland, and Scotland, with the Orkney and Shetland Islands, would fit inside it, leaving a very wide margin all round in addition. We were talking about the inhabitants, when Uncle Jack observed—

“With the exception of Sarawak in the west, the whole of this magnificent country is in a state of barbarism. The few Malay settlements along the coast are but very slightly removed from the same condition. It is said that the chief delight of the Dyak tribes, who inhabit the interior as well as the larger part of the coast and the banks of the rivers, is to attack their neighbours for the sake of obtaining heads, and that no lover can present himself before his intended bride until he offers her one of those gory trophies as a proof of his prowess. The greater the number of heads he can present, the more willing the damsel becomes to receive his advances. Notwithstanding such a peculiar custom, the Dyaks possess many excellent qualities. They are said to be truthful and honest, generally intelligent, kind tempered and mild, and tolerably industrious; superior indeed in many respects to the Malays and Chinese, who cheat and plunder them.

“While we are opening up Africa, it seems to me that we should make an effort to civilise and carry the blessings of Christianity to the numberless inhabitants of Borneo beyond the province of Sarawak.”

We passed through the Straits of Balabac, between Borneo and the long island of Palawan into the Sooloo Sea, said to be infested by pirates, who have little difficulty in escaping pursuit among the numerous islands to the south, forming the Looloo Archipelago. To the east of us were the Philippine islands, owned and misgoverned by the Spaniards.

We, however, kept along the coast of Borneo, and though pirates might have swarmed in its bays and rivers, we were fortunate in not falling in with any. We met, however, several traders, Chinese as well as Malay, from whom we made inquiries through Ned respecting the wreck of an English vessel in those seas. Blyth also endeavoured to obtain information as to where the articles we wished to procure were most likely to be obtained. The captain of one of the Malay vessels came on board us to do some trading on his own account. As he seemed inclined to be communicative, we put several questions to him through Ned, who was evidently highly interested in the replies he received.

To our questions as to what the Malay said, Ned replied, “He tells me, sir, that he has heard of several white men being at a village on the banks of a large river some way up from the coast. As far as I can make out, they have been there a long time, and the natives won’t let them get away. The people he speaks of may be Captain Musgrave and some of my old shipmates; but yet it does not seem to me from the sort of country he describes that it can be near the place where the ‘Amphion’ was lost.”

We told Ned to inquire if one of the men belonging to the prahu would be willing to pilot us up the river, promising him a handsome reward if he would do so, and undertaking to set him on shore at any place he might name which we could reach. For this purpose the first mate, Blyth, and I, taking Ned, went with the Malay captain on board his vessel. Summoning his crew, he explained the object of our visit and the offer which had been made. After a long palaver a man stepped out and expressed his readiness to accompany us. The Malay captain, after a short talk with the man, introduced him to us, saying that his name was Kalong, that he was well acquainted with the coast and an experienced sailor, as indeed are most of the Malays of the archipelago. This matter, with which all parties were pleased, being settled, we returned to the “Lily,” and sail was made for the part of the coast where Kalong informed us we should find the mouth of the river. We hove to soon after sunset that we might not pass the spot during the night.

When Kalong came on deck at daybreak, we once more stood in for the coast. The wind, however, was light, so that we made but little progress. He pointed to the southward, indicating that we must steer in that direction. At length, to our great joy, we saw what was evidently the mouth of a large river, fringed thickly with mangrove trees.

Ned shook his head. “That’s not where the ‘Amphion’ was cast away,” he remarked, as we stood towards it. “Still it may be, notwithstanding, that our friends are up there. Kalong says that there is water enough for the brig all the way up to the village, but he thinks it would be wiser to anchor just within the mouth and let only the boats go up, as the wind might fail us and we might have a hard job to get out again. As it is a long pull he also advises that the boats should leave the brig in the evening, so as to get to the place the next day.”

This advice exactly agreed with what the first mate thought best, and Captain Haiselden, whom he consulted, was of the same opinion. We accordingly, the wind favouring us, stood on and brought up just inside the mouth, which formed a beautiful harbour. We lost no time in getting ready for our expedition. Two boats were lowered, each pulling four oars, the crews consisting of four Englishmen and four Lascars, besides Kalong and Ned, the first mate and I going in one and Mr Blyth and the boatswain in the other. We were all well-armed, and had provisions for a couple of days. We also carried a number of articles for trading with the natives, whom we hoped, from Kalong’s account, to find friendly.

We had thus left but a small number of men on board, but as the brig was in a safe place, the captain, trusting to Kalong’s report, considered that there was no risk of her being attacked by pirates. I heard him tell the first mate, however, when we went into his cabin to wish him good-bye, that he should have a sharp look-out kept, the guns loaded, and all hands armed in case of accident; and, he added, “Remember, Radburn, that you are to run no unnecessary risk; don’t trust the natives too much, and keep your party well together if you land, so as to be able to get back to the boats. Kalong may be a very honest fellow, but it is as well not to rely too much on him. If you hear of any Englishmen being in the village or neighbourhood, get Kalong to open up a communication with them, and send a written note to ask who they are.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” answered Uncle Jack; “you may depend upon my discretion.”

I naturally felt very eager, for I had persuaded myself that we should certainly find my father, notwithstanding Ned’s doubts. I do not think my uncle was quite so sanguine, still he was very willing to undertake the expedition. We had on board a small light canoe, which we had brought from Singapore, large enough to carry two or three people, but easily paddled by one. At the last moment it was determined to carry this canoe with us, as she could tow astern, and might be of great use in sending ahead to act as a scout.

As soon as everything was ready we shoved off, our shipmates remaining on board, giving us three hearty cheers as we pulled away. We found that the river made several bends, so that in a short time we were out of sight of the brig.

As we passed close, sometimes to one bank, sometimes to the other, we could hear the cooing of pigeons, the shrill call of peahens, and the notes of many song birds; above which rose the chattering of troops of monkeys, while parrots and other gaily-coloured birds flew from bough to bough. The monkeys occasionally showed themselves, leaping along the branches, often running out to those above our heads and uttering hoarse cries, as if ordering us away from their domains, grinning fiercely at us, hooting and chattering, and shaking the boughs in their indignation.

We had got up some distance, and calculated that it would be dark in the course of a short time, when, having entered another reach, we saw before us on the right hand shore an opening in which were several huts, of a construction common in that country, being erected on tall posts with a ladder leading to them.

Kalong said that he was not aware of any village being there, and that it had probably not long been established. As we could see only three huts, and as there were not likely to be many inhabitants, he and Ned offered to go on shore and obtain information, while we remained in the boats with our arms ready for use, should the natives show any signs of hostility. Uncle Jack, however, directed us to keep our weapons concealed, while we had, besides the English ensign, a white flag flying in the bows of our boat.

Blyth, on hearing of the plan, wished to land, and my uncle, after a little hesitation, gave me leave to accompany him, provided we kept behind Kalong and Ned until they had ascertained the character of the people. We accordingly at once pulled in for the bank. Kalong and Ned sprang on shore, Blyth and I fallowing. We had pistols in our belts, and each wore a sword; but, as the Malays all go armed, such weapons were not likely to make them suppose that we were otherwise than peaceably disposed.

We had not proceeded far, when several Dyaks, who had apparently been watching us from their elevated dwellings, came down the ladders which led from them to the ground, and made friendly gestures, inviting us to advance. The men wore waist cloths of blue cotton which hung down behind, and were bordered with blue, white, and red. Their heads were bound with handkerchiefs of the same colours. They wore earrings of brass, and heavy necklaces of black and white beads. On their arms were a number of rings of white shells or brass, their long shining black hair hanging over their shoulders, and to their waists, secured by a belt, was a pouch with materials for “betel” chewing. In the belt was stuck a long slender knife, and most of the men held in their hands a knife-headed spear.

The women, who were better clothed than the men, wore coils of rattan to which their petticoats were fastened round their waists, besides which their arms and legs were ornamented with rings of brass wire, and their heads by hats of curious shape, adorned with beads. They had generally a pleasant expression of countenance, and appeared ready to afford us a friendly welcome.

Kalong and Ned at once entered into conversation with them, as they seemed perfectly to understand each other. No information, however, could be obtained about the white men of whom we had heard. Without hesitation they came down to the boats, bringing some mats and other articles which we purchased at a very moderate rate. They had also with them some curious monkeys with enormous noses, faces of a brick-dust colour, and about as ugly specimens of the monkey tribe as I ever saw.

Their bodies were about three feet in length covered with thick fur, of a bright chestnut-red. I am almost afraid to say how long their noses were, but they stuck out with the nostrils at the tips and had certainly a most curious appearance. The arms and legs had somewhat of a whitish tinge, and the hands were grey rather than black. Ned told us that they were very active, and when at liberty could be seen leaping from branch to branch, generally in large troops, holloaing loudly as they go along. Blyth purchased a couple, as they were very tame and seemed well-mannered. He hoped to be able to keep them alive if he could obtain suitable food.

After a short and satisfactory intercourse with our native friends, we shoved off and proceeded up the river. The tide, however, soon turned, and Uncle Jack, considering that it would be useless to attempt pulling against it, brought up for the night a short distance from the left bank, but sufficiently far off not to run the risk of being surprised by hostile natives.

As we had a long pull before us, the first mate arranged that all hands should lie down except two in each boat to keep watch, that we might be the better able to work the next day. Supper, however, was first served out, for we had hitherto not had time to eat anything. It was arranged that Ned and I should have the first watch in our boat, and as soon as supper was over, the rest of the party stowed themselves away as best they could on or under the thwarts. The boats lay in the shadow cast by the tall trees on the bank nearest to us, from which strange sounds ever and anon came off, produced either by wild beasts or insects, not sufficiently loud to drown the ripple of the water as it flowed rapidly by. The bright stars shone down from a cloudless sky on the surface of the stream, flickering and dancing in the eddies caused by the current.

I found great difficulty in keeping awake, though, of course, I did my best to prevent my eyelids from closing by constantly shifting my position and looking round in every direction, not that I apprehended danger, but from knowing that it was my duty to be prepared for any contingency.

I had been on watch for an hour or more, when Ned, who was seated on a thwart, stepped aft. “Hist, Mr Harry,” he said, in a low whisper, “do you hear the sound of voices coming down the river?”

I fancied that I did.

“Just listen.”

I listened, and after some time could distinctly hear some strange sounds, though I was not certain that they were those of human voices. I awoke the first mate, who also heard them.

“If you like, sir, Kalong and I will pull up in the canoe and try and find out where they come from,” whispered Ned; “it may be that the natives are only holding one of their harvest feasts near the bank of the river, or it is just as likely that a fleet of pirates has come up through some other branch of the river, and has been plundering the villages they have fallen in with, as I have known them often to do in these parts. It wouldn’t be safe to fall in with them. They would soon run down our boats and not leave a man of us alive.”

“Though you may be mistaken, we will take the prudent course and try to find out who the people are,” answered the first mate. “Wake up Kalong, and you and he jump into the canoe and paddle ahead until you have discovered what they are about. Take care, however, that you are not caught yourselves.”

Ned awakened the Malay and explained the object we had in view, when the two hauling up the canoe alongside got into her and noiselessly paddled up the river, keeping near the bank where we lay moored.

We waited anxiously listening for any sound, but a light breeze rustling among the trees prevented those we had before heard from reaching our ears.

“Ned, I hope, may have been mistaken, after all,” observed the first mate; “it would be a pity, having got this far, to have to give up our expedition; but, as he says, it would never do to run the risk of an encounter with those savage pirates. If he is right we must do our best to avoid them and be ready for a start.”

All hands in both boats had been aroused, and we were prepared to heave up our anchors and get out the oars at a moment’s notice. We had not only our own safety to think of, but that of our shipmates, if there really was a fleet of pirates in the river, should they discover the brig—ill able to defend herself as she was—they might attack and capture her before we could get on board. We had brought the two boats alongside each other, so that we could talk without raising our voices. The first mate, who had been standing up on the after thwart that he might the better be able to see any object ahead, at length observed, “The canoe ought to have been back by this time. Can she have been taken by the savages?”

“If so, Kalong and Ned may for the sake of saving their lives have told them about the brig,” observed the boatswain. “If there is another channel the pirates will go down it and attack her before they look after us.”

“I feel very sure that Ned will not prove treacherous, though I cannot say how the Malay will act,” I observed.

“At all events we will get up our anchors and be ready for a start,” said the first mate.

He gave the order accordingly. Just as they were up to the bows, I caught sight of a small object ahead, which I trusted was the canoe. I pointed it out to the first mate.

“No doubt about it. I hope that we shall find that we might have saved ourselves the trouble of weighing,” he observed.

It approached rapidly. In little more than a minute it dropped alongside us and Ned and Kalong leapt into our boat.

“Not a moment to lose!” exclaimed Ned; “there’s a whole fleet of prahus in the next reach. Some of the people were ashore, and that we might find out who they were, we landed some way below where they lay and crept up close to them until we could hear them speaking. They know of the brig, and, we found, were just about to get under weigh hoping to surprise her.”

“We must be on board first, then, or they’ll murder the whole of us. Out oars, lads, and pull as you never pulled before,” cried the first mate.

The crews required no further orders, the boats were got round and away we went with the current, the men pulling with all their might.

“We must go on board and fight for our lives, for if we are taken they’ll not be worth much,” said the first mate.

“My poor father, what will become of him?” I exclaimed.

“We have no proof that your father is among the white men spoken of, Harry. If he is, he will not be worse off than he would have been had we not gone up the river. We must, however, try and ascertain the truth of the report, and make another attempt to rescue him should we find that he is really there.”

We had not much time or inclination for talking; while the first mate steered, I kept looking astern to ascertain if we were pursued. We rapidly shot by the places we had slowly passed coming up; we were thankful that we had the tide in our favour. We had got to the end of a long reach, when I saw rounding the further end of the point we had last passed a number of dark objects stretching across the stream. I had no doubt that they were the piratical prahus, though whether they had discovered us or not we could not ascertain. They were swift craft, I knew, and might possibly overtake us before we could reach the brig. There was no use in telling the men to give way, as they were pulling as hard as they could lay their backs to the oars. They saw the enemy too, and knew the horrible fate which would be ours should we be overtaken. We, of course, however, had no intention of yielding as long as we could defend ourselves; we had our arms therefore ready for instant use. Hard as our crews pulled, the prahus appeared to be coming up with us. Every instant they became more distinct, and we had little doubt that they must see us. I had begun to despair of escaping when the first mate raised our spirits by announcing that he saw the light in the brig’s rigging in the distance. It was to be hoisted on the fore stay that in case we should return at night we might know where to find her. It was indeed fortunate that this arrangement had been made, or we might have run out to sea without observing her. We now altered our course, hoping that the Malays might possibly shoot by the brig before they discovered that the light was on board her. The first mate hailed the brig as we approached.

“We are pursued by a fleet of pirates. Stand by to hoist in the boats, and to make sail as soon as we are on board.”

The captain hailed in reply, “We are on the alert. Pull up one on each quarter.”

The moment we got alongside the falls were slackened and we swarmed up them, each man running to the tackles as he got on deck. The boats were quickly hoisted in, when the crew ran aloft to loose the sails. The wind was blowing down the river, but there was barely enough of it to give the vessel steerage way, and without a stronger breeze we should run the risk of drifting on shore. The cable, however, was hove short, and we were ready at a moment’s notice to stand out to sea. The dark line of prahus were, however, in the meantime approaching, evidently, by their appearance, with hostile intent.

As they drew nearer the pirates suddenly broke forth into loud cries, sounding their trumpets and beating their gongs and tom-toms, apparently with the intention of frightening us. We had our guns pointed at them and the matches ready to fire the instant the captain issued the order, but he was unwilling if it could be avoided to commence the fight, and waited until they should show their hostile intentions. Of these we were not long left in doubt. They had probably expected to surprise the brig, but now, from having seen the boats ahead, they knew that we should be on the alert. Again bursting forth into shouts and shrieks, and making all the noise they could with their musical instruments, they opened a fire from their gingalls and muskets, followed up by a shower of darts. Although we could hear the missiles come rattling on board, being sheltered by our high bulwarks, no one, as far as I could tell, was hurt.

“Now give it them, lads!” cried the captain. We let fly with all our guns, those having muskets firing them also. We quickly reloaded, to be ready for the enemy should they attempt to board us. When I saw the number of prahus which had assembled on all sides, I could not help fearing that we might be overpowered at last. Still the first dose we had given them seemed to have produced a good effect.

“Fire, my lads, and load again as fast as you can,” cried the captain. “We must keep them off until we can get the brig under weigh. Hurrah! Here comes a breeze. Quick, quick, give it them!”

We fired another broadside. “Now heave up the anchor and sheet home the topsails,” he shouted.

The order was obeyed, and before the pirates had recovered from the dismay into which our last broadside had thrown them, the anchor was hove up to the bows, and the topsails being sheeted home and the mainsail set, we were gliding out towards the mouth of the river, not, however, without being accompanied by our persevering foes.

We had several on either side of us blazing away with their gingalls and hurling darts and spears on our decks. At last one more daring than the rest ran alongside just as we had discharged our two guns, and her crew began climbing on board. The first mate and boatswain and several of the men were ready to receive them, and beat them back with pikes and cutlasses. The rest of our crew were employed in defending the other side, though it was sharp work to keep them back. Several of the pirates were cut down as they showed their heads over the bulwarks, but others climbed up after them. Blyth and I, seeing how hard pressed the first mate was, sprang to his assistance, while the captain was everywhere, now at the helm, now on one side, now on the other, encouraging the crew, slashing away at the pirates, and seeing that the man at the helm was steering as was necessary.

The chief part of the fighting took place between the main and fore chains. Several heads appeared abaft the main rigging, though quickly driven back again by the captain’s untiring cutlass, aided by Blyth and me. Every moment we expected other prahus to come up on the opposite side, but they kept away, waiting perhaps until their chief had gained a footing on our deck. Meanwhile our long gun and the two carronades, besides several muskets—with which we kept up a hot fire—contributed to keep them at a respectful distance. The cabin windows had been battened up, but another prahu attempted to throw some men on board by getting under our stern. The captain, however, who was on the watch for this, caught sight of her, and calling to Blyth and me, we used our cutlasses and pikes with such good effect that the enemy was driven back and their prahu fell astern. I was springing off the poop when I caught sight of a man just creeping in through an after port. I was on the point of running at him with my pike, when he cried out—

“A friend, a friend, don’t strike!”

It was with the greatest difficulty I avoided doing so. “Whoever you are, get in quickly, that I may close the port, or others will follow,” I exclaimed.

He did as I advised, and assisted me in lashing down the port. “I’ll do it,” he said, “for I don’t want to be caught again,” and with the quickness of a seaman he secured the port.

“If you give me a cutlass I’ll fight for you,” he said; and as I handed him mine he sprang to the side and soon made good use of it by cutting down a couple of fellows who had at that moment shown themselves above the bulwarks, while Blyth and I with our pikes drove back two more who were climbing on board. The next instant I heard the first mate singing out—

“They are sheering off! Now give it them, lads! Fire low and we shall send the shot through her bottom.”

It took some little time, however, to load the guns, and before they could be fired the prahu had got some fathoms off. The shot, however, took all the better effect, and went crashing through her thin sides. Almost in an instant she filled, when the survivors of her crew attempted to gain the other prahus, which kept on our beam, and now again began to discharge their guns and other missiles at us as before. The breeze, however, was freshening, and we could see that our shot had taken effect on several of the other prahus, which sank as we watched them. Our crew uttered a loud cheer, to show the enemy that they might expect as warm a reception as before should they again attempt to board us. Having now time to set the foresail and topgallant-sails, fast as the Malays pulled, we had every reason to hope that we should get clear of them.

Chapter Four.

The pirates, though so roughly handled, continued hovering on every side, making way with their oars, perhaps hoping that the wind might fall, and should the brig be becalmed that they might attack us with greater advantage than before. Happily, however, the breeze freshened, and we kept up so continuous a fire from our long gun and carronades that they were afraid of approaching nearer.

“Keep it up, my lads,” said the captain, “we shall soon give them the go-bye. They’ll not wish to pay us another visit.”

Soon after this, looking eastward, I saw the first bright streaks of the dawn appearing in the sky. The light rapidly increased; we could now clearly distinguish the prahus dotting the smooth ocean. There were a dozen of them at least, and we had sent two, if not more, to the bottom. I had hitherto been so busily employed in working one of the guns that I had been unable to make any inquiries of the stranger as to who he was or where he had come from. He had been assisting at the aftermost gun until, overcome with fatigue, he had sunk down on the deck just under the poop, where he had remained unnoticed. As our crew saw the pirate fleet dropping astern out of range of our guns they broke into loud cheers, joined in even by those most badly wounded. At the same time the sun, appearing like an arch of fire, rose from behind the distant land, suffusing the whole eastern sky with a ruddy glow, and then rapidly shooting upward, the entire circle made its appearance. I now hurried off to the stranger, followed by the first mate, hoping that he might give us tidings of my father, yet almost dreading to hear what those tidings might be. He tried to rise as we approached, but had scarcely strength left to do so. His countenance was pale, his clothes wet and blood-stained.

Uncle Jack lifted him up and seated him on a gun. “You are hungry and knocked up, my man. When you have had some food you shall tell us where you came from, and how you got on board the brig.”

“Thank you, sir. I do want food, and should be glad to get a wound I have in my side looked to, as it is beginning to hurt.”

Uncle Jack told me to go and forage in the cabin for such food as I could lay hands on, while he did his best to bind up the man’s wound. The second mate and steward, I should have said, were engaged in attending to the hurts of the other men. Strange as it may seem, notwithstanding the numbers of shot, spears, and bullets sent on board us, no one had been killed.

The captain was on the poop, attending to the steering of the brig and watching the proceedings of the enemy.

I soon returned with some ham and bread and a mug of water, and I got from the steward some bandages and salve. While Uncle Jack carefully bound up his wound, the stranger eagerly took a draught of water, and was then able to swallow some of the food I had brought.

We had hitherto restrained our eagerness; but as soon as he appeared somewhat recovered, my uncle told him how much we wished to hear the account he had to give of himself, adding that we had gone up the river to search for some Englishmen said to be prisoners to the natives.

“We expected to find my father, Captain Musgrave, who lately commanded the ‘Amphion,’” I observed.

The stranger’s answer at once dispelled my hopes.

“I was one of the Englishmen you heard of, but we were not prisoners. There was another man with me; we belonged to a vessel from Sydney trading with the natives, but having had a quarrel with our skipper, we were left behind. We thought that we could establish a trade with the natives, as my mate had once done in one of the South Sea islands, and we were waiting until another vessel should come up the river. We had been there three years or more, and were becoming accustomed to the life, though we had made up our minds to go away if any vessel appeared. Two nights ago we were sleeping in our house close to the bank of the river, when we were awakened by fearful shrieks and cries. Looking out we saw a number of prahus brought up along the bank, and hundreds of fellows, whom we knew to be pirates, with swords in their hands, rushing about setting fire to the houses and cutting off the heads of the unfortunate people as they tried to escape from the flames. They had not yet discovered our house, but as a party of them drew near we sang out to them, saying that if they wished to be friends with us we were ready to be friends with them; but if not, we were determined to fight to the last, besides which we threatened to set fire to the house and to destroy all the goods within it, but which we offered otherwise to make over to them. We took aim as we spoke at their chief, who appeared at their head. They seemed to think that they might obtain our heads at too high a price if they attacked us; and having held a palaver, the chief promised that if we would come out of our house our lives should be safe. We, knowing very well that though we might kill two or three of them—should they not value our goods they would burn us out in a few minutes—thought it wise to agree to their terms. We told them, however, that we must think over the matter, and if they would leave us in quiet a short time we would give them an answer. As they had killed all the people they could catch, the rest having escaped into the woods, they were perfectly satisfied, I suppose, with their night’s work. Leaving a guard to watch us, the rest employed themselves in embarking all the booty they had collected. At last the chief came back, which made us believe that he intended to act fairly—he knew that we could have shot him if we had been so disposed. He now shouted out to us that as he wanted to be off we must make up our minds either to accompany him or be killed. We replied that if we were killed our countrymen would hear of it and punish him some day or other pretty severely. He had heard, I doubt not, of the punishment the pirates had received in the neighbourhood of Sarawak. He swore by the prophet that no harm should happen to us.

“‘Well, Charley,’ said my mate, Pat Tandy, ‘there is no use making more ado about the matter. We shall only put the fellow out of temper. It is our only chance.’

“I agreed with him, and opening the door of our house, we went down the steps, holding our muskets in our hands ready to have a last shot if we saw that the pirates intended to play us a trick. We walked straight up to the chief and took his hand to show him that we were not afraid. As soon as we were out of the house, the people rushed in and soon carried away the goods, the result of our trading—mats, skins, nuts, and other things. The chief told us that we must give up our muskets, as he wanted them; and as there was nothing said about them in our agreement, we handed them to him, not feeling very sure but that the next moment we might find our heads off our shoulders. However, he was a more honest man in that respect than we took him for.

“He now marched us down to the bank, put Tandy on board his prahu, and I was ordered on board another. We had been so long with the natives that we understood their language. They were pretty free and easy in talking, but we could not make out what they intended to do with us. I suspected, however, that all was not right when they kept us apart, so I made up my mind to escape on the first opportunity, and I had no doubt that Pat would do the same.

“We remained where we were until news was brought that an English merchant vessel had anchored in the mouth of the river, and they, having held a counsel, determined to attack her. I tried to escape, hoping to warn you of your danger, but I was caught, and was threatened if I made another attempt that I should lose my life. You know most of the rest. If the pirates had found you napping, they would have murdered every one of you and plundered your brig. I felt sure, from the way you defended yourselves, that you would gain the victory. I took the opportunity while the Malays were engaged in fighting you to jump overboard and swim to you. Just as I reached the water, a fellow catching sight of me pounded me with his spear, and very nearly hooked me back; but diving, I came up some distance off, and he thought probably that I was drowned. As I could find no means of getting up your side, I clambered on board the prahu, and from her got through the after port, which I found open. What has become of Tandy I cannot say; he may have attempted to follow my example and has lost his life, or, poor fellow! They will kill him when they find I have escaped.”

Charley Bell’s account of himself was very wonderful, but we had no reason to disbelieve it.

As he was much hurt, the first mate, who was always ready to sacrifice his own comfort for the good of others, placed him in his own berth that he might the better attend to him. We then went to assist my uncle in looking after the other wounded men. Two were unfit for duty, but the rest managed to get about with bandaged arms and heads, and a somewhat ghastly crew they looked. The second mate and boatswain were slightly hurt, and Blyth had received two wounds, but neither were of much consequence; while the captain, though three bullets had gone through his clothes, was uninjured, as were the first mate and I. On going to the mast-head, I discovered through the spy-glass the pirate fleet far away astern. On hearing this the captain determined to stand out into the sea of Celebes to avoid another encounter with them.

It seemed surprising that although our good captain had been almost confined to his cabin up to the time we entered the river he should have been able to exert himself as he did when the brig was attacked, and still more so that he suffered no ill consequences, but rapidly afterwards regained his health and strength.

Bell told us that had any English vessel been wrecked on the coast he thought he should have heard of it, so that we were tolerably well satisfied that the “Amphion” had not been cast away on the east shore of Borneo.

Captain Haiselden had heard at Singapore that the Dutch sent out numerous men-of-war to cruise round Celebes and the Spice Islands for the purpose of putting down piracy, and as they would have heard of any vessel cast away near the places they were accustomed to visit, he was convinced that the “Amphion” must have been wrecked on some island shore to the northward. He therefore resolved, instead of running through the Straits of Macassar, to continue eastward across the sea of Celebes and ultimately rounding the Moluccas, to sail down the coast of New Guinea. The weather continued remarkably fine, the air was pure, though not cool, and the wounded men, who were on deck as much as possible, rapidly recovered.

The first place at which it was arranged we should touch was at the northern end of the curiously shaped island of Celebes. A strong southerly wind, which afterwards shifted to the south-east, springing up, compelled us to keep more to the northward than we should otherwise have done.

It was night, we were steering to the eastward but intended soon to put about, expecting on the next tack to reach Menado, when just at daybreak we found that we were close to an island with a lofty conical peak and lower ground to the southward of it. The chart showed us that it was the island of Sanguir. A current must have set us towards it, for we supposed that we were some distance off. We at once put about, when the wind dropped and we lay perfectly becalmed on the mirror-like deep. I could not perceive the slightest swell, nor did even a cat’s-paw play over the surface. I threw some chips into the water, and when I looked some hours afterwards there they were, floating like little boats alongside. The smoke from the galley-fire curled upwards in a thin blue wreath, growing thinner and thinner until it became invisible far over head. Now and then a flying-fish would break through the glassy surface, or some monster of the deep show us his snout, leaving a circle of wavelets as he quickly descended. It was even hotter below than on deck, and every piece of metal felt as if just taken from the furnace. The seams of the deck spluttered and hissed, and as we walked about the pitch stuck to our feet. There was nothing, however, in the sky which betokened a hurricane, while the barometer continued as high as usual.

“I believe it is only an ordinary calm,” observed the captain to the first mate, as they stood under the shade of the mainsail, which hung down without giving a single lazy flap.

“It might, however, be better to take in our light canvas in case a sudden squall should strike us,” observed Uncle Jack. “It will give the hands something to do, and we can easily make sail again should a breeze spring up.”

“I hope that we may get one before long, for we are drifting in faster than I like to the land; we will get the cable ranged ready to bring up should it become necessary. The wind when it comes may blow off shore, but it may blow on it and we shall be compelled to anchor.”

“If we can find sufficiently shallow water outside the breakers,” observed Uncle Jack, as he stepped out from under the shelter of the sail to give the orders he had received.

Having sprung aloft, I had just assisted in furling the main-topgallant-sails and had returned on deck, when I felt the brig give a heave and suddenly tremble throughout her frame for several seconds. We cast inquiring looks at each other, wondering what could have happened. The first mate, taking a lead-line, hove it overboard, thinking it possible that the vessel had struck a reef.

“No bottom!” he exclaimed in a tone of satisfaction. “What can it be?”

“Little doubt about that,” observed the captain, “an earthquake is taking place, see what’s happening there,” and he pointed to the island.

As he spoke a dense volume of smoke, followed by ruddy flames, was seen to ascend from the summit of the cone, while the whole island—from which a dull rumbling sound came off—seemed for a moment to heave. We turned out glasses towards it. All was quiet, but presently we saw the trees waving to and fro, as if shaken by a hurricane, while vast masses of rock rolled down from the summits of the hills into the valleys below. Every instant the eruption from the volcano was increasing. In a short time the sky became shrouded by a dense black cloud. Showers of fine cinders fell on our decks, covering also the hitherto blue ocean with a black scum. A red mass of lava bubbled up, as if from some mighty cauldron, above the edge of the crater, and fiery streams began to flow down the sides of the mountain, some taking a course towards the ocean, others making their way in the direction of the valleys, threatening to seize in their course on the tall trees, those near the summit being quickly ablaze. With fearful rapidity the conflagration spread, up the hills, across the plains, sweeping over the plantations and destroying the dwellings of the unfortunate inhabitants. It seemed impossible that a single human being could escape. For some hours we watched the dreadful scene.

“If you will give me leave, sir, I’ll go in and try to save some of the poor people,” said the first mate. “It seems to me that we might approach yonder point without risk. I see a village a short distance inland, and that cannot long escape destruction, so that the people will try to escape to the point, and we might take off some of them. Others may be saved on board their own craft lying in the harbour to the southward. As far as I can make out there are no boats abreast of us.”

“Be quick about it, then, Radburn, for we must not leave the brig short-handed,” said the captain.

Blyth and I at once volunteered to go, as did Ned and Bell, thus leaving the vessel with her full complement of men. A boat was lowered and away we pulled. The ashes continued to fall, and the oppressive heat made it difficult to breathe. We pulled on, anxious to save as many of our fellow-creatures as we could. As we approached the point we saw a number of persons rushing towards the end, carrying all sorts of articles on their backs, and others following. Good reason they had to hasten, for the woods at the back of the village were already blazing furiously, and in another minute it would be in flames.

“We must allow only a dozen to enter the first boat,” said Uncle Jack; “if more are taken on board we shall run the risk of being swamped. It seems cruel to those left behind, but we must be determined, and try to make another trip.”

As we got nearer, so heavily did the surf break on the extreme end of the point, that it seemed scarcely possible we ourselves should escape destruction. On getting in closer, however, we discovered a bay into which we could run. As soon as the people saw the boat, they rushed towards us holding out their arms. We told Bell to shout to them and say that we could take only a few at a time, but would return for the rest, and that we must save the women and children first. The men did not seem to understand this, and we literally had to drive them back, while we dragged in the poor women, mostly with infants or young children in their arms. With these we could carry many more, and we got on board upwards of twenty. Those who remained shrieked and cried, wringing their hands and pointing to the flames as we shoved off.

We bent to our oars as well as we could, crowded as the boat was, and made our way back to the brig. The crew stood ready to haul the poor people upon deck.

“You might venture to send another boat, sir,” cried Uncle Jack; “there is no sign of wind, and many more might be saved.”

He did not stop, however, for the captain’s answer, but the moment the women and children were out of the boat away we pulled again for the land. We had not got far when, to my satisfaction, I saw that another boat had been lowered, and before we reached the shore she overtook us, under the charge of Mr Crowfoot.

Uncle Jack warned him not to overload his boat. We followed the same plan as before, taking in this time several men, which brought the boat down deep in the water, although we had fewer persons on board than on the first trip. It was piteous to hear the cries of the poor wretches we were compelled to leave behind. Their village had disappeared, and the flames were seizing on every tree and bush up to the inner part of the rocky point. At any moment a fiery shower might come falling down and envelope them. The heat was greater than ever, and the dust and ashes, which came showering down upon upon us, almost overpowering. Uncle Jack, thinking only of saving life, scarcely heeded this. Again we pulled back to the brig.

“You have done enough, Radburn. Your lives will be endangered if you return,” cried the captain.

“Only one more trip! Just let me take one more trip, sir,” answered the first mate.

The captain could not refuse. The boatswain followed us. We reached the little bay in safety. As I looked up at the mountain I saw that the eruption had become more violent than ever. The lurid flames, casting a light over the whole bland, enabled us to see objects as clearly as in the day-time. We were engaged in taking the people in, our boat was almost full, when Uncle Jack cried out, hauling in another poor man as he did so.

“Shove off, pull away for your lives, my lads!”

Looking up for an instant I saw that a fresh outbreak of the mountain was taking place. Stones, cinders, and ashes came bursting through the air, and crashing down not many hundred yards it seemed from where we lay. The ocean, too, was fearfully agitated, and wave upon wave with loud roars rolled towards the beach. The people on shore stretched out their arms imploring us to take them in, but we could not save them. Had we attempted it our destruction would have been inevitable. The boat’s head had been got round, and we pulled as we had never pulled before. The fearful shower rapidly increased. A boiling sea washed over the point, and the hapless beings who stood there disappeared. Not a cry was heard, their death had been instantaneous. Even those who had endeavoured to escape by swimming must have been in a moment overwhelmed. Fast as we pulled, the shower of ashes from the mountain seemed to be following us still faster, and we could see that the shower stretched away even towards the ship.

Happily the calm continued, and we succeeded in getting on board. The poor people we had rescued, while profuse in expressing their thanks to us, gave vent to their grief at the loss of their relations and friends. We understood also from them that there were other villages in the interior, which, with all their inhabitants, must have been utterly destroyed.

We afterwards heard that two thousand persons perished. The people on board were of the Malay race, and, except through our interpreters, Ned and Charley, we could not understand a word they said; indeed, the two seamen could only partly make out their language. We ourselves were not altogether satisfied with our position. A strong wind might spring up and drive us on shore, and we were still so near the volcano that it might cover us, not only with ashes, but with huge masses of rock and stones, which might come crashing down upon us and send us to the bottom. All hands were on deck ready to trim sails the moment the wind should come. We had not long to wait. A loud rushing sound was heard. The canvas gave several loud flaps. The captain had feared that the heat from the burning island might draw the wind towards us. So it did, but, happily for us, it came from the north-west, though we could not tell to what quarter it might suddenly shift.

The yards were braced up on the starboard tack, and we stood away from the island, with the blazing forests on our port-quarter.

The captain’s great object now was to get a good offing from Sanguir. He did not intend to bear up for Menado until daylight. It was important that we should reach it without delay to land our passengers, as they would soon exhaust our water and provisions. We did our best to attend to the poor people, but they would not be comforted. They thought of their homes and relatives destroyed, and knew not what hardships they might have to endure. As we got to a distance from the island we could see far away to the southward another bright blaze which rose from the volcano of Sias, also in a state of eruption. On looking at the chart we saw that there was a line of many others, some in the northern end of Celebes, others in Gillolo, extending northward and all the way round to the west through Java. We could only hope that those in the direction to which we were steering might not also burst forth. The wind continued favourable and moderate. When the people heard from Ned where we were going they were in a great fright, declaring that the inhabitants were “head hunters,” and that they should all be killed.

When Ned told me this I inquired of the captain if they had any foundation for their fears. He replied that formerly the inhabitants of that part of Celebes were as savage as those of other portions, but that the Dutch have used every possible means to civilise them by giving them employment, introducing commerce, establishing schools, and sending missionaries among them, and that thus a wilderness, inhabited by naked savages, who were wont to garnish their rude houses with human heads, had been converted into a smiling region, with a civilised community.

The next day we made the northern end of Celebes, for which we were steering, and before dark anchored off the pretty little town of Menado. As we looked at it from our anchorage we could see rows of rustic houses, with broad paths between them forming streets, mostly at right angles with each other.

In several directions roads branched off towards the interior, also lined by a succession of cottages surrounded by gardens and plantations. The captain and Blyth immediately went on shore to visit the President or Governor, who, on hearing what had happened, allowed us to land our passengers, promising to look after them, and give them plenty of employment if they were inclined to labour. We were thankful to get them out of the brig, and their fears being dissipated when they saw the civilised state of the country, they thanked us for the kindness shown them, and we parted good friends.

We afterwards called on an English merchant long settled here, who assured us that the people would be well cared for and sent back should they wish it to Sanguir, when information could be received that the volcano was once more at rest. The chief production of the district is coffee, of which we shipped a considerable quantity as freight. We found the account given by the captain in no way exaggerated, and we could easily believe, as asserted, that the inhabitants are the most industrious, peaceable, and civilised, that they are better educated, better clothed, better housed, and better fed of any of the natives of the vast archipelago. Commerce, a paternal, though somewhat despotic Government, and education, combined with Christian missionary effort, has worked the wonderful change in less than forty years. Our friend, who had a house in the country, took Mr Blyth and me up to see his plantations, as also a menagerie which he had formed. In passing a piece of open ground we caught sight of a number of animals, which I supposed to be dogs. They were making their way towards an orchard.

“The rascals!” exclaimed our friend, “they are on a predatory expedition, intending to steal the fruit from yonder trees.”

Jumping off his horse, and taking his gun, which his servant carried, he ran towards them. They did not appear to notice him until he was within shot of them. He fired, when one fell and the rest took to flight, quickly scrambling up the trees of the forest, which extended towards us to within a short distance where they were lost to sight. On examining the creature he had killed I found it to be about the size of a spaniel, of a jet black colour, with the projecting dog-like muzzle and overhanging brows of a baboon. It had large callosities, and a scarcely visible tail, not an inch in length.

Our friend told us that these creatures were monkeys, though more like baboons, that descending from the trees where they live, they often invade orchards and gardens, and commit great havoc. Our friend’s house was something like an Indian bungalow, though of rougher materials, and was surrounded by a fine garden and orchard, with extensive plantations in the rear. I cannot describe more than two of the animals in his menagerie. One was the Tapiutan, which from its appearance I could not say whether it should be called a cow, a buffalo, or an antelope. It was of the size of a very small Highland cow, and had long straight horns, which were ringed at the base, and sloped backwards over the neck.

The strangest animal he showed us was called the Babirusa, which resembled in general appearance a pig, but it had long and slender legs, and tusks curved upwards so as to look like horns. Those of the lower jaw were long and sharp, but the upper ones grew upwards out of bony sockets through the skin on each side of the snout, curving backwards to near the eyes, and were ten inches long. Our friend told us that it is found over the whole island. He supposed the object of the curling tusks was to preserve the eyes of the animal when searching for the fallen fruits on which it lives among the tangled thickets of spring plants. Though the female does not possess them, perhaps the male gallantly clears the way for her so as to render them unnecessary. However, I must not stop to give a longer description of this interesting place, or many others we saw; I indeed made only two trips ashore, as I had to be on board attending to my duty.

Chapter Five.

Once more the anchor was weighed, and we were about to stand out of the picturesque bay of Menado the moment a boat, in which Mr Blyth had gone on shore to bring off a supply of fresh provisions, returned.

Ned, who had been one of the crew, as soon as the sails were set, came up to me. “I’ve just heard something, sir, which may or may not be of importance,” he said. “I was talking to one of the men we brought off from Sanguir, when he confessed to me that he had been on board the prahu which took me off the shore where we were wrecked. I think he spoke the truth when he told me how I kicked when the pirates made me take an oar and pull with the black fellows they had, I suppose, made slaves of. I asked him if he could tell me where the place was. He answered that it was on the shores of a large island—a very large one, I should think, and away somewhere to the eastward, for he pointed in that direction, though I could not make out exactly how far off it was.”

I was deeply interested, and told him that he ought to have brought the man on board that we might have examined him more particularly with the aid of Bell and Kalong.

“He would have been afraid to trust himself, sir,” answered Ned; “as he owned that he had been a pirate, he was afraid that the captain or the Dutch might punish him.”

I immediately communicated what I had heard to the first mate, who told the captain. They sent for Ned, who, as he said that he had got all the information he could out of the Malay, they did not propose putting back, as I fancied they would have done. I do not think that the captain was sanguine about finding any of the “Amphion’s” crew, though Uncle Jack kept up his hopes and mine.

“It may be like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay; still, if we search long enough, the needle will be found,” he remarked. “As long as the captain will agree we will continue the search.”

Rounding the northern end of Celebes, we crossed the Molucca passage for Ternate, where we were to call. It is a small island off the coast of the large but little known one of Gillolo. As we approached we saw rising out of the sea in a line several conical-shaped mountains, four thousand feet in height, one of which the captain said was Ternate, for which we were bound. Passing between that island and Tidore, of even greater height, we anchored before the town which stretches along the shore, while the mountain overhanging it was clothed to a considerable height with trees and spice plantations. The scenery was truly magnificent, but as we thought of the eruption of Sanguir, we saw in what a moment the whole town and neighbourhood might be reduced to desolation should an eruption burst forth from the mountains which rose so grandly above our heads. We remained here four days, during which an earthquake—an event of frequent occurrence—took place.

I grudged every moment’s delay, and was thankful when we once more were steering southward. We were sailing on with a light breeze through a perfectly smooth sea, when a dull roaring sound was heard, like a heavy surf astern. The roar rapidly increased, and we saw a white line of foam rolling on. Thinking that it might be the precursor of a hurricane, we clewed up the topsails, but as the wave passed we rode easily over it with the same sort of movement which is felt when entering a river across a bar. It was followed with a short interval by another of similar character, succeeded with greater rapidity by ten or twelve more, when the sea became as smooth as before. The captain had no doubt that these waves were caused by an earthquake occurring at some distance to the northward. While at Ternate we heard that a suspicious fleet of large prahus had been seen steering to the southward. It was intended, should a Dutch man-of-war arrive, to send her to watch their proceedings. We were advised to keep a sharp look-out for the pirates, and avoid them if we could. “If they think you are Dutch, they’ll be cautious how they molest you; but if they suppose that you belong to any other nation, they are very likely to try and plunder you, as they are aware that no men-of-war except those of the Dutch are accustomed to cruise in these seas,” said our friend, an English merchant residing in the place.

Captain Haiselden thanked his informant, and replied that we had already fallen in with such gentry, and knew how to deal with them.

“But these are larger and more formidable craft than those by which you were before attacked. If they once get alongside your brig, you will find it a difficult matter to beat them off,” was the reply.

Wherever we touched we made inquiries about the “Amphion,” but as yet we had only the information gained through Ned from the Sanguir Malay to guide us. She might have been lost at Gillolo itself, and yet the Dutch might not have heard of it, as but very irregular intercourse is kept up between the different parts of that little known island.

Proceeding south we passed between the islands of Bouro and Ceram, calling at Amboina and Banda, spice islands belonging to the Dutch.

We were steering to the east when land was sighted from the mast-head on the starboard bow. I went aloft. It was a small island, one of many extending directly across our course. Intending to pass to the northward of it we luffed up a little, when, after standing on some way further, I was again sent to the mast-head, to see if I could discover any intervening coral reefs or any others running out from it. I could discover no variation of colour in the sea to indicate the existence of hidden reefs in our course, but my eye fell on a dark object, a mile, or it may have been less, from the shore. At the first glance I thought it was a rock rising out of the water, but on descending to the cross-trees and looking through my glass I saw that the object was a ship on a reef, heeling over to one side, with, as far as I could make out, her topmasts, if not her lower masts, gone; at all events she had no canvas set. On coming down to the deck, I told the first mate, who had charge of the watch, and he went aloft and had a look at her also.

“She’s in a dangerous position, and I fear is wrecked,” he observed. “We must get up to her, and try to render her assistance. If she’s not to be got off, we shall have to take her people on board.”

“Has she been driven by a gale on the reef, do you think?” I asked.

“No; I should say that she was brought up by it, and that the tide has since fallen, leaving her in her present position, so that when it rises she may be got off.”

While we were speaking the sails gave several flaps against the masts, a sign that the wind had suddenly fallen, and we lay becalmed. This was the more tantalising as we were anxious to go to the assistance of the ship.

I went below to inform the captain, who at once came on deck, and, after looking round the horizon, said that he thought a breeze would soon again spring up, and that we would then stand towards the ship and see what we could do, adding, “in the meantime, as the tide rises she may probably haul off without our assistance.”

“I should like to take one of the boats and pull on board her,” observed Uncle Jack.

“As it must be several hours before you could be back again, the weather might in the meantime change; so that I cannot consent to your going,” answered the captain, in a tone which prevented the first mate from making a reply.

Still Uncle Jack, not satisfied, walked the deck uneasily. He wished at once to relieve the anxiety of those on board the ship by letting them know that assistance was near should they not have observed the brig.

Hour after hour passed by, darkness came on, and still no breeze ruffled the surface of the ocean. All night long the calm continued.

As soon as daylight broke, I was again aloft looking out for the ship. There she lay in the same position as before; it was evident that whatever exertions had been made to get her off, they had been unsuccessful. I was about to come on deck again, when, sweeping my glass round to the northward, I made out another island of large size apparently. Between it and where the ship lay I fancied that I could distinguish a number of small black dots, so faint, however, that had I not steadied my glass, which was a very good one, I should not have observed them. Recollecting what we had heard about the pirate fleet, a fear seized me at once that they might be prahus, and that they were on their way to pillage the wreck, which they must have discovered while lying off the northern island. Whether they had discovered us it was impossible to say, but they certainly would do so when the sun rose and shone on our canvas.

I at once came down and told the first mate, who took a hurried glance round the horizon in the hopes of discovering the signs of a coming breeze.

“I must get the captain to let me take a boat to warn the crew of the ship of their danger, and to assist them if they are attacked,” he exclaimed. “We may get there before the prahus, which do not pull as fast as they can sail, and a few well-armed men may turn the scale against them; but I’ll have a look at them first.”

Taking the glass he sprang aloft. Directly afterwards the captain appeared and asked him what he was looking at. I told him.

“I hope we shall get a breeze, for if the pirates, as I suppose they are, see us boldly standing towards them, they will hesitate before they meddle with the wreck,” he remarked, now apparently as anxious about the vessel on shore as we had been. “It may have a good effect if we hoist a pendant and the Dutch flag and fire a gun. They will take us for a man-of-war, and probably be off again as fast as they can pull; but it is the breeze we want, the breeze! Without that we are helpless.”

The first mate soon came down from aloft and again proffered his request.

“I dare not give you leave,” answered the captain. “What could one or even two boats do against those prahus, with twenty or thirty well-armed men in each? You might be cut off, even before you could reach the wreck; and if you were on board, you would be able to do but little to defend her, as in the position she lies she could not work her guns if she had any.”

I was almost surprised at the way Uncle Jack pleaded to be allowed to go.

“It is impossible,” replied the captain, “I could not reconcile it to my conscience. We might lose half the ship’s company, and be unable to defend the brig ourselves.”

I never saw the first mate so put out as he was at this answer. He turned away and continued walking the deck with uneasy strides until he seemed almost beside himself. He again went aloft and stood watching the prahus through his glass, occasionally turning his eye round the horizon, and then he shouted, “A breeze! A breeze coming up from the south-west!” The next instant down he slid on deck.

The vessel’s head, which had been turning now to one point of the compass now to another, was fortunately just then turned in the right way.

The captain kept a sharp look-out in the direction from whence the wind was coming, to judge whether it was likely to be a strong or a light breeze.

“Set the royals, Radburn. We need not be afraid of it.”

The order was quickly obeyed. Scarcely were the sails sheeted home than they blew gently out. The topgallant-sails did the same; the topsails soon filled. The brig gathering way steered a little to the northward so as to intercept the prahus.

We were thankful for the breeze, but we would rather have avoided a struggle.

“You’ll have the studding-sails set, sir?” said Uncle Jack, scarcely waiting for an answer before he gave the order, and sprang forward to assist in carrying it out.

We soon had the studding-sails below and aloft, still the brig did not move along as rapidly as we wished. By this time the pirates might have seen us, as the sun was shining brightly on our royals and topgallant-sails, though we could not make them out except from aloft.

We were not long in manufacturing a Dutch pennant, which was run up to the main-royal mast-head. It was doubtful, however, whether it would be seen, or, if seen, have the effect we hoped for. The pirates, observing how light the wind was, would know that they could pull away beyond our reach.

Again and again Uncle Jack went aloft, until we got near enough to distinguish not only the ship on the reef but the prahus from the deck, which were approaching fearfully near her; the guns were loaded and the small arms got ready for immediate use. Most of the men were ready enough for a fight, if a fight was to take place, but the second mate looked downcast as usual, and I heard him muttering—

“We have enough to do to look after ourselves, without fighting for other people.”

This was said for the first mate to hear, but Uncle Jack turned away without making any observation.

The prahus, although we must have been seen, still continued their course. Sometimes the hope came across me that they might not be intending to attack the ship ashore; but it was scarcely to be thought that they were going to render her assistance. As we examined them through our glasses, we could see that they were large war prahus with numerous crews. The breeze filled our sails, but continued light as at first, and we had done all that was possible to make the brig move through the water.

Two prahus, apparently the fastest, were leading, and were already scarcely more than two miles off, while we were at a much greater distance. They would be up to the ship in twenty minutes or so, and it would take them but a fearfully short time to perform their work of murder and pillage if they were so minded. Still we hoped that the crew would fight, and, at all events, keep them at bay until we could come up. The pirates were calculating, it was evident, on the wind falling, of which there appeared every probability. Several times the lower canvas had given some ominous flaps against the masts, while the studding-sails hung down from the booms emptied of wind; still the royals filled and forced the brig along.

Our glasses were constantly turned, now towards the ship on shore, now towards the pirate fleet. It showed great hardihood on the part of the Malays that they should still continue their course, while our vessel, which they must have supposed to be a man-of-war, was so close to them. They were trusting, we thought, to their numbers, and to the rapidity with which they could make their escape among the coral reefs, where no sailing vessel could follow them. They were getting closer and closer, while we were making scarcely two knots an hour through the water. What means of defence the ship might possess we could not tell. Even if she had guns she would, as the captain remarked, be unable to work them with her deck inclined as it now was. We could only hope that the tide was rising, and that if so she might get on an even keel, although her crew might not be able to haul her off.

We carried, I should have said, a light whale boat, remarkable for her speed; she pulled four oars, and held three persons besides. The wind provokingly tantalised us, now it filled the sails and then again allowed them to hang loosely down from the yards.

I had gone forward with the first mate that we might watch the ship and the headmost of the prahus. He several times sent me aft that I might take a look astern to see if there were any signs of the breeze increasing. On each occasion I had to make the same report.

“She’s lifting, she’s lifting?” exclaimed Uncle Jack, at length; “see, she’s making signals. Run, Harry, and get the signal book, we will try and learn what she is saying.”

I quickly returned with the book, but the wind was so light that the flags did not blow out. “A breath of air for a single moment would enable us to see what they are,” observed the first mate, watching them through his telescope. Just then one flag flew out, it was to signify that the others made the number of the ship. I turned to the right place in the signal book; presently all the flags flew out together, it was but for an instant. The first mate rapidly turned over the pages.

“I feared so from the first,” he exclaimed; “the captain cannot refuse to let me go, she is the ‘Iris.’ The pirates have a current against them, or they would have made faster progress. We’ll get on board before them yet. Who will volunteer, lads?”

Several of the men replied, “I’m ready!”

We hurried aft, and he entreated the captain to let him have the whale boat. At first I thought the captain was going to refuse.

“We may still hope to be up in time to attack the prahus, and they will not long stand the fire from our guns,” he answered. “I don’t like to risk your life and those of the people you may take with you.”

“I’ll take care that we are not caught by them, and I hope that we shall get on board before they can reach the ship,” said the first mate.

“Remember, Radburn, the lives of the boat’s crew are committed to your charge, and though I shall be glad to help Captain Bingley, you must turn back rather than risk an encounter in the boat with the pirates.”

“I will do as you order, sir,” answered Uncle Jack, eagerly springing to the falls and singing out for volunteers.

The captain, however, would positively allow only four hands to go, including Ned and Bell, another Englishman, and a Malay. I entreated that I might accompany him, and Blyth volunteered. The captain gave me leave, though Uncle Jack hesitated. Several more of the men came aft.

“It cannot be,” said the captain, “we must keep hands enough to fight the brig.”

While the boat was being lowered, arms were collected; each man stuck a brace of pistols in his belt, and we had muskets, cutlasses, and several pikes. The captain would not allow us to take more, observing justly that they might be required on board the brig. We really had no reason to complain of his readiness to assist out friends. Not a minute had elapsed before we were ready, and getting out the oars away we pulled, the first mate, of course, steering.

We steered slightly to the south as the current was setting north, which of course made the distance longer. I could not help confessing to myself that it was very doubtful whether we should reach the ship before the prahus.

While the mate steered, Blyth and I employed ourselves in loading the arms. Our men pulled as hard as they could bend their backs to the oars. They believed that if we could once gain the ship’s deck, that we should succeed in driving back the pirates as well as we had done on board the brig. We could not tell whether we had been seen from the prahus, but those on board the ship would, we hoped, make out the signal hoisted at the mast-head of the “Lily,” that a boat was coming to their assistance, and that this would encourage them to defend themselves should they be attacked before we could reach them. I had never before felt the intense anxiety I now experienced, and I knew how Uncle Jack must be feeling.

We were now rapidly nearing both the leading prahus and the ship, and we could even distinguish the fighting men on the decks of the former, with their gingalls and muskets or spears in their hands, though we could not make out whether they had any guns in their bows.

Captain Bingley had laughed at our carrying so many guns, and Uncle Jack said that when the “Iris” sailed she had only two six-pounders for firing signals. Whether others had afterwards been shipped he could not tell; even the two small ones it was possible might have been hove overboard to lighten the ship.

As I before said the tide was rising, and we remarked that the “Iris” had lifted considerably since we left the brig. I need not say that I very often turned my eyes towards the “Lily” to see if she was moving faster than before. Though still gliding on through the smooth water, it was at a slow pace. Already the leading prahus were within a quarter of a mile of the ship, when their crews ceased rowing. In a short time we saw that it was only to allow some of the others to come up, apparently that they might make their attack together. The delay was of advantage to us. We were near enough to see our friends, who had been anxiously watching us, waving signals from the forecastle. They of course knew who we were. I thought I saw two female dresses. I could hardly be mistaken. But presently they disappeared; probably Captain Bingley had ordered his wife and daughter below to be out of the way of any missiles the pirates might discharge.

“We shall do it, we shall do it. Give way, my fine lads!” cried Uncle Jack; and the crew pulled until I feared they might spring their oars.

We had another danger to encounter, that of running on any intervening coral reefs, and the first mate stood up that he might obtain as far a view as possible ahead. I had been so engaged in watching the prahus, that I had not for some minutes looked at the brig.

“Hurrah!” I shouted, “she’s got the breeze at last, and is coming on bravely.”

“Thank heaven!” exclaimed Uncle Jack.

At that moment the fighting men on board two of the prahus, which had again got ahead of the others, began firing away at the ship. Not a shot was returned from her. This made me fear that she had no means of defence. On we dashed; even now we might be on board before the prahus got alongside. We were, it should be understood, approaching on the port bow, towards which, for obvious reasons, the mate had steered. The next instant we had hooked on, ladders and ropes were lowered down to enable us to get on board.

“Hoist in the boat, or the pirates may get her!” I heard Captain Bingley shout out.

She was dropped under the davits. We found only, besides Captain Bingley and the mates, half a dozen of the men with firearms, the others had either pikes or boat-hooks, or such weapons as might serve for a hand-to-hand tussle, but could not have prevented the pirates from boarding. We had no time to ask questions, for two of the prahus were almost alongside; hurrying across the deck, we stood with our muskets pointed at them, telling Ned to shout in a loud voice and threaten them with a fearful retribution should they attack us. As they still came on we fired a well-aimed volley at the two nearest, bringing several of their warriors to the deck, while we quickly again loaded. In another instant they might have been attempting to clamber up the sides of the ship, when the people on board the other prahus saw the approach of the brig, which almost immediately opened fire with her long gun run out through her bow port. A panic on this seized most of the fleet, and pulling round away they went, leaving their leaders to their fate. The latter seeing themselves deserted, cast off and pulled away with all their might, their object being to avoid the which continued firing her long gun as fast as it could be loaded. We and the crew of the “Iris” raised a loud cheer as we saw that we had driven off our foes. Though we had had happily but little fighting, Uncle Jack had no doubt by his promptitude saved the ship from being boarded, when in a few minutes every one belonging to her might have been put to death.

Captain Bingley, hurrying up to Uncle Jack and grasping his hand, exclaimed—

“You have saved our lives, Radburn. I thank you from my heart, and there are those below who desire to thank you too.”

He then thanked Blyth and me, and our boat’s crew, who undoubtedly deserved it from the way they had pulled.

I found that a cable had been carried out astern, and that preparations had been made for hauling off the ship at high water, which, as the sea had remained perfectly calm, the captain hoped to do without her having suffered material damage. She was now rapidly regaining her perpendicular position, and in a few minutes would be on an even keel. The brig, after following the pirates for a short distance, had hove to Captain Haiselden had no fancy for running in among the rocks.

Jack Radburn was soon on deck. “They are all right, I am thankful to say,” he observed to me; “they want to thank you and Mr Blyth as soon as you can go below, for coming to their assistance.”

By this time, the tide having risen, the ship was once more perfectly upright. The capstan palls were shipped, away we tramped round and round, straining every nerve. In vain we hove, the cable was strained to its utmost, but not an inch did we move. I saw the captain and his mates making long faces as if they thought that the ship was irretrievably lost. Uncle Jack cheered on the men. Already all the water had been started, and some of the heavy part of the cargo.

“Never fear, lads,” he shouted, “we must heave a few more packages overboard if we don’t move soon; but try again, lads, try again.”

We pressed against the capstan bars with all our might. Just then I felt her start.

“She moves, she moves!” burst from every mouth.

I shall never forget the delight we felt. Round went the capstan bars. Again and again we cheered.

We were dragging her off, it must be understood, stern first, exactly as she had come on, so that had any coral points existed they must have been torn away. By persevering, in a few minutes she was afloat; and by means of a hawser secured to the cable, it was brought round to the bows, and the ship rode safely at anchor.

Chapter Six.

On finding the ship afloat the crew in their joy shook hands all round. There was enough work, however, to be done. The carpenter first sounded the well.

No more water than usual was found in her. It was hoped, therefore, that she had not received any material damage. We had, however, to get up the topmasts and topgallant-masts, the yards across, to weigh the anchors and guns, which had been hove overboard, and no end of other work to accomplish.

We had not been long at anchor before the “Lily,” furling sails, brought up a short distance outside of us, and Captain Haiselden with a boat’s crew came on board. In spite of the hot sun, we worked hard all day, Uncle Jack, as may be supposed, setting us a good example. Grace, though pale from the alarm she had endured, was as blooming as ever. “Why, I shouldn’t have known you,” she said, looking at me and coming up to shake hands; “Mamma and I are so grateful to you for the assistance you brought us.”

She also thanked Mr Blyth in the same way, I saw that her eye was ranging over the deck in search of Uncle Jack, who was working as hard as any of the men to get the ship to rights.

As the weather was fine we remained at anchor during the night, keeping a very bright look-out lest the pirates might come back; but impressed with the idea that the brig was a Dutch man-of-war, without dreaming of again attacking us, they were probably making the best of their way to the northward, to escape the pursuit they expected. By evening the next day the ship was all ataunto. Captain Haiselden, who had returned to the “Lily,” again came on board to hold a consultation as to our future proceedings. The “Iris,” having started most of her water, had before she could venture any distance from the land to procure a fresh supply. The island on which she had been so nearly wrecked afforded none. The nearest places at which it certainly could be obtained were either at Banda, to the west, or the coast of New Guinea to the east, which was still much nearer.

Captain Bingley proposed sailing west for Banda, but when Captain Haiselden told him that we had on board a man belonging to the “Amphion,” who stated that she had not been wrecked in the way described by Howlett and Trinder, but had been driven on the shore of a large island to the eastward, he exclaimed—

“Then, after all, that may have been the remains of the ‘Amphion’ herself, which we fancied we saw not a week ago, driven in among the rocks on the coast of New Guinea.”

He told us that the current had carried the “Iris” in with the coast much closer than he intended to go; while endeavouring to haul off, under a press of sail, one of the hands aloft declared that he saw what looked like a vessel with her masts gone, inside a reef over which she must have been driven. The mates had both gone aloft. The one agreed that the man was right, the other, who looked as the first had done, through a telescope, declaring that “although very like the shattered hull of a ship, it was only a rock of a peculiar shape.” As the safety of the “Iris” depended upon her clawing off the shore, it had been impossible to make any further examination, and he had been inclined to think that those who fancied they had seen a wreck were mistaken. At all events, if any of her crew had escaped on shore, he was not in a position to render them any assistance. I watched Uncle Jack’s countenance as Captain Bingley was speaking. I guessed what was passing in his mind, though he said nothing then.

“I wouldn’t have passed a spot where I thought our countrymen were in slavery without trying to help them,” he remarked to me shortly afterwards. “We must go there, Harry, if Captain Bingley refuses to come; our captain will I am sure do his best to visit the spot. I don’t blame Captain Bingley, with his wife and daughter on board, for not making the attempt to ascertain if that was really a wreck, though he might have got a safe offing and then sent in a boat.”

When Captain Bingley heard of the possibility of the wreck being the “Amphion,” he at once agreed to accompany the “Lily” to the neighbourhood of the spot, and to make every effort to try and rescue any of the crew who might be found on shore.

I rather suspect Grace and Mrs Bingley being present greatly influenced him. Not to run the risk of remaining at anchor in so dangerous a place another night, we returned on board the “Lily,” when both the brig and ship made sail to the north-east, a course which would carry us close to where the wreck had been seen.

According to the charts, not far off was a bay which had been visited by ships, where abundance of good water could be found. It was agreed, should we discover a harbour, where it was said one existed, that we would anchor within it and send the boats along the coast to the neighbourhood of the wreck.

On the morning of the fourth day after the “Iris” had been got afloat, land was sighted on the starboard bow, as also right ahead, extending from the east a considerable distance to the west, forming apparently a point running out from New Guinea.

Captain Bingley made a signal that the wreck was somewhere abreast of us, but he advised that we should stand into the harbour as proposed. Approaching nearer we made out several channels apparently between islands, inside of which we might at all events find good anchorage. Captain Haiselden offered to lead the way, and shortening sail, with the lead going, we stood on.

The water was deep, the hills rising on either side of us covered with the richest vegetation. Rounding a point we presently found ourselves in a beautiful land-locked harbour, from the sandy shore of which rose heights, covered like the island with fine trees of varied foliage, while a glittering cascade falling from above formed a bright stream which made its way into the bay.

Having brought up as agreed on, we fired a gun, and Uncle Jack pulled off in the whale boat to pilot in the “Iris,” which had hove to outside. In a short time we had the satisfaction of seeing her rounding the point, and she brought up near us. As she by this time had almost exhausted her stock of water, her boats and ours went in to obtain a supply. Hitherto no natives had been seen, but in case any should make their appearance, we had a guard with loaded muskets ready to protect the watering party. It occurred to us that had there been any natives in the neighbourhood the sound of our gun, which reverberated loudly among the hills, might have kept them at a distance. The operation of watering occupied us for the greater part of the day, and it was agreed that it was too late to set off in the boats until the following morning. In the meantime every preparation was made for the proposed expedition.

The chart, which was very imperfect, helped us but little, but by Captain Bingley’s calculations the wreck was about twenty miles to the southward, which might take us, should the weather continue favourable, five or six hours to reach. We were to go on shore at the most convenient landing-place we could find to the northward of the spot, and try and open up a communication with any of the natives we might see, not knowing whether they might prove utter savages or semi-civilised, like the Malay tribes inhabiting many of the islands in the neighbourhood. We were to carry goods of various descriptions, axes and knives and coloured cloth, as well as beads and rings and looking-glasses.

I scarcely slept a wink during my watch below, thinking of the possibility of meeting with my father before the next day was over. I was to accompany Uncle Jack in the whale boat, in which as usual Ned and Bell were to pull. Our jolly-boat, under the charge of the boatswain, with Blyth, was also to come, and Captain Bingley agreed to accompany us in his long boat with a well-armed crew of six hands. We should thus muster pretty strong, and we might hope should the natives not prove friendly to keep them in awe. At daylight the following morning we started on our expedition. As there was a light breeze in our favour we were able to make sail, and to run down the coast, keeping within half a mile of the shore. It was generally rock-bound, but here and there were sandy bays, beyond which appeared a dense vegetation, a number of lofty trees rising above the brushwood. Sometimes we caught sight of bright streams making their way to the ocean, showing that the land was well watered. In the distance rose hills, many of considerable elevation, covered with trees almost to their summits. Altogether the country had a most attractive appearance. We wished that it could become the abode of civilised people, instead of the debased savages who were now said to inhabit it. After we had stood on for about twenty miles we began eagerly to look out for the wreck, but dark rocks alone met our view, some at a considerable distance from the land, others apparently joined to it.

“I fear that Captain Bingley must, after all, have been mistaken, for I see no signs of the wreck,” I observed.

“We will stand on to the southward, however; he may easily have been deceived as to distance,” answered Uncle Jack.

We had run on another mile or more when, looking back, I saw an object which seemed to me like the shattered hull of a ship. It had been previously hidden by the rocks along which we were coasting, and in a few minutes it would again have been concealed by a high ledge.

“Can that be the wreck?” I exclaimed, pointing it ought to Uncle Jack.

“No doubt about it,” he answered, and he hailed Captain Bingley and Crowfoot.

We lowered our sails, and held a consultation as to how we could best approach the wreck, for such all hands agreed that it was. Uncle Jack accounted for the probability of its not having been seen by passing prahus, by its being concealed by the ledge, although visible over it from the mast-head of a ship. As there appeared to be an opening between the northern and southern ledges with clear water, Uncle Jack proposed to pull in, while the other boats, should he discover a passage, might follow. This was agreed to, and we steered in for the opening, Ned standing up in the bows, with a boat-hook in his hand, to watch for any sunken rocks, and to shove off should we come suddenly upon one. We found the water deeper than we expected, which accounted for the ship being driven in thus far without striking, while the ledges outside afterwards protected her from the seas which, during south-westerly gales, must have beaten on the coast. We found, however, that we could not get nearer.

“That’s her; I have no doubt about it,” exclaimed Ned, as we came full in sight of the wreck.

“I believe he is right,” said Uncle Jack, as he surveyed the remains of the ship—“she is, I should judge, about the size of the ‘Amphion.’”

We first tried to pull up towards her on the western side, but it being low water, so many rocks over which the boat could not pass intervening, we attempted to get round the south-eastern end of the ledge on which she lay, in the hope of finding deep water inside, between her and the land. In this we were not disappointed, and we found that there was a channel, an eighth of a mile wide, of deep water running between her and the beach. On ascertaining this, we pulled back near enough to the entrance, and made a signal for the other boats to come in. The whale boat again leading, we rounded the point and were not disappointed in finding that we could get sufficiently near the wreck to enable us, by scrambling over some rocks, to climb on board. Her masts were gone, the greater part of her upper works had been torn away, and I should not myself have recognised her as the once trim ship my father had commanded. Ned, however, who visited the forecastle, declared positively that she was the “Amphion,” pointing out several marks on the bunks and the heel of the bowsprit.

She had been completely gutted, not an article remaining in her, while attempts had been made apparently to set her on fire. This made us conjecture that she had been visited by Malay pirates, or perhaps by the Papuans from the neighbouring shore, though we saw no canoes by which they might have crossed over. The important point was thus settled, we had found the wreck of the “Amphion.” We had next to ascertain if any of the crew survived.

We could see, however, no natives nor habitations of any sort. This might be accounted for from the fact that, for some distance inside the rocks the country was destitute of streams, and that the vegetation was much less luxuriant than in other parts we had before passed. We had now to determine whether to go further south, or to pull back and land as we had before intended, at the first place where native or other huts could be seen. As we had met with few habitations to the north, and had the greater part of the day before us, it was finally settled to sail further south. From Ned’s account he had, after being cast on shore, been carried in that direction. We got out by the way we had come in, and then again making sail glided on for six or seven miles, when we came off the mouth of a river. Ned at once recognised the place, and said that he remembered a village a short way from the entrance. Accordingly, lowering our sails we pulled towards it. As the water was smooth, we had no difficulty in entering the river. Mangrove trees lined the shores on either side, but after pulling for about a mile, we came to openings, when trees of various sorts appeared. Shortly afterwards we saw on the right bank a number of huts, perched, like those of Borneo, on the tops of high poles, with ladders leading up to them. These, however, stood not on the shore, but on a level bank actually in the water. They were connected with each other by long bridges. The roofs were shaped like boats, bottom upwards. The poles were very irregular, some being twisted, others forked, while the buildings themselves had a dilapidated appearance. The walls were composed, as far as we could judge, of large mats, which, from the way they were secured, must have allowed a free circulation of air. Under the eaves of many of the houses we saw hung up several human skulls, which we supposed were those of enemies killed in war, but were, we afterwards found, the craniums of deceased relatives. Access to the shore from the village was obtained by a single wooden bridge. Hitherto we had seen no inhabitants, though we had no doubt some must have been in their houses, for we observed three or four canoes made fast to the posts below. Not to alarm them, we landed at a little distance where the depth of water enabled us to approach the bank, and taking ashore several of the articles we had brought for bartering, placed some before us, and held others up in our hands. As we kept our weapons concealed, our proceedings had the desired effect. In a few minutes a man’s face with a huge mop-like head of frizzly hair appeared from behind one of the mats, then another and another. The first made his way along the bridge leading to the bank, stopping every now and then as if he doubted his own discretion in thus approaching us. Our friendly signs encouraged him, and he came on with less hesitation, followed by women of all ages, who now came out of the huts. The men were fine-looking fellows, their heads frizzled out in the most extraordinary manner. Most of them wore in their belts a knife and axe, besides smaller knives and a skin pouch, with a bamboo case containing betel root, tobacco, and lime. Most of the women were very unattractive, their dress consisting of strips of palm leaves worn tightly round the body, reaching to the knees and very dirty. The men were employed while watching us in “forking out”—for I cannot call it combing—their heads of hair with large wooden forks having four or five prongs. They wore earrings and necklaces made of white beads or kangaroo teeth. The earrings consisted of thick silver-wire hoops, some of the women having the ends of their necklaces attached to them, and then looped up into a sort of “chignon” behind. The men wore a great number of ornaments composed of the teeth of small animals, and they had finger rings as well as necklaces and bracelets. Some wore bands round their arms, ornamented with bunches of varied-coloured feathers. Others also had on anklets in the form of hoops made of shell, or brass wire, below the knee.

Ned and Charley were now told to try if they could make themselves understood, and to say that we had come as friends to trade with them and to give them all sorts of articles in exchange for the productions of their country, and then to inquire whether they had no white men among them. First Ned addressed them, then Charley. It was pretty evident, however, that the Papuans did not understand a word that was said. We therefore tried what signs would do, and succeeded much better. Having come up to us, they examined the articles we had placed on the ground, when the chief man among them sent back several of the others to the village, who returned laden with mats and baskets, some empty, others full of a white flour, which on examination we found to be sago.

Also baskets of yams, taro, bananas, and other roots, cocoa-nuts, fruits, and oranges. We saw, indeed, a large number of cocoa-nut trees growing in the neighbourhood. We now offered them such of the goods as we had brought as we considered equivalent to the various lots.

Our trading had hitherto gone on well, and we hoped soon thoroughly to gain the confidence of the natives, and be able to make the inquiries we desired.

Kalong had come with us, and as he could not understand us, we told Ned to get him to try what he could do.

We watched him eagerly. After a time the Papuans appeared to understand what he was saying, they replied. He then turned and repeated what they had said to Ned, who told us that the Papuans acknowledged that some white men had been living with them for some time, but that they had been carried off by another tribe, who had come far away from the northward, at some distance from the coast. Before this they had made several attempts to escape, and were building a canoe for the purpose, when the enemy came down and made them prisoners.

Kalong was then directed to inquire what sort of people they were. I listened eagerly for Ned’s interpretation; at last he said—

“One was a chief, who notwithstanding worked as willingly, or more so, than any of the rest, and seemed more anxious than they were to get away.”

This description made me hope that it was my father of whom the Papuan spoke, but I was bitterly disappointed to hear that he had been carried to a distance, as it might still be long before we could find him. Uncle Jack felt as I did.

“We must, notwithstanding, keep up our spirits, Harry,” he said; “there’s no proof that he has lost his life, and as these savages don’t move far from their locations, we may soon have a chance of communicating with him. We must try and get our friends here to help us, and the promise of a large reward may incite their wits and courage. Having succeeded thus far we will not give up the search, and if we can get one of these frizzly-pated gentlemen to act as our guide we will set off at once to look for him.”

Uncle Jack explained his plans to Captain Bingley.

“I should like to make every effort in my power to recover my friend Musgrave, but I dare not risk the loss of any of my people in making the attempt,” he answered.

“Then with your leave, Captain Bingley, I will go alone!” exclaimed Uncle Jack. “Who will volunteer? Ned, I am sure that you will be ready to go and look after your old captain.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” was the answer, “with all my heart.”

“And I’ll go too,” said Bell, who had an eye to trade, and an idea that he might establish an intercourse with the natives, as he had done in Borneo.

Kalong, on being asked, expressed his readiness, provided that we all went well-armed.

“I’ll join you,” said Blyth; “I am sure Captain Haiselden will not object.”

The next point to be arranged was, in the event of our finding my father, where should we rejoin the brig.

Captain Bingley, after some discussion, promised, concluding that Captain Haiselden would agree with him, to run down the coast, and to stand off and on, so as to be ready to take us on board. The appearance of the two vessels would, he hoped, produce a favourable effect on the natives. Uncle Jack thanked him heartily, and agreed that the plan was the best that could be devised. I had hoped that Captain Bingley, on hearing of the possibility of my father being in the neighbourhood, would have marched with our whole force to rescue him, but he observed that so large a party might make the natives suspect that we had come as enemies, whereas a small force would show that we had no hostile intentions, and induce them to behave in a friendly manner towards us.

Blyth now told Ned to inform the natives, through Kalong, that we should be ready to purchase all the sago they could obtain, as well as a small quantity of cocoa-nuts, yams, and other roots or fruits, promising to call for them before we left the coast. The natives, who seemed fully to enter into the spirit of trade, were highly satisfied, and undertook to do as they were advised.

Blyth said that if we could open up a trade with them it might lead to a commercial intercourse with other tribes along the coast, and ultimately, he hoped, to the civilisation of the country; observing, “If we can show the natives that we wish to be friendly, and treat them with justice, we shall render them service while we benefit ourselves.”

As Captain Bingley was anxious to get back before nightfall, his and the boatswain’s boats started on their return, leaving Uncle Jack, Blyth, and me with the three men to carry out our proposed undertaking.

Chapter Seven.

We felt pretty well satisfied of the friendly intentions of the natives, but Uncle Jack considered that it would be prudent to be on our guard, and directed us all to keep close together. We feared, from the long discussion held by the natives, that we should find a difficulty in obtaining guides, none of them being willing to encounter the dangers they expected to meet with. We told Kalong to offer a handsome payment to each man who would accompany us, and at length two fine young fellows stepped forward and agreed to go. They would not, however, consent to start until the following morning at daybreak. They offered one of their huts that we might rest in it at night. We selected one which overhung the stream, so that we might secure our boat beneath and retreat to it if necessary. The inhabitants of the hut, who had no heavy articles of furniture to remove, at once cleared out and gave us possession.

As evening approached we saw them cooking in large earthen bowls. Supper consisted of yams, vegetables, fish, and pork, some dishes being seasoned with cocoa-nut, finely shred over them, and all very well cooked. This showed us that the natives were not the savages they have so generally been represented to be, and the hospitable treatment we received gave us confidence that they intended to act honestly.

Night passed away quietly, and the next morning, after a further supply of cooked provisions had been brought us, our two guides said that they were ready to start. They told Kalong that they intended to row along the coast some distance to the eastward, where there was a bay in which we could land, and from thence proceed directly towards a village perched on the side of a mountain, where the white men had been living when last heard of.

We agreed at once to embark. Pulling down the river, for there was no wind for sailing, we steered as the natives directed. The shore, as far as we could see, was densely wooded, with high hills, also covered with trees, rising in the far distance into lofty mountain ranges. Here and there were openings in the forest through which we could distinguish villages, but the natives either did not see us, or supposed that the whale boat was one of their own canoes.

At all events we were not followed. We had rowed fifteen and twenty miles when our pilots pointed to an opening on the shore, off which we had arrived. A short distance ahead we saw lying off the coast a small island thickly covered with trees. Eager to land, scarcely giving it a second glance, we pulled in for the bay the natives pointed out. As we approached we observed near the beach a number of houses similar to those of our friends, and fully expected to encounter fresh difficulties with the natives, but on getting nearer we saw no one moving about.

We told Kalong to ask whether the people were likely to prove friendly or not. After consulting with our guides he answered that the huts were deserted, the whole of the inhabitants having been carried off by a fleet of prahus which lately visited the coast.

On landing we found that this account was correct. Looking out for some thick underwood we dragged up our whale boat on the beach, and so concealed her that she could not be seen by strangers entering the bay. We now prepared for our march. We each of us carried, besides our arms and ammunition, some biscuits, tea, and sugar, a small bale of goods consisting of coloured cloth, axes, knives, beads, and glittering ornaments likely to suit the savage taste.

Ned and Charley had, besides, our simple cooking utensils. We felt sure of obtaining game enough and wild fruits to enable us to fare sumptuously.

Blyth and I were in high spirits, for I felt sure ere long that we should find my father, and I was surprised that Uncle Jack did not appear equally confident. We found the woods as we proceeded full of birds of magnificent plumage, parrots, cockatoos, lories, and others of exquisite form and colour, which Blyth at once declared were birds of paradise. They, however, kept at such a distance that we were unable to shoot any of them had we been so disposed. Looking up at the top of a lofty tree we saw a large number flying backwards and forwards from branch to branch, so that the trees appeared filled with waving plumes. We stopped for a moment to admire them. Their wings were raised directly over their backs. Their heads were stretched out, while their long hinder feathers, being elevated and expanded, formed two superb fans. The heads of the birds were yellow, their throats emerald green, but we could scarcely distinguish the tints amid the rich golden glory which waved above them. Magnificent butterflies, also of the most gorgeous colours, flew round us, and glittering beetles, of equally beautiful tints, crept along the ground or up the stems of the trees. In one or two open spots we startled several kangaroos of a small species which went hopping away, looking back curiously at us every now and then. Suddenly also we came upon a cassowary, a wingless bird, the body of which is about twice the size of a large turkey, but its long legs raise it to the height of five or six feet from the ground. It is covered with long close black hair like feathers. The skin of the neck is bare, and it is of a bright blue and red. Instead of wings it has on its sides a bunch of horny black spines like porcupine quills. There are several species which differ in appearance from each other.

Mr Blyth told me there must be at least eighteen species of birds of paradise, inhabiting different localities. The commonest is yellow with a long tail of the same colour. We saw numerous pigeons also, and a curious animal called the cuscus, something like an opossum, with a long tail, small head, large eyes, and a dense covering of woolly fur. We observed traces also of other animals, but what they were we could not make out—perhaps some large species of kangaroo or deer. I mention these creatures together to show the abundance of animal life in Papua. But, as may be supposed, we had no time to attend to natural history, our great object being, as soon as possible, to meet the tribe among whom our countrymen were said to be living. We travelled on until night approached, when our guides signified that we must form a camp. They set to work by first clearing away the grass and examining the neighbouring bushes to be satisfied that neither snakes nor savage animals lurked within. They then told Kalong to cut a quantity of bamboos which grew on the banks of a stream a short distance off. With these they quickly formed a hut, to which they fixed a floor at some distance from the ground to serve as a sleeping-place. It was thatched with large leaves, and was of sufficient size to hold all the party when somewhat closely packed. Uncle Jack, Blyth, and I kept watch by turns, though our guides did not seem to consider this necessary. We were not disturbed with the various sounds which came out of the forest, produced, however, I believe, rather by insects and birds than by wild beasts.

Next morning, after cooking several birds which we had shot and taken our breakfast, we recommenced our journey. We had marched on five or six miles up a gradual ascent, differing, however, very little from the ground we had left, when our guides informed us that we were approaching the village for which we were bound. Soon after we saw in the distance a large number of leaf-covered huts stretching over a considerable extent of ground. It was agreed that our guides should go forward, each provided with some of the articles we had brought to present to the chief, and to say that some white strangers had arrived who desired to become friends and to trade with him. We told Kalong that they must not fail to hint that we were well-armed and able to defend ourselves, but at the same time that we were peaceably disposed. Observing a rock a short distance off, partly covered with trees, from which we could command a view of the country around us, we climbed to the top of it to wait there in the shade until the return of the two Papuans. We employed part of the time in making a meal off the provisions which we had cooked in the morning. How eagerly I looked out for our guides, expecting to see them perhaps accompanied by my father. We waited and waited, but still nowhere could we discover them. At length, a large portion of the day having passed, we saw a person hurrying towards us, and as he began to climb the rock we perceived that he was one of our Papuan friends. His countenance showed that he was greatly agitated. We anxiously waited until Kalong and Ned could interpret for us.

“He brings bad news, sir,” said Ned, at length; “from what I can make out, the savages have seized his companion, and he had a hard job to get away from them. He says that some of the white men are dead, and that the others, not long ago, made their escape. This made the people very savage, and he fears if we go near them that they will seize and keep us instead.”

“But, my father! Do you make out that he has escaped?” I inquired eagerly.

“It is a very difficult question to answer,” said Ned; “our friend here thinks that the man whom they call the ‘White Chief,’ and who I take it was the captain, did get away, and that makes them so angry. It seems that they had been very friendly with him up to that time, only they would not let him go because he was teaching them all sorts of things. I don’t suppose if they were to make us prisoners they would kill us, but we should lose our object in coming, and may be they would keep too strict a watch to let us escape.”

We had no reason to doubt our guide; indeed, his story appeared so probable that Uncle Jack at once resolved to beat a retreat. If the white men had escaped, they were now probably on the coast, and we might fall in with them.

This hope greatly softened the disappointment we should otherwise have felt. Our native friend seemed satisfied with our resolution. We inquired what he intended to do with regard to his companion. He replied that he would not lose his life, and that he would probably some day make his escape, and when we told him that he should have the promised reward notwithstanding the failure of the expedition, he was evidently highly satisfied.

There was no time to be lost, as we wished to put as great a distance as possible between ourselves and the villagers before they discovered that we had begun to retreat. We had the advantage of knowing the way and of a beaten track to traverse. Our loads, too, were lightened somewhat by the presents we had sent; at the same time Uncle Jack thought it would be imprudent to throw the remainder away, lest they should fall into the hands of our pursuers, who would consequently be less likely to come to terms with us, should we be overtaken. It was dark when we reached our camping-place. As our guide undertook to lead us back to our boat during the night, we continued our journey without waiting to rest. We could see the stars through the opening of the forest, and we knew that we were going in the right direction. Without our native guide, however, we could not have ventured to make the attempt. With due thankfulness we at length caught sight of the ocean, on which the light from a crescent moon was glittering brightly.

Our boat was safe, but it was a question whether we should launch her at once, or remain on shore until the following morning. As we were all pretty well tired, Uncle Jack determined on turning her bottom up, so that we might sleep beneath her while one of us kept watch in case any natives should approach. We dragged her out from among the bushes, therefore, down to the beach, just above high water mark, so that we might be able to put off quickly should it become necessary. Of course we could think and talk only of one subject. What had become of my father?

We must of course continue our search for him, and we all hoped that, unless he had escaped on board some passing vessel, which was not at all likely, he would not be far off.

It was arranged that Blyth should keep the first watch, Uncle Jack the second, and I the third.

I never slept more soundly in my life, as I was very tired with our long tramp, for it seemed but a moment after I lay down before I was aroused by my uncle giving me a pull by the leg I crept out from under the boat, and shouldering my musket began to pace up and down close to the boat to keep myself awake, while my uncle took my place.

The stars were shining brightly, and a light wind rustled the leaves of the neighbouring trees, while the water lapped gently on the beach. No other sounds reached my ears. I still felt so drowsy that I was sure, should I sit down, that I should go to sleep. Occasionally I extended my walk to the borders of the forest.

I had made several turns, and calculated that I had been half an hour or so on watch, when it appeared to me that the night was growing darker, and looking up I saw that the stars overhead were obscured, while the murmuring sound in the trees had increased in loudness; though sheltered as we were by the forest we did not feel the wind, which was blowing off shore. The clouds continued gathering until the whole sky was obscured. I fully expected before long that there would be a downpour of rain, but as we were on a weather shore I did not think it necessary to call my companions. I continued my walk, occasionally approaching the forest and then returning to the boat.

I looked out anxiously for the approach of day, but even had the sky been clear, the trees would have prevented me from seeing the first streaks of dawn, and as it was the sun itself would probably not be visible.

At last I knew by the light that the day had broke. I had gone back to the forest, and intended to arouse my companions at the end of the next turn, when I fancied that I could distinguish the sound of human voices amid the soughing of the wind in the branches overhead. Stooping down to the ground I listened attentively—I was sure I was not mistaken.

The voices might be those of the natives, who finding we had retreated had pursued us. Hurrying back to the boat as quickly as I could, I roused up Uncle Jack, telling him what I had heard.

“Very likely you are right, Harry,” he answered, “though we might drive back the savages, we could not do so without bloodshed, and our safest plan will be to get our boat off and hold a parley with them from her. If they show hostility, we can keep them at bay until we get to a safe distance.”

Without a moment’s delay we called up our companions. We quickly turned the boat on her keel and ran her down into the water. We two held her, while the rest carried our goods on board.

Just as we were jumping in we saw a number of savages, armed with spears and bows, emerging from the forest, and they, catching sight of us, rushed forward, others following, until a formidable band was collected on the beach.

“Shove off, lads!” cried the first mate, seizing an oar, and the rest of us imitating his example, aided by the wind, we speedily drove the boat away from the shore.

The savages, seeing us about to escape them, bent their bows and let fly a shower of arrows, which came whistling about our ears, some falling in the boat and others on either side.

The first mate steered, Blyth sat by his side with a musket in his hand ready to fire, while our Papuan guide crouched down in the stern-sheets.

“Shall I fire?” asked Blyth, “I can knock over one of those fellows; the chief, I suspect, who seems to be leading them on.”

“No, hold fast, I would not injure the poor wretches if it can be avoided,” answered the first mate. “We shall be out of their reach in another minute. We can then settle how to treat with them.”

A few strokes took us beyond the range of their missiles. He was right, for their bows were comparatively small, intended rather to shoot birds than for war, while their javelins could not be thrown to any great distance.

He now directed Ned to tell Kalong to address them, and to say that we had come with friendly intentions to trade, and to recover some countrymen who had been wrecked on their coast.

The chief, on hearing this, invited us on shore, observing that we could talk more easily there, and that he would hear what we had to say.

The Malay and our native guide talked together.

“Kalong says we had better not trust them,” observed Ned; “if we land they may shoot us for the sake of getting our goods. They don’t know how far our firearms can reach. Better give them a volley to show them.”

This Uncle Jack was unwilling to do, though we might have shot down half a dozen of them at least, had we fired as Ned proposed.

While this palaver was going forward I took a glance seaward, when what was my astonishment to see the “Iris” and “Lily” standing along the coast, under close reefed topsails, as if coming to look for us. I could judge by the way they heeled over that a pretty strong breeze was blowing in the offing.

If we were to get on board there was no time to lose; indeed, it seemed very doubtful whether we could reach either of the vessels. They were too far off to see us, and it was doubtful whether they could hear our muskets. Uncle Jack directed Blyth and me to fire at the same time, but neither the ship nor the brig altered their course. They had good reason for not wishing to approach the land, as the wind, rapidly increasing, was shifting to the north-west, and they might at any moment find themselves on a lee shore. They had also got so far from the harbour they had left that it was evident that they could not manage to get back.

“They’ll not desert us, lads, depend upon that,” said Uncle Jack, as we saw them standing away from the coast; “we can neither overtake them nor land while those fellows on shore show so unfriendly a disposition. We must try and get back to the village where we procured our guides, though I don’t know what sort of reception we shall meet with when their friends hear that we have lost one of them. It will be a long pull and a heavy one, for we shall have a head sea as soon as we get clear of this bay.”

“Why not then make for yonder island to the eastward?” I observed. “These savages, who don’t appear to have any canoes, cannot follow us there, and we shall be able to remain in safety until our friends come to take us off.”

“We may have to follow your suggestion, Harry, but we must first try to get back to the river to land our guide according to our promise. He has proved faithful, and we will supply him with goods with which he may be able to ransom his companion.”

This was said as we were pulling out of the bay, but no sooner did we get beyond the point than we met so heavy a sea that it was impossible to pull the whale boat against it, and we were in danger of being swamped. Our only alternative was, as I proposed, to run for the island. Even now we had to pull hard to avoid the following seas which threatened to poop us. We saw the savages on shore dancing, shouting, and gesticulating when they discovered that we had escaped them. On finding, however, that we were steering for the island they rushed along the beach in the same direction, which made us fear that they might possess the means of crossing over to it, and that after all we should have to fight for our lives. We had not much apprehension, however, as to the result. Uncle Jack intended to pull round to the lee side of the island, and then, should they persist in attacking us, we could shoot them down from the boat while we kept out of range of their arrows.

As we pulled along we watched the two vessels which were getting further and further from the coast, although the ship had only her fore and mizen topsail set, and the brig was under equally snug canvas.

Aided by the wind the boat went faster than the savages could run, and they were out of sight when we reached the passage between the island and the main land. We could see no canoes on the shore, and this made us hope that we might at all events avoid an attack until the gale was over, and we could resume our search for my father.

We did not doubt for a moment that the “Lily” would come to look for us, and by hoisting a signal on the outer end of the island we hoped to attract her attention. Passing through the channel, which was about a mile wide, we rounded the eastern point of the island where the water was perfectly smooth, when discovering a small bay with a sandy beach we at once pulled in. As we saw no huts or plantations we calculated that the island was uninhabited. We therefore landed without hesitation, and hauled up our boat. From a rocky elevation on the northern side of the bay we could command a view of the main land along the whole length of the strait.

Uncle Jack sent Blyth and me to watch should any natives appear, but sharp as were our eyes we could discover neither canoes nor human beings moving about.

The savages therefore supposing we had escaped had, we concluded, returned to their village. As there was some probability that we should have to remain several days on the island, Uncle Jack proposed that we should build a hut, which would be a pleasanter sleeping-place than under the boat. We at once therefore set to work.

The Papuan showed himself an adept at the use of the axe, and understanding clearly what we wanted was of great assistance. A bamboo thicket and some large palm leaves afforded us materials, so that in a short time we had a well built hut erected capable of containing all the party, the upper floor affording us a sleeping-place, while the lower would shelter us during the day should it come on to rain. We naturally felt much anxiety about the vessels, though we trusted that they would avoid any of the dangers which lay to the westward.

Night passed without any adventure. The gale raged with unabated fury, though we felt it but little in our sheltered cove. We had brought a good store of provisions and a breaker of water in the boat, but that, from the frequent applications to it, was almost exhausted. It was necessary to search for a fresh supply. Uncle Jack was unwilling to leave the beach in case the natives might find the means of crossing. Blyth and I therefore undertook to go in search of water. We hoped, although we might not discover a stream—which from the size of the island was unlikely—we might find a spring, or ground by digging into which fresh water might be reached. As soon, therefore, as we had breakfasted we set off. As we had pulled along it the previous day we calculated that the island was between three and four miles long and about two miles broad.

Besides our guns we each carried a long bamboo stick, one end pointed and the other formed like a gouge to serve as a spade, with which we might dig for water, should we fail to find a stream.

So thick was the jungle immediately at the back of the cove that we had to proceed along the shore some distance before we could make our way inland. In several places we found it lined with the pandanus or screw palm, which looks as if it had branches at both ends, the lower being the roots which had lifted the trunk into the air. In other places there were cocoa-nut trees with nuts hanging from them, so we knew that even were we to be kept there many weeks we should have an ample supply of vegetable diet.

“We shall find other food too,” said Blyth, pointing to some trees which grew in a hollow at the foot of a hill. “Those are sago trees; if hard pressed we might manufacture sufficient sago from them to last us for months, or even years. They require moisture, and I have little doubt that by digging we shall find water not far from their roots. But we will search further, perhaps we may discover a spring which will give us a more ample supply, so that there is no fear of our starving. What a number of birds there are! Many of them, too are birds of paradise. I cannot tell you their names, but they seem to be the same as are found in the Aru islands away to the southward. We shall have no difficulty in shooting them, or some of those magnificent pigeons when we want them, but it would be a pity to expend our ammunition unnecessarily. We can kill a few as we return to serve us for dinner.”

The whole of the island indeed appeared to be a perfect garden, and yet, as far as we could discover, not a single inhabitant did it contain. We made our way on, not without great difficulty, sometimes having to cut a passage for ourselves through the underwood until we reached the southern end, or rather western shore, where we could see the ocean still covered over with raging foam-topped seas, which made us fear that for many days to come our friends could not return, and until the brig did come back I was sure that Uncle Jack would consider it his duty to remain on the island, whence he could communicate with her.

As we were more likely to find a spring inland than on the coast we continued our course up the centre of the island. “We shall have to dig, I suspect, after all, in the sago grove,” said Blyth, as we at last began our return. “However, we may as well carry some game with us; I intend to shoot the first fine pigeon I see. You can try your luck, although I would advise you not to fire unless you feel sure of your aim.”

In a short time Blyth, who was a good shot, killed three or four pigeons, and I had shot a parrot and a bird of paradise, but I felt ashamed at having deprived so beautiful a creature of life, yet thousands were flying about unseen by human eye, which they are formed to delight. We went on a little further, when I again fired and brought down another parrot. Just as I pulled the trigger I caught sight between the trees of a face watching us. At the first glance I thought it must be some huge baboon, but still it looked human though covered thickly with hair. I was a little in advance of Blyth. Supposing that if not a baboon it was a savage, I was hurriedly reloading, ready to defend myself, when a man stepping forward exclaimed—

“Who are you mates, and where do you come from?”

For a moment my astonishment at the sudden apparition prevented me from answering. The man, however, advanced without fear. His dress, though in tatters, was that of a seaman, fastened together by all sorts of contrivance, while a roughly-formed palm-leaf hat covered his head.

“I heard your shots some time ago, and have been long hunting for you, for I was sure no natives could have fired as you have done.”

Without answering his inquiries, I with intense eagerness put the same questions, “Who are you? And where do you come from?”

“I am an Englishman, who was cast away out there, and who was kept a prisoner for many a long year by a set of savages up the country, until about six months ago, when the captain and I got free from them and crossed over here, where we have been ever since, hoping that some craft would appear and take us off.”

“What ship did you belong to? Who is your captain?” I asked, with intense eagerness.

“The ‘Amphion,’ Captain Musgrave was my captain,” he answered.

“He is not, then, living?”

“Yes, he is alive, but he is in a bad way, I fear. He kept up his spirits until yesterday, when we saw two English vessels run past us to the southward. Then it seemed to him, and to me too, for that matter, that all hope was gone, and that we might have to remain here for years more for what we could tell, since all the time we have been here we have never seen a vessel.”

At that moment Blyth came up, and in a voice choking with agitation I told him what I had heard.

“Lead us at once to your captain,” he said, turning to the seaman; “we came here expressly to look for him, and are expecting the vessels back as soon as the weather will allow them to return to the coast. If your father is ill, Harry, there will be a risk in agitating him by presenting yourself suddenly to him. Let our friend here first tell him that he has found some Englishmen on the island, and then I will go in and tell him that his son and brother-in-law have come to look for him. Where is he living?” he asked of the sailor.

“In a poor enough place, sir, close on the sea shore. It is a cave, inside a rock. We thought it safer than a hut, where the natives, if they had come to the island, would be more likely to find us.”

I begged the seaman to hurry on. “What! Are you the captain’s son?” he asked, as I ran by his side. “Often and often he has talked about you. If anything will set him on his legs the sight of you will.”

We soon reached the beach, when scrambling for some distance among the rocks the seaman pointed to the entrance of a cave at the side of a hill which sloped up from the water.

As agreed on the seaman went first, followed by Blyth. I stood outside eagerly waiting to be summoned. It seemed so long that I was afraid my father had been overcome with the news.

At length Blyth appeared, and beckoned me in, and the next instant I was kneeling by my father’s side, as he lay stretched on a bed of leaves and matting, which Dick Meade, his faithful follower, had arranged for him.

“What! Are you Harry, really my son Harry?” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around my neck; “I was sure that you and my good brother Jack Radburn would come to look for me if you thought I was alive, and not until yesterday, when God in his mercy had sent you to this island, did I lose hope. Ungrateful I was, after having been preserved from so many dangers; but your appearance has brought me back to life.”

“What the captain wants is some good food,” I heard Dick observe to Blyth; “if you’ll let me cook one of those pigeons it will do him all the good in the world.”

As Blyth carried a flint and steel they soon had a fire lighted in a sheltered spot, just outside the cave. While I sat by my father I was thankful to see that he appeared stronger as we conversed.

Blyth soon again came in and volunteered to carry the joyful intelligence to Uncle Jack. During his absence the pigeon was cooked and eaten. Dick brought in a shell full of water from a spring, which he said bubbled out of the hill side close at hand.

Soon I heard Uncle Jack’s voice. I need not describe the meeting between him and my father. He had left Blyth with directions to bring the boat round should the sea have gone down sufficiently to enable her without risk to reach a little cove which we found not far from the cave, where she might be hauled up if necessary. Uncle Jack, with his usual forethought, had brought tea and sugar and biscuit, luxuries to which my poor father had long been a stranger. They appeared to benefit him much. In a few hours he was able to sit up and converse freely with us. Before nightfall we had the satisfaction of seeing the boat, and Dick ran down to pilot her into the cove. Some of the party spent the night in the cave, which was of considerable size, and others under the boat.

The first thing all hands did in the morning was to cut down the tallest trees we could find to form a flag-staff, which we placed on the highest part of the hill overlooking the ocean. We then fastened together the two flags we had in the boat with a number of our handkerchiefs, which, combined, formed a flag of a size which could be seen at a considerable distance; eagerly we watched day after day for the appearance of sail.

I had never seen Uncle Jack so anxious, he could not help reflecting that during the gale some accident might have happened to the “Iris,” and that his dear Grace might be among the sufferers.

“Cheer up, brother Jack,” said my father, when he saw him thus cast down; “I have learned more than ever to put confidence in God’s loving mercy during my exile. Had I not been able to trust Him, I should have sank long ago. I have known Haiselden and Bingley all their lives, and they are not the men to desert their friends.”

Still another and another day passed. At length, one morning, I was awakened by a shout from Dick Meade, and running out of the cave, I saw the rising sun shining on the white canvas of a brig in the offing. That she was the “Lily” I had no doubt, but where was the “Iris”? What would be Uncle Jack’s feelings at not seeing her?

Dick was hoisting up the flag which he had just bent on. The breeze was from the south-east, which would enable the brig to approach the island without risk. She was standing on farther to the northward, and I began to fear that she was not the “Lily” after all. I was expressing my doubts to Dick, when I found Uncle Jack standing by me with a telescope to his eye.

“Yes she’s the ‘Lily,’ no doubt about it; she’ll see our signal before long, as she will be looking out for us.”

In another minute the whole of our party were on foot. I ran in to tell my father, who insisted on coming out to have a look at the object for which his eyes had so often ached in vain.

In the meantime our men had lighted a fire, believing that a long pull would be before them. Fortunate it was that they did so. My father was not in a fit state to go off without breakfast. The meal was scarcely over when the brig tacked, and the “Lily’s” flag was run up at the mast-head.

Not a moment was lost in launching the boat. My father was assisted down to the beach. We waited a few minutes, when the “Lily” hove to. Our last act was to lower the signal flag, and we then, getting on board, with hearty strokes pulled away for the brig.

“We have found him, we have found him!” I could not help calling out as we approached her side.

My father was helped on board, and warmly welcomed by our kind-hearted captain. Uncle Jack’s first inquiry was for the “Iris.”

“She’s all safe at the Aru islands, where I promised to rejoin her as soon as I had recovered you,” answered Captain Haiselden; “and as she has received some damage in the gale, she is likely to be detained there several days.”

The only person who looked unhappy was our Papuan guide; but he was reassured when the captain promised to land him at his own village, towards which we stood, as soon as the whale boat was dropped astern.

In a couple of hours we were off the mouth of the river, when we once more pulled off, with the same party which had before landed in the whale boat.

As we approached, a shout of joy arose from our companions. The cause was soon explained. One of the first persons we saw standing on the platform in front of the hut was the lost guide who had, we afterwards found, made his escape, while his captors were pursuing us.

The natives were delighted with the things we brought them, and we could have laden our boat up to the gunwale with the articles they offered in return.

Wishing our friends good-bye, and promising that we would as soon as possible pay them another visit, we pulled back to the brig.

In three days we reached the Aru islands, seldom visited by English vessels, and brought up before the chief town Dobbo, which is, however, only a collection of huts such as those described in Papua and Borneo, though of a more substantial character. The population of the islands are mostly Papuans, though people from various other parts of the Eastern seas have settled there. The islands are generally level, and thickly wooded, the forests containing amongst other birds two or three of the most beautiful species of birds of paradise.

The “Iris” was almost ready to sail, so that we remained there but a couple of days, when, threading our way among the coral reefs, we once more got into the open sea.

I should have been happy to give a further description of our voyage and our visit to Timor, where we anchored to obtain fresh provisions. We then shaped our course along the south coast of Java, and then, crossing the Indian Ocean, rounded the Cape of Good Hope; after which we had a remarkably fine passage home, and, strange to say, did not once lose sight of the “Iris.”

Whether Uncle Jack had anything to do with this I can only guess. I know that he told me to keep a bright look-out for her whenever he was below, and report to him any change in her position. The “Iris” led the way up the Thames. Immediately she dropped her anchor, before going into dock, Uncle Jack and my father went on board and arranged a plan with Grace for breaking the news of his return to my mother; she and Mrs Bingley at once went on shore promising to act with due discretion. I have every reason to believe they carried out their duty well, for when I arrived at home a few hours after my father, I found my mother looking the picture of happiness, and almost as calm and composed as usual.

I have not entered into the trading particulars of the voyages of the two vessels, but both were considered highly satisfactory. It was the first of several I made on board the brig to the same region, the mate of the “Lily” being now her captain.

In the next voyage my Aunt Grace, now Uncle Jack’s wife, accompanied him. He has since retired from the sea. I served with him as his second, and then his first mate for some years, until I got the command of a ship. I must acknowledge that I greatly owe my success to having followed the good example set me by my excellent uncle once The Mate of the “Lily.”

The End.

W.H.G. Kingston

"The Mines and its Wonders"

Chapter One.

The Miner’s Dangers.

A hum of human voices rose from a village in the centre of England, but they were those of women, girls, and children, the latter playing in the street, running, skipping, laughing, singing, and shouting in shrill tones, the former in their yards or in front of their dwellings, following such avocations as could be carried on out of doors on that warm summer evening. Not a man or lad, not even a boy above eight years old, was to be seen. On one side of the village far away could be distinguished green fields, picturesque hills, widespreading trees, and a sparkling stream flowing in their midst; on the other, nearer at hand, a dreary black region, the ground covered with calcined heaps, the roads composed of coal dust or ashes, and beyond, tall chimneys sending forth dense volumes of smoke, which, wreathing upwards, formed a dark canopy over the scene. Then there were large uncouth buildings, above which huge beams appeared, lifting alternately their ends with ceaseless motion, now up, now down, engaged evidently in some Titanic operation, while all the time proceeding from that direction were heard groans, and shrieks, and whistlings, and wailings, and the sound of rushing water, and the rattling and rumbling of tram or railway waggons rushing at rapid speed across the country, some loaded with huge lumps of glittering coal, others returning to be refilled at the pit’s mouth. Those high buildings contained the steam-engines which worked the machinery employed in the coal mine; the tall chimneys carried up the smoke from the furnaces and produced the current of air which kept them blazing. The deafening noises came from cranks, pulleys, gins, whimsays, and other contrivances for lifting the coal from the bottom of the mine, pumping out the water, loading the waggons, ventilating the shafts and galleries, and for performing duties innumerable of various descriptions. As the evening drew on, the women retired into their cottages to prepare supper for their husbands and sons, whose return home they were now expecting. Already the corves which took them down to their work in the early morning must be on their way up to the surface, and it is time to have the savoury messes ready for dishing up. Abundance is on the board, for the miner’s wages are sufficient to supply him with what would be luxuries to an ordinary labourer above ground; but were they far higher, could they repay him for a life of constant danger, of hard incessant toil, and the deprivation for more than half the year of a sight of the blue sky, the warming rays of the sun, and the pure air of heaven, except on the one blessed day of the week when he enjoys them with the rest of God’s creatures? For months together he descends the shaft in the gloom of morning and does not return till darkness has again shrouded the earth.

Many of the good wives had looked at their clocks to judge when to take off the bubbling saucepans from the blazing fires, when, to their dismay, they felt the earth tremble beneath their feet, while a dull rumbling sound like the discharge of musketry struck their ears, coming from the direction of the works. Pale with terror, they rushed out-of-doors to see a vast black mass of dust and smoke rising into the air and forming an inverted cone, beneath which, for an instant, could be distinguished shattered beams and planks, corves and pieces of machinery, which quickly fell again to the earth. The next instant a darkness, like that of early twilight, pervaded the atmosphere, and fine ashes, such as are ejected from a volcano, fell in a thick shower to the ground, which it covered to such a depth that the feet of the terror-stricken women left their imprints on it as they ran towards the scene of the catastrophe—some shrieking and lamenting, but, in most cases, the intensity of their alarm preventing them from giving utterance to their feelings. Among them a young woman, superior to the rest in appearance, went hurrying on towards the pit’s mouth, her hand held by a little boy, who had evidently grasped it, refusing to be left behind, when startled by the explosion, she had quitted her cottage. Her fair hair, escaping from beneath her cap, streamed in the wind; her countenance exhibited the most intense anxiety. Her boy, among the oldest of those who had remained that morning in the village, was well able to comprehend what had occurred, yet he did not cry or shriek out, but did his utmost to keep pace with the woman’s rapid steps.

“Perhaps father and Mat had come up before the blast happened, mother,” said the boy in a hopeful tone. “They would be stopping to see how things are going on, or maybe to help any poor fellows left in the pit.” The woman answered only by a gasp. “Don’t give way, mother dear,” continued the boy. “We shall find them both well above ground, depend on’t.” Still the woman made no reply; her heart told her that her worst anticipations would be realised. She and the rest of the women from the village arrived in a short time at the pit’s mouth, where, among the ruined buildings, the broken machinery, and the heaps of rubbish, they rushed frantically here and there seeking for the bread-winners of their families, many uttering piteous wails when they sought in vain for their loved ones; while others, when they were discovered, bursting into shrieks of hysterical laughter, as they flung their arms round the men’s necks, led them off to their homes. Some of the miners had, it appeared, come up just before the explosion; but what was the fate of the rest, far beyond a hundred in number, still below? Some, it was surmised, might have escaped death, and many brave volunteers came forward ready to descend to their rescue. All was quiet—the shaft appeared to be free—a fresh corve or teek was procured—a rope attached to the gin, to the shaft of which a party of men putting their shoulders worked it with the strength of horses. The corve descended with its adventurous crew down the shaft. The young woman with the little boy had been among those who had sought in vain for a husband and son. “Have any of you seen John Gilbart and his boy Mat?” she asked of those who had come out of the pit and of others standing by. No one could give her any information about her husband, though one had replied that he had seen young Gilbart leaving the trap at which he had been stationed.

Unlike the other women, on hearing this she uttered no cry, but stood speechless and trembling as near as she could venture to the pit’s mouth, where she waited, with intense anxiety, the return of the corve to the surface. “Don’t take on so, mother dear,” said little Mark, who felt her hand trembling. “They say some may have escaped, and things may have been worse above than they were down at the bottom. Perhaps they threw themselves flat on their faces, and let the blast pass over them. I heard father say, only the other day, that was the best thing to do when fire-damp breaks out. He wouldn’t have forgotten that, mother, would he?”

“I pray Heaven that he did not,” she answered in a scarcely audible voice. Minute after minute went by, while the brave explorers who had gone below were searching for their comrades. How that poor mother’s heart ached as she thought of what had too probably happened to those she loved. Night had come on, but torches and lanterns and a blazing fire not far off lighted up the scene, casting a lurid glare on the dark figures of the men, the lighter-coloured dresses and pale faces of the women, and the surrounding ruins. At last the cry arose that the corve was ascending. The eager crowd pressing forward could with difficulty be restrained from impeding the men working at the gin. Then came the shout, “They’re alive! they’re alive!” and six dark figures stepped out on the ground. They were soon recognised by their wives or mothers, and hurriedly dragged off to their homes, while the rest of the women, bitterly disappointed, waited till the basket should again come to the surface. The same scene was again enacted, and the rescued now reported that there were more to follow, though how many they could not tell.

Little Mark and his mother waited with trembling hearts. Those they longed to see had not appeared, and to their anxious inquiries no satisfactory reply was given. Neither John Gilbart nor his son had been seen. At length, another party came up from the depths, but this time there were five boys borne in the arms of stronger men. Alas! two were motionless—the arms and heads of the others drooped helplessly down. The poor mothers pressed forward—Mark and Mrs Gilbart among them. “That’s Mat—that’s Mat!” cried the child, as one of the first was placed on the ground. The mother, kneeling by the side of the boy, gazed into his face. Too truly she recognised her son, but no responsive glance came from his once bright eyes. “Oh, speak to me—speak to me, Mat,” she exclaimed. There was no reply. She took his hand, it was icy cold. Then she knew that her boy was dead. The doctor came. “I grieve for you, my poor woman; he is past recovery,” he said, and went on to attend to others. Little Mark sat by his dead brother’s side, gazing at him with awe. No one disturbed him. Mrs Gilbart waited on, hope not yet abandoned. More men came up, some fearfully injured. They reported that the rest were in the workings far away—already the mine was on fire, the heat and smoke unbearable—that it was a miracle any had escaped, that all but themselves must have perished. Heartrending were the wailings and shrieks and moanings which arose at this announcement, confirmed by the viewer and overmen. Still many lingered on in the hopes that the corve might be again sent down, but the viewer forbade any to descend, as it must prove their destruction. At length some men came to carry young Gilbart’s corpse to his mother’s cottage. She and Mark followed with tottering steps. The sad truth had forced itself on her that she was a widow—the two bread-winners of her household gone. Still it was some poor consolation to have recovered the body of her son. Many had not that—they were destined never again to see those they loved. More explosions took place, and the report was spread that the whole mine was destroyed. This was, however, not the case. Science enabled the manager to triumph over the fiery element raging below. By completely closing the mouths of the shafts, the atmospheric air was excluded, and the flames extinguished. After nearly three months’ labour, the mine was explored, and the bodies of the dead, scorched and dried to mummies, were recovered. None could be recognised, and they were buried in a common grave. Mrs Gilbart knew that her husband was among them. The pit was again opened. Fresh labourers arrived from other parts, and once more those dark galleries became the scene of active industry. The cottages were required by the fresh comers, and Mrs Gilbart, with her son and her little girl Mary, a year younger than Mark, would have been compelled to go forth houseless and penniless into the cold world, had not an uncle of her late husband, a hewer at a pit a few miles away, offered to receive her and her children into his house. She thankfully went, hoping to maintain herself and others by her needle.

Simon Hayes had been a miner from his boyhood. Though there were some soft places in his heart, he was rough and untutored, and he had many of the faults common among men of his class. He had a wife much like himself in several respects, but he had no children. Though receiving good wages, he had saved nothing, having spent them extravagantly in obtaining luxuries for himself and his wife, for which they cared but little. By refraining from these, he was well able to feed these additional mouths, and for some time his wife made no complaint at his doing so. Still there was nothing saved up for a rainy day. Simon Hayes took mightily to little Mary. There was nothing he thought too good for her; but he showed no affection for Mark. He was a boy doomed to labour as he had been, and the only labour he could think of for him was down in the mine, first as a trapper, then as a putter, and finally as a hewer. Mrs Gilbart shuddered when he alluded to the subject. She had hoped to bring him up to some trade which he could follow above ground, though it would be several years before he would be old enough to be apprenticed. “But he is not very strong, and he is my only one, uncle, you know,” she answered. “Let him go to school first. I have taught him what I could, but he will get on with his learning there faster than at home.”

“What’s the use of learning to a miner?” exclaimed Simon with a gruff laugh. “However, you must have your way, Mary, and I don’t mind paying for his schooling, though, look ye, if times get bad, he’ll have to earn his bread like the rest of us.” Mrs Gilbart thanked her uncle, hoping that the evil day was put off for a long time. Little Mark went to school, and being fond of his books, made rapid progress in reading and writing. He thus soon possessed himself of the key of knowledge. Little Mary was also sent to a girls’ school, and being bright and intelligent, soon became a favourite pupil of the mistress. At length Mrs Hayes fell ill, and her niece’s time was so fully occupied in attending on her, that she could gain nothing by her work. Then there was the doctor to pay. Simon also was laid up for some weeks from a severe bruise by a fall of coal. “I can’t stand this no longer, niece,” he said one day. “The next time I go down the pit I must take Mark with me.” Mrs Gilbart begged hard that her boy might remain above ground. She would take him from school and try to get employment for him on a farm. Simon was obdurate; if she would not agree to his wishes she might leave his house. Her fears were all nonsense, the boy would do well enough in the pit, he would get tenpence a-day as a trapper—on a farm he couldn’t get twopence. Without telling her what he was about to do, the first morning he returned to work he took Mark by the arm and led him along to the pit’s mouth. He had brought a flannel suit. He made the boy put it on. “Now, Mark, we are going into the pit, and you’ll do what I tell you when we get down,” he said, as if it was a matter of course. “I’ve arranged with the manager to take you on from to-day as a trapper. Though you may not like it at first, you’ll soon get accustomed to the work, and so let’s have no nonsense. Here’s the corve all ready to go down—come along.”

Chapter Two.

Learning to Watch.

Simon, taking Mark by the hand, stepped on to an iron frame-work or cage, suspended over the pit’s mouth. “Take hold of this bar and don’t move as you value your life, boy,” he said.

Mark obeyed. Several other men and two boys stepped on to the cage, it began to descend. Though little Mark had been hearing of mines all his life, and felt no especial unwillingness, yet all seemed strange about him. It appeared to him by the dim light of the lamps which his uncle and the other men held in their hands, that the shafts were rushing upwards at a fearful rate, while the light of day, which he could still see above him, grew gradually less and less. A giddiness overtook him. He might have fallen, had not his uncle still held him by the shoulder. How long he had been descending he could not tell, when he found the cage come to a stand-still, and that he was down beneath the surface of the earth, a thousand feet or more.

The rumbling of the trains of laden waggons coming to the shafts, the faint voices of the men in the distance, were the only sounds heard, while the lights which flitted here and there only served to make the long vaulted galleries appear more gloomy and dark.

“Come along, Mark!” said his uncle, shouldering his pick and spade, and holding his lantern before him.

As they stepped out of the cage, they found themselves in a gloomy vault, on one side of which a huge furnace was unceasingly roaring, while at the other were the stables in which a number of horses, mules, and donkeys were kept. Before them was the main gallery, about eight feet high and the same wide, arched over with bricks four thick, and extending three miles away from the mouth of the pit. Out of it for its whole length opened shorter galleries or side galleries where the coals were now being won. In all of them rails were laid down for the waggons to run on, and on each side were seams of coal, in some places narrow near the top, in others close to the ground, and in some there was coal from the top to the bottom. At the entrance of these side galleries were doors which had generally to be kept shut, and were only opened when the waggons, loaded with coal or returning empty, had to pass through. After Simon and Mark had proceeded a couple of miles along the main gallery, they stopped at one of these doors. “This is to be your post, Mark,” said Simon.

“When you hear the waggon coming, you are to open the door, and as soon as it is passed to shut it. Mind you don’t go to sleep. You’ll be in the dark, but that won’t hurt you, and if you feel anything running by, you’ll know it’s only a rat. It won’t touch you while you are awake. I began my life in this way, so must you. There, go and sit down in that hole cut out for you. When you hear the rolley coming, pull that rope, which will open the door. There, now, you know what to do. Take care that you do it,” and Simon, leaving his nephew, proceeded on to the farther end of the working. He then commenced operations on a new cutting which the under-viewer had marked out for him in the side of the gallery. It was about three yards square, and was to be about four feet six inches back under the bed of coal, he began by hewing away about two feet six inches from the ground and working upwards, cutting out the coal with his pick, shovelling it into a large corve or basket which stood at hand ready for the reception of the lumps. At first the work was tolerably easy, as he could stand upright and swing his pick with all his force. As he got deeper and deeper into the bed, he had to fix a strut or post with a cross beam to support the weight of the roof, and he had to get the coal out by stooping down low or resting on his knees. Finally he had to work lying down on one elbow, swinging his pick over his head with the other arm in a way a miner alone could have used it.

Occasionally the boy called the putter came by, shoving a rolley or little band-waggon before him. On to this the full corve was lifted and the empty one left in its place. Sometimes he proceeded by cutting a space on each side of the square bed of coal, from the roof to the floor. He then bored a hole in the middle of the block, into which he rammed a charge of gunpowder, and having lighted it by a slow match, retired to a distance. The powder exploding, shattered the whole mass, and it came tumbling down to the ground in fragments. This could only have been done where no foul air was present, otherwise the moment the lamp was opened there would have been a fearful explosion, and he, with many others, would perhaps have been killed. He laboured on incessantly until dinner time, when he and all the men in the working, including the putters, came out, and taking Mark with them, repaired to a central spot where there were casks of water, and seats, the only accommodation required by the rough miners. Here their dinners, which had been sent down during the morning, were eaten.

“Well, how do you get on?” asked his uncle of Mark.

“I kept awake, opened the door when the rolleys came by, and shut it again after they had passed!” answered Mark.

“That’s what I had to do!” said Simon.

“I only wish that I had a candle, and had brought a book down to read. I should not have minded it much then, although it was a hard matter to keep awake!”

“You were not afraid, then?” asked another man.

“What was there to be afraid of?” asked Mark. “I heard noises, but I knew what they were, so I did not mind them!”

“You’ll do!” said his uncle in an approving tone. Mark ate his dinner, and then went back to his trap. He there sat all alone in the dark, anxiously waiting for “kenner” time. It came at last, and Mark heard the words “kenner, kenner,” which had been shouted down the pit’s mouth, passed along the galleries. It was the signal for the miners to knock off work, and return to the upper world.

Mark, however, could not venture to move until his uncle came for him. He was very thankful when he saw the glimmer of a light along the gallery. Slowly it approached. It was carried by his uncle, who having closed the door, led him along through the main tunnel towards the shaft. Together they ascended, and returned home. Mrs Gilbart had been dreadfully alarmed at her son’s absence, until told by a neighbour that she had seen him going along with his uncle towards the pit’s mouth.

A mother’s eye alone could have recognised him, so greatly changed was he by the coal dust. She soon, however, got that washed off, and dressed him again in his clean clothes. He did not complain or ask his mother to keep him out of the mine, so, although still with an unwilling heart, she allowed his uncle to take him. The next Saturday he received five shillings, which was as much as she could make by stitching all day, and sometimes late into the night, by her needle. Simon was well pleased with Mark, and reported, after he had been some weeks at work, that no fault had ever been found with him. He was always awake, and ready to open and close his trap at the proper time. When a little bigger, he would become a “putter,” and have the employment of rolling the waggons along the tramways.

Coal mines, it should be understood, are worked in various ways, some in squares, or what is called the panel system. The main roads are like the frame of a window, the passages like the wood-work dividing the panes of glass, and the masses of coal which at first remain, may be represented by the panes themselves. After the various passages have been cut out, the masses are again cut into, pillars only remaining, each of which is about twelve feet by twenty-four feet in thickness. At length these pillars are removed, and props of wood placed instead, and thus the whole mine is worked out. There are miles and miles of passages in which tramways are laid down, leading to the shaft, up which the coal is raised. As the air in the mine has a tendency to get foul and close, it is necessary to send currents of wind into the passages to blow it away. The chief object is to make the wind come down one shaft, and then to bring it along through the passages, and so up by another shaft. If the wind which came down were allowed to wander about, it would produce no good effect. The traps or doors, such as the one at which Mark was stationed, are used to stop it from going through some passages and make it move along others until the bad air is blown out of them. To create a powerful current, a large furnace is placed at the bottom of one of the shafts, which is called the up-cast shaft, and the foul air is cast up it. Often, notwithstanding this, the heat below is very great, and the hewer working away with his heavy pick is bathed in perspiration. Where no bad gas is generated, open lights may be used, but this cannot often be done with safety, as fire-damp may at any moment rush out of a hole, and if set alight it would go off like gunpowder or gas from coal, killing everybody within its influence, and bringing down the tops and sides of the passages.

In some mines where it is important to have ventilation, there are four shafts, two up and two down-cast. The latter, where the coals are drawn up to the surface, are in the lowest part of the mine, and all the passages are on a gentle ascent towards the furnace, so that the air down the shafts is drawn that way. The furnace consists of a number of iron bars placed horizontally across the end of a large brick arch, and the roof and sides are built of the best fired bricks. On the iron bars nearly a ton of coals is kept constantly burning and throws out a great heat, relays of men being employed in replenishing it. At the back of the furnace is a shaft to carry off the smoke. Thus the cool air circulates all over the mine. When a large supply of air is required in any particular part of the mine, the doors are closed at the entrance to the other parts, thus directing the current where it is most wanted. This current is so strong that on opening one of these doors, care is necessary in shutting it, as it would slam with a force sufficient to knock a man down.

These and other arrangements, and the vast amount of machinery now employed, had not, however, been introduced when Mark Gilbart began life as a “trapper.” The most dangerous operation is the opening of a new passage, from which foul air may suddenly escape and poison the miners inhaling it, or a stream of water may rush forth, rilling up the gallery, and drowning all within its reach. Numberless, indeed, are the dangers to which miners are exposed. Their condition is now improved, but they formerly worked eleven or twelve hours a-day, and occasionally even from thirteen to sixteen, far down in the depths of the earth, in a heavy and noxious atmosphere, in a half naked state and in unnatural positions, kneeling, stooping, lying upon their sides and backs, at any moment liable to the loss of life. The miner has not only to undergo bodily labour, but must exercise skill, patience, presence of mind, coolness, and thoughtfulness. Countless, also, are the dangers to which they are exposed. To accidents as they come down or go up the shafts by the breaking of ropes, or the giving way of machinery, from the falling in of the roof or walls, as also from accidents in blasting, from spontaneous combustion, from explosion of fire-damp, suffocation from choke-damp, and eruptions of water, and even quicksands. Sometimes floods or heavy rains find their way down unknown crevices into the pit, where the miner is working, and forming a rapid torrent, suddenly inundates the mine and sweeps all before it.

Such was the life young Mark Gilbart was apparently doomed to lead.

Chapter Three.

Learning to Work.

We must proceed more rapidly than heretofore with Mark Gilbart’s history. He did his duty as a trapper, never falling asleep, and always opening and shutting the trap at the proper moment. The rolley boys never complained of him, and as he was invariably in good humour, and stood their chaffing, he became a favourite.

Often he had to go into the pit before daylight, and remain until ten o’clock at night with one candle to light him on his way to his trap, and another with which to return.

As he always told his mother that he was happy, and he appeared to be in tolerable health, she became reconciled to his being thus employed, though she little dreamed of what he had really to go through. When he had shorter hours of work, he employed his time at home in reading and improving himself in writing. He had also a fancy for making models. He began by making one of the parts of the pit in which he worked. Then he tried his hand at making some of the simpler machinery of the pit. His uncle acknowledged that the rolleys, corves, picks, and spades were wonderfully exact,—indeed, was so well pleased that he allowed him a lantern and a supply of candles, so that instead of sitting in the dark, he could pass his time in reading and cutting out his models, the materials for which he carried down with him. So perfect were his models that they were readily purchased by visitors to the pit. His mother, on one occasion, taking some of them into a neighbouring town, sold specimens to tradesmen, who offered to buy as many as she could bring them of the same description. At length Mark became big enough to be a “putter,” or rolley boy. He could no longer read or make models down in the pit, but he got better wages, shorter hours of work, and his health improved with the exercise. Being always wide-awake, he escaped the accidents from which so many of his companions suffered, which they called “laming.” The injuries they received were from various causes, but generally from falling, when the rolley passed over their arms or legs, and broken limbs were the consequence. Some had lost one or more fingers or toes, others had received gashes in their faces, or arms, or legs, but they had seldom long been laid up, and had willingly again returned to their work. The term “putter,” it should be understood, includes the specific distinction of the “headsman,” “half-marrow,” and “foal.” The “headsman,” taking the part of conductor, pushes behind. The “half-marrows” drag at the sides with ropes; while a “foal” precedes the train, also dragging by a rope. Mark, however, was not very long employed in this laborious task, for the overseer, hearing of his talent, appointed him to the duty of “crane-hoister.” The term explains itself. He had to hook on the “corves,” and keep an account by chalking on a board the number hoisted up. In this occupation he was able to gain a pound a week. Some part of this he laid by, and with the other he enabled his little sister to attend a respectable school in the neighbourhood, where she made great progress, and showed a considerable talent for music. Mark had by this time gained the esteem not only of his companions but of the under-viewers, and was favourably known to the viewer. On several occasions when his services had been required, he had accompanied one of the under-viewers on his visits through the mines. He thus traversed the main gallery, the side walks, and the old, or abandoned works. In the latter the roof was propped up by perpendicular posts and horizontal beams. In many places the beams were so bent by the weight of the superincumbent earth, that it appeared they must before long give way. In many places they had to creep on hands and knees to pass through the old workings, which opened into others farther on.

As they made their way along, the under-viewer showed him a fault in the coal seam, and explained what it was. Coal seams generally run in a parallel position with the various other strata for a considerable distance, when, all at once, they abruptly terminate. This is marked as plainly as if a wall had been built up at the end of the seam. Thus, while on one side of the wall there is a thick seam of coal, on the other there is a mass of rock. This break or fault was caused at some remote period of the world’s history by an internal convulsion. It is known, however, that the seam will again be found, either at a higher or lower level than the one first worked. To reach the seam a tunnel is driven right through the rock, when sooner or later the seam is discovered. In the present fault, a tunnel had been run through the solid rock for fifty feet in length; and they might afterwards have to follow up the seam, extending perhaps half-a-mile, or even a mile, for the whole of which length a gallery would have to be cut, from which, side workings would extend on either side. So accurately did Mark note all he saw, that on his return home he was able to draw out a plan of the mine, with which the under-viewer was so pleased, that he took it to the manager.

“This boy deserves encouragement. We must see what can be done for him!” was the remark. Shortly after this, great improvements were introduced into the mine. Fresh shafts were sunk, for affording better ventilation, and for more rapidly getting the coal to the surface. Near them, engines of great power were placed to perform the various operations required. An endless wire rope was made to run from the shafts to the extreme end of the gallery, kept revolving by a steam-engine down in the mine. The man walking ahead of the leading waggon, to which is secured a pair of iron tongs, grips hold by them of this endless rope, which thus drags on his waggons without any labour on his part, towards the shaft, up which the coals are to be carried to the surface. The chief gallery was divided by a wall down the centre, with openings at intervals of twenty yards or so, to enable persons to pass through. There were also niches on either side, where he could stand while a train was passing. On one side of the gallery the full trains ran along on rails from the workings to the shaft; on the other side the empty waggons returned to the workings to be filled. For the purpose of better ventilating the mine, an enormous fan, forty feet in diameter, formed like the paddle-wheels of a steam-ship, and kept constantly revolving by steam-power, was placed over a shaft sunk for that sole object. The suction caused by the enormous paddles drew up all the foul air and noxious vapours from the whole of the mine, and at the same time drew in from another shaft, more than a mile distant, a current of fresh air, amounting from 70,000 to 80,000 feet per minute, thus doing the work of a furnace far more effectually, and at much less cost.

Instead of the old corve or basket, an iron safety-cage had been introduced, sliding up and down on steel bars, resembling indeed a perpendicular rail-road. Wonderfully changed was the appearance of the mine itself. Mark, who had been employed above ground for some time, was astonished, on being lowered in the new safety-cage, to find himself on stepping out at the bottom in a spacious brick-arched vault, almost the size of a railway terminus, well lighted by large glass lamps suspended from the roof. The machinery, both steam and hydraulic, looked in the most perfect order; the steel parts of the engine shining like burnished silver. Trains of laden waggons were every now and then arriving. First of all was heard a distant rumbling, with the “whirr” of the iron rope far back in the darkness. The rumbling sound grew louder, and at last the train came in sight. A stalwart miner, with his lamp dimly twinkling slung at his waist, striding along holding in his left hand the iron tongs before mentioned, and having behind him a long train of waggons, gradually came into the light. On he went to the foot of the shaft. Here a strong iron cage appeared, having three floors, one above the other. In front of this was a stage, on to which the leading waggon was run. It was then lifted by hydraulic power, until a second stage appeared below it. On this another waggon was run, that again rose, until a third stage was level with the tramway—the three stages being now level with the three floors of the cage. At the same time three hydraulic rams or arms ran out from the side of the shaft and pushed the waggons into the cage, which immediately began ascending. It should have been said that three empty waggons had come down in the cage, and had in the first instance been withdrawn and placed on the return tramway. These were at once coupled together by men stationed there for the purpose, who had now to wait for the return of the cage with more empty waggons to be again filled with three others from the full train. The cage on reaching the summit of the shaft was unloaded much in the same fashion by hydraulic power. This operation was carried on with wonderful rapidity, so that the outputs, or amount of coal raised, averaged from 800 to 900 tons per day.

More than a mile away from this main shaft was the engine-room which worked the endless rope. On a platform some distance above the ground sat the engineer, surrounded by a multitude of signals. In spite of the tremendous noise which prevented one person hearing what another said, the engineer attended to all his signals with the greatest accuracy, his complicated machinery in beautiful order, and appearing perfectly at his ease. Some idea may be formed of the vast amount of labour employed in this mine when it is understood that the working-faces, with gate-roads, main roads, air-ways, returns, engine-plains, self-acting and engine inclines, extended upwards of eleven miles, and with the addition of the old working roads, including those which were bricked up, the whole measured the enormous amount of twenty-two miles. All these passages were kept far better ventilated by the fan than they were by the furnace hitherto in use, while the pure air brought down, greatly contributed to the health of the miners.

Mark had risen step by step. He was now able to take a house for his mother and Mary, although old Hayes and his wife were very unwilling to part with them. Mary had greatly improved in her music, of which she was passionately fond, but she had no piano on which to play at home.

Mark, who had a holiday, hearing that an auction was to take place at the neighbouring town, at which a pianoforte was for sale, set off to attend it. There was some competition, but he had 20 pounds in his pocket, saved from his earnings, and it was finally knocked down to him at that price. With proud satisfaction he at once hired a spring cart, and set off with it for his home, where he had it placed while Mary was out with their mother. Her delight at seeing it equalled the pleasure with which he bestowed his gift. The fact was inserted in one of the local papers by the auctioneer who sold it, that the piano was purchased by the first 20 pounds saved out of the earnings of a collier boy, as a present to his sister.

Unhappily, such instances are rare, for although many collier boys gained high wages, the money was too generally lavishly spent, without thought for the future.

Of late years a considerable improvement has taken place among many mining populations, but even in former years it was possible for talent to force its way upwards. Who has not heard of George Stephenson, who began life trapper in a mine at six years of age, and rose to be a great engineer, father of Robert Stephenson, M.P., and engineer-in-chief of the North-Western Railway; of Dr Hutton, who was originally a hewer of coal in Old Long Benton Colliery; of Thomas Bewick, the celebrated wood-engraver; of Professor Hann, the mathematician, and of many others whose names are less known to fame, who have obtained respectable positions in society.

Old Hayes had lately moved to another pit some distance from the one in which he had hitherto laboured, being tempted by higher wages, and Mark shortly afterwards was offered a situation as under-viewer in the same pit. It was worked on the old plan, but improvements were being carried out.

Old Simon with four other men were coming along the main gallery, being the last of the miners who were leaving the pit for the night. The rest had already gained the foot of the shaft, when a rushing, roaring sound was heard followed by a tremendous blast of wind, which, almost took them off their feet. The cage was at the bottom of the shaft. They sprang into it, more than double the number it usually contained clinging on. Before they could give the signal to be drawn up, they saw a torrent of water surging on several feet in depth, rapidly filling the whole lower part of the mine. They were soon out of danger, but what had become of old Simon and his companions? Mark had come to the pit’s mouth intending to descend and make his usual survey of the mine to see that all was right. He soon heard on inquiry of the supposed fate of old Simon and the rest. No one doubted that he had been overwhelmed by the raging waters, but that such was the case Mark was not thoroughly satisfied.

“They may have escaped in one of the side workings, and if so they are still alive, although it may be a difficult matter to get them out,” he remarked.

He at once ordered the cage to be lowered, and with two men who volunteered to accompany him, descended in it. On getting near the bottom he discovered that although the water had filled the main tunnel to the roof, there was still a passage running away to the left on a higher level which was perfectly dry. They proceeded along it although his companions considered that a search in that direction was useless.

“If the poor fellows were last seen in the main gallery, it seems impossible that they should have got up here,” they remarked. They, however, went on and on, but no signs of human beings could be discovered. They were returning, and were once more approaching the shaft, when a dull sound was heard, as if some one was striking on a wall in the far distance.

Mark placed his ear against the side from which the sound seemed to come, and he distinctly heard several blows given. The others did the same.

“You are right, Gilbart, that comes from the side working nearest to us. The men must be there,” exclaimed one of his companions.

“We will reply to them,” said Mark, and taking a pick he struck several heavy blows against the side of the gallery. They were replied to by the same number.

“How is it that they can be there and not be drowned?” asked one of the men.

“The water is prevented from rushing in by the pent-up air in the working,” he answered. “How long it will be kept back I cannot say, but no time must be lost in hewing a way through to them. Come, lads, with God’s help, we will save them,” said Mark. “Keep picking away until I return,” and he hastened to the shaft.

Having an exact plan of the mine, he was able to determine at once the working in which old Simon and his companions were imprisoned. The distance, however, to the spot where he was convinced they must be was fearfully great, between eighty and ninety yards. It would take days to bore through. Would those they desired to save be able to exist so long? The attempt must be made.

Volunteers were quickly obtained, and descending with a dozen skilful hewers, he commenced operations at the very spot where the sound of the blows had reached his ears. In a short time a gang of putters with a supply of rolleys came down to carry away the coal and earth and rock as it was hewn out, but five men could only labour at a time. They worked, therefore, in relays. Day and night they laboured on without cessation, except occasionally stopping to ascertain that their friends within were alive, when they were encouraged to proceed by invariably hearing the knocking which had at first attracted Mark’s attention. He directed the course they were to pursue, never once ascending to the pit’s mouth, but taking his food near the working, and sleeping in a blanket on the hard rock. Day after day and night after night they worked on. The knocking from within sounded louder. On the seventh day their leader, an old friend of Simon’s, struck his pick into the rock before him, making a deep hole, through which there suddenly rushed out a stream of noxious gas, and he fell overcome. His comrades, seizing him by the arms, dragged him out, narrowly escaping themselves. Reaching the fresher air, he soon recovered, and undaunted exclaimed, “Let me go at it again, lads!” and leading the way, once more the bold miners recommenced operations. Still another day they worked on, and the partition which divided them from their friends was growing thinner and thinner. A second escape of gas once more compelled them to retreat, but as soon as it had dispersed, with the courage of heroes they again went at it. At length, on the tenth day since the water had rushed into the mine, but a thin wall remained between them and the imprisoned ones. They had now come to the most dangerous part of their undertaking, the moment they had broken away the wall, the compressed air would rush through the aperture, with a force far greater than the fiercest hurricane, and the water surging up might drown those within. Still, they knew they must risk it.

“Now, lads, we’ll do it,” cried their old leader, and lifting his pick he struck a blow against the rock. As he withdrew it, the air rushing through extinguished the lights, and they were left to work in darkness. Notwithstanding this, in spite of the wind in his face, the old man worked on with thundering blows. Every moment he brought down masses of rock until he was convinced that he had made a hole large enough to creep through.

“Where are you, lads?” he shouted. “Come on, come on!”

Some faint voices replied, he and four others, clambering through the aperture, each lifted a man in his arms. They could hear the water rushing in close to them, but they hesitated not. Dragging out their friends, they staggered along the gallery they had just formed. They were met by Mark and a party of men carrying lanterns, and battling against the fierce blast which rushed through the passage. They were thus soon relieved of their burdens. Quickly reaching the main gallery, the doctor took the rescued men in hand, having a plentiful supply of food, medicine, and attendants ready. Though weak and almost exhausted, the five men in a few hours were sufficiently recovered to be conveyed up the shaft, where they were received by their relatives and friends, who long before had given up all hopes of ever again seeing them.

It may be asked how were these men able to live so long during their imprisonment! Fortunately they had with them a small store of provisions, and knowing that it might be many days before they could be rescued, they at once put themselves on the very smallest allowance that would support life, at the same time the air, which as we have seen was so compressed by the force of the water, was capable of sustaining respiration for a much longer period than when of its ordinary density.

There is a very great amount of vitality in the human frame, and where the wear and tear of active labour does not exist, man can live for a long period almost without solid food, especially if there be a plentiful supply of fresh water at hand.

Chapter Four.

The Mines of Europe.

Mark Gilbart had never thrown a moment away. By study, perseverance, and strict integrity, and the exercise of the intelligence with which he was endowed, he had risen step by step to a far higher social position than he had before enjoyed. Though still young, he had become a mining engineer, and was greatly respected by all who knew him. He had the happiness of placing his mother and sister in a house of their own, without the necessity of labouring for their support.

He was one day drawing plans in his study, when he received a note from a Mr Harvey, a gentleman of property, the owner of several mines, requesting him to call.

Mr Harvey received him cordially. “I am about to ask you, Mr Gilbart, to accompany my son Frank on a tour of considerable extent, to visit some of the more important mines in Europe, and, if there is time, in other parts of the world, and he is anxious to have a practical man who will enable him to comprehend the different matters connected with them more clearly than he would be able to do by himself. I need not say that I am fully aware of the value of your time, and I therefore offer you such compensation as I hope you will consider sufficient.”

Mark gladly agreed to the proposal. Such a tour was above all things such as he desired, and which, indeed, he had himself contemplated taking at his own cost. Frank Harvey was an active, intelligent, young man, exactly the sort of companion Mark would have chosen. Having concluded all their arrangements, they lost no time in setting out.

Having visited the English, Scotch, and Welsh coal districts, numbering in all about fifteen, they bent their steps—after seeing the iron and lead mines in the south of Scotland, and the north and centre of England—towards Cornwall, to explore its tin and copper mines; after which they intended to cross the Channel to visit the more remarkable ones of Europe.

Their first halting-place was at Redruth, near which is the lofty hill called Cairn Brea, whence they obtained a view over an extensive mining district. The country around, covered in many places with enormous blocks of granite, looked barren and uninviting in the extreme, and no one would have supposed that any portion of the soil in sight was the richest in the whole of our island. Within a few miles of the spot where they stood were, however, numerous copper and tin mines, many of which had yielded a large profit to their owners. Among them was Dolcoath, one of the oldest copper mines in Cornwall, 300 fathoms in depth. Another, Eastpool, a tin and copper mine, from which ores to the amount of 130,000 pounds have been won, after an original outlay of only 640 pounds. From the former mine native silver, cobalt, and bismuth have also been obtained. The mineral deposits of Cornwall, it should be known, are found in granite and grey slate. Those of Derbyshire and the north of England—lead and iron—in the carboniferous system.

The travellers visited these and several other mines, among them the Consolidated Copper Mines, situated in the parish of Gwennap, about three miles from Redruth. They extend along the brow of a range of steep hills, into which numerous shafts are sunk. The length of the whole of these shafts together, it is calculated, is more than twelve miles in perpendicular depth, and if to these are added the horizontal galleries, which perforate the hill in all directions, the extent of subterranean excavation is upwards of sixty miles.

Eight steam-engines of the largest size, and thirty of smaller dimensions, are employed for drainage and other purposes, their ordinary working power being equal to 4000 horses, but when their full power is put on they almost equal that of 8000. To carry off the water from these mines, a tunnel, with numerous ramifications has been formed, measuring nearly thirty miles in length. One branch of this tunnel is upwards of five miles long, carried underground 400 feet beneath the surface, finding its outlet into the sea near Falmouth.

A few years ago the number of tin mines worked in Cornwall amounted to 139, and to 26 in Devonshire; and about 20,000 persons were employed in them.

Although the wages of the miners are much inferior to those of the pitmen in the northern coal-fields, yet they have advantages over their brethren, being exempted from many of the evils to which the northern miners are subjected. They have no fear of the fatal fire-damp or sudden explosions. Intellectually they are also superior, as they are mostly engaged in work requiring the exercise of mind. Their wages arise from contract, and depend greatly upon their skill and energy. They mostly have gardens, which they cultivate, and when near the coast they engage in the fisheries, thus increasing their incomes and varying their mode of life.

After leaving Redruth the travellers proceeded over the wildest and most desolate of moorlands, with blocks of stone scattered about, towards the wonderful Botallack Mine, on the Cornish coast. No mine in the world is so singularly placed. Descending to the shore below, on looking upwards, the view appeared fearfully grand. In one part was a powerful steam-engine, which had to be lowered almost 200 feet down the cliffs. Here tall chimneys, pouring out dense volumes of smoke, were seen perched on the ledges of a tremendous precipice. Here and there also were the huts of the miners, disputing the ground with the wild sea-birds, while ladders of great length scaled the rocks in all directions, enabling them to ascend and descend to their work. In some parts were paths up which sure-footed mules, with riders on their backs, were trotting briskly along, where few people unaccustomed to dizzy heights would have wished to venture even on foot.

As they had determined to visit the mine, they had to ascend to the top of the cliff and then once more to descend among the rugged rocks to a ledge about midway between the summit and the ocean, where a small building, occupied by the mining agent, marked the entrance. Hearing who they were, the agent at once undertook to guide them, and produced a couple of woollen mining dresses and two large felt hats.

Each person having fastened four or five candles to his button hole, while he carried another in his hand, they began to descend through a trap-like entrance, by a series of ladders, which although strong enough in reality had a very rickety feeling. On reaching the foot of one ladder, they were conducted to the top of another, on to which they had to step, and thus descending ladder after ladder and passing ledge after ledge, they at length reached the bottom of the pit, where the end of a pump was seen drawing up the water from all parts of the mine.

They then commenced their progress along one of the numberless galleries, which was so narrow that two persons could scarcely pass each other. Now having to step over rough stones and often close to the edges of fearful pits, now to bend low under masses of overhanging rock, and sometimes to find themselves crossing unknown abysses by shaky bridges of planks, while the damp air felt hot and sickly, making the candles burn dimly. Here miners were at work with pickaxes getting out the ore. Having thus gone over, through, and under all impediments, they were informed that they were 120 feet below the level of the sea vertically, and horizontally 480 feet below low-water mark. Boats might even then be passing over their heads. Human beings were working still lower down. On the roof, the strips of pure copper could be distinguished among the crevices of the rocks through which the salt water was seen percolating in an unpleasant abundance. In their eagerness to obtain the rich ore, the miners had worked upwards until they had got within five or six feet of the bottom of the ocean. There the metal was still clearly visible, but even the most hardy miners would scarcely have ventured on an attempt to win another grain from the rock overhead, lest the water should rush in and overwhelm them, and inundate the mine.

Passing into a gallery where no one was at work, the travellers listened in perfect silence, and could hear the low murmur of the ocean rolling above their heads.

“Oh, that is nothing now,” said their guide. “When a storm is raging, I have heard the sound of the pebbles, which some large wave has carried outwards, bounding and rolling over the rocky bottom. On standing beneath the base of the cliff, where not more than nine feet of rock intervened between the sea and my head, the heavy roll of the large boulders, the ceaseless grinding of the pebbles, the fierce thunder of the billows with the crackling and boiling as they rebounded, produced an uproar such as those who heard it can never forget.”

For many years a blind man worked in the Botallack Mine, and supported a large family by his labour. So complete was his recollection of every turning and winding, that he became a guide to his fellow-labourers, when by any accident their lights were extinguished. He being afterwards cruelly discharged, engaged himself as an attendant to some bricklayers. While thus employed, with a hod of mortar on his back, he fell from a platform and was killed.

There are several other mines similarly situated to that of the Botallack on the coast of Cornwall, where the works are carried far under the ocean. Among them are the Wheal Edward, the Levant, the Wheal Cock, and the Little Bounds. In the two latter, the miners have actually followed the ore upwards until the sea itself has been reached, but the openings formed were so small that they were able to exclude the water, by plugging them with wood and cement.

On returning from the mine, the travellers, having doffed their miners’ dresses, inspected the outward machinery employed in crushing the ore on the landing-place in the side of the cliff, and drawing it up the precipitous tram, which leads to the summit, where it is stamped and prepared for exportation. It is mostly carried to Swansea, which, in consequence of the abundance of fuel in the neighbourhood, owing to its nearness to the sea, to its canals and railroads, has, in the course of half-a-century, from a mere fishing village become a town containing fully 40,000 inhabitants.

The Cornish mines are not the only ones which run under the sea. On the Irish and some parts of the English coasts there are several coal mines which are worked beneath the ocean bed to a great distance.

Another remarkable mine, that of Huelwherry, existed for many years on the Cornish coast. A rocky spot at about 120 fathoms from the beach was left dry at low-water, on which small veins of tin ore were discovered crossing each other in every direction. Although the surface was covered for about ten months in the year, and had at spring-tides nineteen feet of water over it, while a heavy surf often broke on the shore, a poor miner, named Thomas Curtis, about a century ago determined to attempt winning the ore. The work could only be carried on during the short time the rock appeared above water. Three summers were spent in sinking the pump-shaft, which had every tide to be emptied of water.

A frame of boards, raised to a sufficient height above the spring-tides, and rendered water-tight by pitch and oakum, was placed above the mouth of the shaft. Its sides were supported by stout props in an inclined direction. At the top of this wooden construction, which was twenty feet in height, a platform of boards was secured, on which a windlass was placed. The water was now pumped out of the mine and the machinery set to work; but the sea penetrated through the fissures of the rock, and greatly added to the labour of the workmen, while during the winter months, on account of the swell, it was impossible to convey the tin ore to the beach. Notwithstanding all these difficulties, the persevering projector was rewarded by obtaining many thousand pounds worth of tin. At length, during a gale, an American vessel broke from her moorings, and demolished the machinery by striking against the stage, when the water rushing in filled the mine. An attempt has been made of late years to again work the mine with improved machinery, but the venture not proving profitable it has been abandoned.

The travellers also visited the curious Carclaze tin mine near the town of Saint Austell. It is a prodigious hollow or basin, nearly thirty fathoms in depth and a mile in circumference, and has the appearance of a natural crater rather than a hollow made by human hands.

The sides are almost perpendicular, and a few footpaths alone lead down amid the rocks to the bottom. In every direction are seen the hollows made by the miners of ancient days, the white colour of the granite veined with the darker metalliferous streaks, and the curious shape of the rocks formed by the streams flowing down its sides, give it a remarkably picturesque appearance.

The machinery used for crushing the rock is set in motion by these streams. On every side the men, women, and children employed on the works are seen moving about in all directions, like a busy colony of ants. The ore is obtained without much difficulty.

A tunnel has been formed at the bottom of the mine through which the waters flow after they have performed their task, which also carries away the crushed granite, while the heavier metalliferous substances are precipitated into the troughs. Neither engine-house nor chimneys such as are seen in other mines are visible, while every detail of the work is exposed to view—indeed, the huge basin has the appearance of a mine completely turned inside out.

There are two methods of smelting tin. By the most common, the ore, mixed with culm, is subjected to heat on the hearth of a reverberating furnace, when ordinary coal is employed. By the other method, the ore is fused in a blast furnace, when wood fuel or charcoal is used. The tin when smelted runs off from the furnace into an open receiver, from which it flows into a large vessel, where it is allowed to settle. After the scoriae have been skimmed off, the upper and purer portion of the mass is refined, and the lower part re-melted.

Chapter Five.

The Metals found in Mines.

The chief object of the travellers was to inquire into the mode in which mines in different countries are worked, the causes of accidents, and the best method of preventing them. Their knowledge was superior to that which most of our readers are likely to possess, and it will be necessary, in order to understand their proceedings, to glance at the mining districts of the world, and to describe some of the principal mines among them.

No country possesses, within the same area, so large an amount of varied mineral wealth as Great Britain. Besides the seventeen coal districts of Great Britain, we find in Scotland numerous lead mines in the clay slate mountains on the borders of Lanarkshire and Dumfriesshire. In the north of England, with Alston Moor as the centre, along the borders of Northumberland, Cumberland, Westmoreland, and Durham, are extensive veins of lead. Cumberland, the north of Wales, and the Isle of Anglesey produce copper ore, as also mines of lead and magnesia, with many other metals,—zinc, arsenic, cobalt, and bismuth. Iron in large quantities is found in South Wales, South Staffordshire, and in the Scottish coal-fields, where the ironstone appears in abundance alternating with layers of coal and other strata, and is generally won from the same pit as that from which the coal is extracted.

Besides coal, Ireland contains mines of copper and lead, found in the slate and limestone ranges, contiguous to the sea coast. Crossing from thence to Spain, we arrive in a country rich in mines, though, owing to its distracted state, for many years greatly neglected. Here lead is found in large quantities in the mountain chains.

Quicksilver is abundant from extensive veins of cinnabar in the province of Mancha. In Galicia tin has been produced from very early times. Iron ore is very abundant, and silver mines, for many centuries abandoned, are now again being reworked. Gold was at one period discovered in large quantities, but is supposed to be almost exhausted.

The most important coal-field of France is round Étienne, near Lyons. Mining operations are also carried on in Brittany and the Vosges. Although possessing less mineral wealth than England, the French were far in advance of us in regard to the management of their mines. Germany possessed the chief school for scientific mining. Its principal metalliferous sites are the Hartz Mountains, on the borders of Hanover and Prussia, and the Erzgebirge or Ore Mountains, which separate Saxony from Bohemia. They yield silver, copper, lead, iron, tin, and cobalt.

The most prolific sites of the precious metals in Europe are possessed by Austria. The Styrian Alps furnish a vast amount of iron. The province of Carniola supplies quicksilver. Hungary and Transylvania, copper, lead, antimony, and iron. The most extensive works are found in the neighbourhood of the town of Cremnitz and Schemnitz. The veins in this region obtain the enormous dimensions of from 20 to 200 feet in width. The extensive forests of oak, pine, and beech which clothe the hills supply fuel for the numerous smelting works, while water, carefully collected into reservoirs, moves the required machinery. The whole of the drainage of the mines is collected in a receptacle 600 feet below the surface, from whence it is conveyed under a lofty mountain ridge by a magnificent gallery twelve miles in length.

Norway and Sweden possess extensive mines of iron and copper, as also silver. The latter country furnishes the best iron in the world, and it is much used in England for the manufacture of steel.

Passing eastward to Russia, we find the rich mines of the Ural Mountains, which divide Europe from Asia, and then on to the Altai chain on the southern frontier of Siberia, we meet with rich mines of gold and silver, and other valuable metals. On the European side of the Ural there is a deposit of copper sand-ore, extending over a district of 480 miles in length, by 280 in breadth. The mineral wealth of Asiatic Russia is far greater. It consists of copper ores; iron cropping out at the surface, gold and platinum. The Altai Mountains especially produce silver, and some gold, with lead and copper ores. The silver mines of this region were worked at a very early period, as is proved by the discovery of an excavation a thousand feet in length, from which a stone sphinx was dug up, corroborating a statement of Herodotus that the Scythians possessed mines of gold and silver, which, according to his account, were guarded by monsters and griffins. Baron Humboldt supposes that he referred to the bones of elephants, and other gigantic animals, discovered at the present day in the steppes between the Ural and Altai chains.

Crossing the Atlantic to America, we find vast quantities of the precious metals in the mountains of the Brazils and along the whole range of the Andes. In the province of Minasgeraes, gold is obtained from subterranean excavations, as also by washing the surface soil, when diamonds are also found. Auriferous deposits exist in the deep valleys among the mountains of Chili, and in Peru and Bolivia are immense veins of silver ore. High up on the Andes are the mines of Pasco and Potosi; while in the same region, quicksilver, copper, lead, tin, and other metals have been discovered. The copper mines being nearest the sea, are generally worked, the ore being sent to Swansea.

The lofty plateau of Mexico in North America has, from the first, been celebrated for its rich silver mines, of which there have altogether existed no less than three thousand, but the larger number of these have long been unworked. The gold mines of California and of Australia are too well known to require mention; but we must not forget the rock oil, concealed for ages in the North American continent. Both the United States and Canada now yield an abundant supply.

The number of metals discovered beneath the surface, including the metallic basis of the earth and alkalies, amounts to forty-two, but metals, commonly so-called, number only twenty-nine. These are platinum, gold, tungsten, mercury, lead, palladium, silver, bismuth, uranium, vanadium, copper, cadmium, cobalt, arsenic, nickel, iron, molybdenum, tin, zinc, antimony, tellurium, manganese, tatiaum, chromium, columbium, rhodium, iridium, osmium, cerium. Many of these, however, are so rare, that as yet they are of no practical use. Gold has been known from the earliest ages, and is found in scales, threads, grains, and rolled masses, or nuggets, which latter have been discovered in California and Australia weighing from twenty to thirty pounds, but the largest of all met with was in Asia, on the southern side of the Urals.

Large quantities of gold were discovered on a marshy plain which had been thoroughly turned over, when it was resolved to take down the buildings in which the gold was washed, and under the very corner of one of them a lump was found, weighing no less than ninety-six and a-half pounds troy, and valued at 4000 pounds. Gold has been found in Scotland, and in the county of Wicklow, Ireland, where about 10,000 pounds worth was picked up in the bed of a river by the inhabitants, before the Government became aware of its existence. Gold is so malleable that a single grain can be beaten out to form a gold leaf covering a surface of fifty-six square inches, and it is so ductile that the same quantity may be drawn into a wire 500 feet in length. Silver is found embedded in various rocks, where it occurs in veins, assuming arborescent or thread-like forms, and occasionally appearing in large masses. The largest mass found in Europe was brought from Kongsberg, in Norway, weighing upwards of 560 pounds, but another, won from the mines of Peru, was said to weigh 800 pounds. The celebrated mines of Potosi, 10,000 feet above the sea, were discovered in 1545 by an Indian who, when chasing a deer, laid hold of a shrub to assist in his ascent; it came up by the roots, to which he found attached a quantity of glittering particles, which he at once knew to be silver. Veins of silver have been discovered in England and Scotland, but generally mixed with lead.

Iron, the most useful of all metals, is found in large quantities in England, in many parts of Europe, and the United States. At one time Sussex was full of iron mines, the furnaces being fed with charcoal, until so extensive was the destruction of the woods and forests that the Government interfered, and placed restrictions on the consumption of the timber.

On the discovery of the present method of smelting with pit coal, the works, which at one time numbered 140 in Sussex alone, were abandoned, and hop-fields now cover the ground where furnaces once blazed.

Copper ranks next to iron in utility. In Cornwall there are upwards of 100 copper mines. It derives its name from the island of Cyprus, where it was first obtained by the Greeks. It is employed pure for numerous purposes, and is also mixed with other metals to form bell metal, speculum metal, for optical purposes, and German silver.

Lead occurs in veins most plentifully in mountain limestone districts, and usually contains some portion of silver. There are lead mines in various parts of England, as well as in Spain, Saxony, and in Bohemia, and some very rich lead mines have of late years been worked in the United States.

Tin is found in Cornwall in larger quantities than in any other part of the world. It is generally discovered in the alluvial soil of low grounds, where it is known as stream tin, because it has been washed by the agency of water from the rocks in which it was originally embedded mixed with sand and gravel. Tin is also found in the island of Banca, in the Indian Archipelago, in Bohemia and Saxony, Chili and Mexico.

Mercury is a rare metal. The richest mines are at Almaden, a small town of La Mancha, in Spain. It is also found in Austria, China, and Peru, and a few other places. It is sometimes found in globules, but it is generally procured from one of its ores, cinnabar, a sulphate of the metal, of a red colour, and indeed identical with the richly prepared paint vermilion. A thousand workmen are employed in the Spanish mines, above or under ground. It freezes at an exceedingly low temperature, and was found solid during midwinter by the traveller Pallas. Of the other metals, some used as medicines, or pigments, or to form alloys, we have not time now to speak.

Chapter Six.

Salt and Quicksilver Mines.

The object of the travellers was not only to inspect coal mines, but to view the wonders of the subterranean world. It is impossible to do more than give a very brief account of the places they visited. They had found their way to the Carpathian Mountains, in order to visit the salt mines of Wieliczka, a small town to the south of Cracow. The valley in which the mine is situated is fruitful and picturesque. Descending by a staircase of thirty feet or so, through a bed of clay, they arrived at the commencement of the level galleries, which branch off in all directions. Overhead was a ceiling of solid salt, under foot a floor of salt, and on either side grey walls of salt, sparkling here and there with minute crystals. The guide led them on through a bewildering maze of galleries. Now they entered a grand hall, now descended by staircases to another series of vaulted chambers. On every side was solid salt, except where stout piers of hewn timber had been built up to support the roof, or wooden bridges had been thrown over some vast chasm. As they descended, the air became dry and agreeable, and the saline walls more pure and brilliant. One hall, 108 feet in length, resembled a Grecian theatre, the places where the blocks had been taken out in regular layers representing seats for the spectators. Here and there were gangs of workmen, some labouring at the solid floor, others trundling wheel-barrows full of cubes of salt.

Soon after entering, they reached the chapel of Saint Anthony, excavated in the times of the Byzantines, supported by columns, with altar, crucifix, and life-size statues of saints. They appeared, from being coated with smoke, to be of black marble, but Mark, putting his tongue to the nose of one of the saints, discovered it to be of salt. Many of the saints, however, were disappearing before the damp, which enters in that higher region from the upper world. The heads of some, and the limbs of others had already fallen.

The guide had come provided with some Bengal lights, one of which he kindled on the altar, bringing into light this strange temple; then, as the flame burnt out, the whole vanished as if by magic. Passing across a wooden bridge, resting on piers of salt, they entered a vast irregular vault in which were two obelisks of salt, to commemorate the visit of Francis the First and his empress. As they reached the floor, a boy ran along the bridge above with a burning Bengal light, which threw flashes of blue lustre on the obelisks, the scarred walls, the vast arches, the entrance to the deeper halls, and the lofty roof, fretted with the picks of the workmen. Another hall was entered, with cavernous tunnels at the farther end, passing through one of which, they embarked upon a lake in a heavy, square boat, and entered a gloomy passage, over the entrance to which was inscribed, in salt letters, “Good luck to you.” Midway in the tunnel the halls at either end were suddenly illuminated, and a crash, as of a hundred cannon bellowing through the vaults, shook the air in such a way that the boat had not ceased to tremble when they landed in the farther hall. The noise was produced by a single gun.

A tablet, on which was inscribed, “A hearty welcome,” greeted them on landing. At a depth of 450 feet their journey ceased, although they were but half-way to the bottom. About 1500 men are employed in the mines, who labour only six hours at a time, and live in the upper world. The blocks are first marked out on the surface by a series of grooves. One side is then deepened to the required thickness, and wedges being inserted under the block it is soon split off. This salt bed occupies a space of 9000 feet in length and 4000 in width, and consists of five successive stages, separated from each other by intervening strata of from 100 to 150 feet in thickness, and reaching to the depth of 1500 feet.

More than ten years ago a serious accident, which threatened the destruction of the mine, occurred. While boring, to obtain some potash salts, through an aquiferous stratum, a spring was tapped, which poured an immense quantity of water into the lower galleries. The inhabitants feared not only the ruin of the mine, but the falling in of their houses from the melting of the salt pillars; but fortunately the inundation was confined to the lower galleries, and a powerful steam-engine being set to work, the water was again pumped out, and the spring blocked up. However, so vast are the excavations that it would have taken many years to fill them.

Contrasting with the bright glitter of the salt mines of Wieliczka are the gloomy slate quarries of Saint Peter’s Mount, near Maestricht, in the Netherlands, the most extensive in the world. For centuries they have been worked, both for building and manuring, and probably benefiting the agriculturist more than the architect. In spring and summer the labourers occupy themselves in their fields above ground, and not until winter approaches do they begin to burrow in the entrails of the earth.

The two travellers followed a trusty guide through those endless passages, which constantly crossed each other, either to the left hand or to the right. Darkness to be felt, silence profound, reigned everywhere, even the human voice seemed to die away without awakening an echo—the only sound to be heard being an occasional dropping of water from the roof into a small pool below.

Suddenly the guide extinguished his torch, when, bold as they were, and well accustomed to subterranean regions, a sensation of awe crept over them. Their first impulse was to feel for the wall, for in vain their eyes sought a ray of light, as in vain, also, their ears listened for the slightest sound.

Neither spoke for some minutes, and they experienced a sensation of relief when the guide relit his torch. Numbers of hapless beings have been lost in these trackless galleries, and here and there are inscriptions on the walls, notifying that a corpse was found on the ground below. One poor workman lost his way, and roamed about until his torch died out of his burnt fingers. The lamp of another was overturned, and he in vain endeavoured to find his way out of some remote gallery.

A French geologist while exploring the quarry discovered a corpse shrivelled to a mummy, the hat lying close to his head, a rosary in his hand. It was conjectured to be the body of a workman who had died more than half-a-century before, the dry air and the absence of insects explaining the preservation of the corpse. Two centuries ago four Franciscan monks resolved to construct a chapel in honour of their tutelar saint. In order to be able to retrace their steps, they took with them a large ball of twine, leaving one end secured to a spot where people were constantly passing. Their twine unwound, they at length reached a vast hall, probably not visited for many ages. Near the entrance one of them drew a sketch of the convent, and wrote beneath it the date of their discovery. When about to return, what was their horror to find that their twine had snapped. They must have searched for it in vain, for never more did they return.

At last the prior, alarmed at their absence, sent parties to explore the excavations, but so vast were they even then, that seven days elapsed before the corpses of the hapless friars were found, their faces downwards, and their hands folded as if in prayer.

During the siege of Maestricht by the French Republic, a party of the besiegers occupied the quarries. The Austrians who garrisoned Fort Pierre at the back of the mountain, formed a plan to drive them out, and tunnelling made their way towards their enemies. Although they marched silently along, their torches betrayed them, and the besiegers pouring in a volley of musketry killed a large number, made prisoners of some, and drove the rest into the depths of the cavern.

On the banks of the Nile are several prodigious stone quarries, from which the cities of ancient Egypt were built. Perhaps the largest is that of Haggar Silsibis. Here passages, broad as streets, with walls fifty or sixty feet high, now stretching straight forward, now curved, extend from the east bank of the river into the heart of the mountain, where halls have been hollowed out large enough to contain the Roman Colosseum, the rough hewn irregular roof resting upon immense square or many-sided pillars, some of which are eighty to a hundred feet in circumference. Here numerous blocks, already completely separated from the rock, appear ready to be transported; the labours of the quarry-men having suddenly been arrested by the invasion of the Conqueror, who overthrew the priests of Isis.

One of the most curious quarries of ancient days is found near Syracuse. The greater portion is a hundred feet below the level of the earth, and of vast extent, the whole hewn out of rock as hard as marble, the blocks thus obtained being employed in building Syracuse. It is converted by the monks, who have a convent above it, into a garden—a romantic and beautiful spot, as no wind can touch it. It is filled with a variety of vines and shrubs and fruit trees, among which oranges, citrons, pomegranates, and figs grow luxuriantly, and obtain an unusual size. Sicily produces sulphur in large quantities—the chief sulphur pits being near Girgenti. Most of the inhabitants are employed in them, to the neglect of the rich soil of their island; they labour away in the most primitive manner, pickaxe and spade being the only implements employed.

When a promising vein is struck, the miners set to work, and filling their baskets with the sulphur, carry it out and throw it into large heaps of a conical shape. These mounds are covered over with moist clay, some openings being left for the escape of smoke; the bottom is then ignited, and the matted sulphur flows out through grooves into pans, where it congeals in solid masses. The passages to the mines are so narrow, that persons can with difficulty pass each other; they then expand into high vaults, the roofs of which are ornamented with beautiful crystals of celestine and gypsum. On account of the excessive heat, the workmen labour in a nearly nude state, their dark brown skins sprinkled with light yellow sulphur dust, making them look savage and strange in the extreme. Towards the end of the last century, the sulphur mine of Sommatin caught fire, the conflagration causing the complete abandonment of the pit. For two years it raged, until the mountain, suddenly bursting asunder, a stream of molten sulphur gushed forth, and precipitated itself into the neighbouring river. The mass of sulphur, amounting to upwards of 40,000 tons, was thus obtained by the owners of the former pit, who had believed themselves ruined.

There are sulphur mines in different parts of the world, the largest of which are in Japan, but too remote to be worked with advantage. Gypsum, or sulphate of lime, better known as Plaster of Paris, is found in prodigious quantities at Montmartre, close to that city; but as it can readily be worked without having recourse to subterranean excavation, it need not be mentioned further.

When gypsum assumes an opaque, consistent, and semi-transparent form, it is known as Alabaster. The largest quarries are near Volterra, in Italy. Here the whole population have been employed for centuries, either in cutting it out of the mine, or in converting it into elegant forms of great variety, which are sent to all parts of the world.

Great Britain possesses inexhaustible alabaster mines in the neighbourhood of Derby. Some is worked on the spot, but the finest blocks are sent to the studios of sculptors.

Quicksilver, or mercury, is among the rarest of metals. The only two important mines in Europe are at Almaden, in Spain, and Idria, in Carniola. The former, situated on the Sierra Morena, was for many years farmed off to the Fuggers of Augsburg, but are now worked either by government or private companies. This was one of the most interesting spots visited by the two travellers.

Entering a spacious tunnel, completely walled with solid masonry, they advanced into the very bosom of the mountain. Here galleries branch out in various directions, hewn in the slate forming the matrix of the vein. One of them leads to a vast circular hall, called the Boveda de Santa Clara. At one time a horse gin was employed in this hall for raising the ore, but at present this work is performed through a shaft descending to the lowest level of the mine. Convenient steps lead down from another gallery to the first working level, and thence the descent is by short ladders to deeper storeys. The galleries are of a sufficient height to allow a person to work upright. The upper ones are dry, but the lower are humid and damp, although the water is easily raised by hand-pumps from storey to storey into a large receiver, which is emptied by a steam-engine. So extremely rich are the veins, that although worked for many centuries, the mine has scarcely yet reached a depth of 1140 feet. The present quantity raised annually amounts to eighty-thousand hundredweight of pure mercury. The ore known as cinnabar is of a dark-red colour, and gives a beautiful appearance to the galleries. Sometimes when a hewer detaches a block of ore with his pick mass of quicksilver, the size of a pigeon’s egg, rolls out, and leaping along the floor, divides into thousands of small drops. Owing to the imperfect apparatus with which the ore is sublimated, nearly one-half is lost. Formerly criminals only were employed in these mines. They were conducted at sunrise from prison by a subterranean passage into the mine, and compelled to toil on until the evening, when they were led back again to their dungeons. In a few years the greater number died, through inhaling the poisonous vapours of the mercury. Reduced to despair, a century and a-half ago, they set fire to the galleries, which, being then constructed of wood, were destroyed, and mining operations put a stop to for many years. Only free labourers are now employed, who are not allowed to work longer than six hours a-day. Most of these, however, die between the ages of thirty and forty, and those who exist longer are affected by palsy.

The quicksilver mines of Idria were discovered upwards of three centuries ago by a peasant who had placed a tub under a spring issuing from the mountain side. On attempting to move it, he found it excessively heavy, and on examining the bottom he saw that it was partly full of a heavy liquid, shining like silver. Ignorant of the value of the substance, he had sense enough to take it to a goldsmith, without mentioning the place where he had found it. In course of time, however, a man named Anderlein, having bribed him, became master of the secret, and with several others began to work the mine. In the next century the Venetians drove out the Germans, but were finally compelled by the Emperor Maximilian to give it up, and he restored it to its rightful owners. The mine has since been worked by the State. Ingress to the mine can be obtained by descending a convenient flight of steps, with galleries running off here and there from landing-places, or by descending in a few minutes through a perpendicular shaft in one of the tubs by which the ore is raised. The galleries lead to the various storeys of the mine, the lowest of which is 145 fathoms beneath the surface. The vein itself descends to an unknown depth, and is horizontal, but its extent has not yet been measured. The ores being embedded in limestone of a loose nature, all the galleries had from the first to be supported by wooden props. The wood has, on several occasions caught fire, with disastrous results. Early in this century the labourers observed a thick smoke issuing from the deepest part of the mine. It rose higher and higher, spreading through the upper galleries, yet no fire was to be seen, nor sound of flames heard.

Some of the workmen attempted to reach the scene of the fire, but were driven back by the dense and suffocating smoke, impregnated with vapours. Endeavours were made to smother the fire, but though the mine remained closed for five weeks, no sooner was it re-opened than the fire burst forth more furiously than at first. The howling of the flames ascending from the lowest depths of the pit awed the spectators, and the mercurial and sulphureous fumes arising from it threatened instant destruction to all who might approach. The director of the mine, as a last resource, came to the decision of flooding the works, and a river turned into the shaft ran down it for two days and three nights. At first no perceptible effect was produced, but on the second a terrific explosion shook the mountain as if an earthquake had taken place. The huts near the opening were blown to pieces, and even the stone houses on the slopes of the hill, fell with tremendous crashes. Water, however, gained the victory. Gradually the vapour dispersed, and after a few weeks the workmen were able to descend into the pit. They found, however, the galleries torn up, the vaulted roofs burst, and the stairs destroyed. It took two years to pump out the water, which, it is said, poisoned all the fish in the Idriza.

High pay being offered to any who would venture in to collect the quicksilver, which had accumulated in considerable quantities, many, tempted by the bribe, made their way into the workings, but overcome by the mercurial vapours, several perished.

The galleries have now been formed of stone, seven feet high and six feet broad, though some are still propped up with wood. They are of immense extent, amounting to no less than fifty miles. As late as 1846 another fire occurred in the wooden galleries, which was quenched by putting that part under water. The workmen labour in a tropical heat and an atmosphere full of deadly vapours. It is no wonder that a premature age overtakes many of them, and that young men are seen trembling in every limb, though it is said that those who survive their forty-fifth year may live on until they are sixty or seventy. To transport mercury, the greatest care is required. It is first packed in sacks of sheepskin, tanned with alum. The sack, being pressed and punched to ascertain if it is sound, is enclosed in a second skin. These are then placed in a small cask, and the cask again in a square box. Notwithstanding these precautions, as the sacks sometimes burst, the loss of the metal is great, and the mercury is now generally transported in large iron bottles, the stoppers being screwed down by means of a machine; in this condition, it is exported to England.

Chapter Seven.

Stalactite and Ice-Caverns.

Numberless and varied are the cavernous regions below the earth, presenting the strangest and often awe-inspiring sights to the spectator. In some rivers flow hundreds of feet beneath the green fields and widespreading trees.

Through the caverns of Adolsberg, Planina, and Upper Laibach flows a river known as the Poik, which then assumes other denominations, according to its locality. In some places it forms cataracts, leaping over the most picturesquely grouped rocks. In others it has forced a passage amid them, and then flows gently on.

Our travellers resolved to undertake a voyage on the Poik, and embarked in a boat, their progress being stream upwards through the celebrated cave of Planina. They had to be cautious, for often the current ran with great rapidity, and to keep a watchful eye for rocks which lay hidden beneath the water.

Rowing on for about 600 feet from the entrance of the cavern, at the end of a magnificent dome, they found that the river occupied the whole space. To this part persons on foot could proceed, as the ground on either side of the river was level. Now passing through a portal 48 feet high and about 24 broad, and as well proportioned as if cut out by the hand of man, their ears were saluted by the thundering roar of a distant cataract. As the archway widened, they suddenly emerged on a lake 250 feet in length and 150 broad, beyond which the cave divided into two arms, forming the channels of two streams, whose confluent waters formed the lake.

The walls of the cavern on either side rose abruptly out of the water, with the exception of one small landing-place at the foot of a projecting ridge. Here and there hung masses of stalactite, resembling a petrified cascade, the rest of the rock being black and naked. So high was the vault that their torches could not pierce the gloom, the impressiveness of which was increased by the roar of a waterfall heard through the channel to the left.

Hitherto their progress had been easy, but they now resolved to proceed up the left branch. They had frequently to get out of their boat, and wading, drag her over the shallows. The voyage terminated at the end of a small hall with a circular dome, the floor being a lake 180 feet in length, and from 40 to 45 feet in depth. In the roof appeared a chasm, sloping upwards through a small aperture, in which a violent current of air set in, almost extinguishing their torches.

Beyond the mouth of the chasm another gallery opened out, into which the persevering travellers penetrated. Nothing could surpass the beauty of the spar crystals with which its walls were encrusted. At the entrance stood a white figure, which might easily be supposed to be an angel, guarding the entrance with a glittering sword, threatening all who should venture with profane hands into his sanctuary.

Further on, projected in bold relief, was a colossal statue of a monarch, sceptre in hand. As they proceeded they passed groups of stalagmitic cones of all shapes and sizes. Some like the smallest icicles, others rising six feet in height from the ground, as thick as a human figure, the whole shining and glittering as the light of the torches fell upon them, and standing out in bold relief against the dark background formed by the brown wall of the cavern.

Returning to the central hall, they made their way up the eastern branch, which is much larger than the one they had just visited, the main stream flowing through it. As they pulled up, the increasing roar of waters announced a large waterfall. They found that enormous masses of stone, falling from the roof, had narrowed the bed of the river to about fifteen feet, over which the water shot in a broad sheet, fully ten feet in height. The effect as it rushed over the jet-black rocks, casting up flakes of milky white foam, when illuminated by the torches, was very beautiful.

Having hauled up the boat over the rugged mound, they again embarked, encountering a couple of reefs. They then proceeded on between steep walls with a free navigation, for upwards of four miles. In many places the roof was adorned with draperies formed of snow-white stalactites, but generally the black walls alone appeared. In some parts the roof descended so low that they were compelled to lie down, and shove the boat along by holding to the roof above their heads, until at length they found that they could proceed no further.

Of the world beneath the surface some of the most beautiful scenes are presented by the ice-caves of France and Switzerland. One of the most curious is the glacière “Grâce Dieu,” near Besançon. In the centre of the cave rose three stalagmites of ice. The central mass was 66.5 feet in circumference. Some distance above the ice-floor on the right was a small fir-tree, which had been fixed in the ground, and had become completely covered so that the tree itself had disappeared, its crystal incrustation showing every elegance of variety in form. From each twig of the different boughs, complicated groups of icicles streamed down. The mass to the left, however, was the grandest and most beautiful. It consisted of two vast heads, with several others of less height resembling a group of lions’ heads bending down, richly decked with icy manes, huge masses measuring 76.5 feet in circumference. On looking at this column from the side opposite the entrance to the cave, so that it stood in the centre of the light pouring down in a long slope from the outer world, the transparency of the ice made the whole appear as if it were set in a frame of impalpable liquid blue, the effect of the light penetrating through the mass at its extreme edges.

The Schafloch or Trou-aux-Moutons, a vast ice-cave on the Rothhorn, in the canton of Berne, is equally beautiful and curious. It takes its name from the fact that on the approach of a storm, the sheep and goats fly to it for shelter, although never going as far in as the place where the ice commences. The travellers entered the cave amid masses of loose stone, with which in a short time the ice was found to intermingle until it entirely hid the naked rock. They passed between two magnificent columns of ice which formed the portal to the fairy cavern. The floor, composed of ice, rose on either side to meet these columns in a graceful swelling curve, so that it appeared as if their bases expanded and met in the middle of the cave.

They had now to make their way amidst stalagmites rising from the floor, met by stalactites descending from the roof. All the time as they twisted in and out among the glittering pillars of ice, endeavouring to do as little harm as possible, they were accompanied by an incessant fall of small portions, shivering and glittering on reaching the ground.

Passing beyond the two columns, they saw before them a perfect sea of ice, which became broader and broader until they reached the edge of a magnificent ice-fall, smooth and unbroken, beyond which they were unable to penetrate.

They afterwards visited another beautiful ice-cavern known as the glacier of Saint Sivres, into which a stream flows, becoming completely congealed.

There are many other ice-caverns in Bohemia, Hungary, the Hartz Mountains, and in various parts of North America. One of them, however, surpassing in size the others, is the cave of Yermalik, in the province of Kondooz, in the centre of Asia. When Kondooz was invaded by the savage warrior Genghis Khan, 700 men with their wives and children took refuge in this cavern, and offered so brave a defence, that after attempting in vain to destroy them by fire, the barbarous invader built up the entrance with large blocks of stone, and left them to perish of hunger.

Nearly forty years ago the cave was visited by two British officers, who had great difficulty in obtaining guides, as the natives believed the cave to be the abode of Satan. The entrance is about half-way up a hill, and about fifty feet in height, and about the same in breadth. Squeezing their way through a narrow passage between two rocks, probably the remains of Genghis Khan’s fatal wall, they came to a drop of about sixteen feet. Down this, by means of ropes, they were lowered by two men, who remained to haul them up again. Passing through a narrow tunnel, over a floor of smooth ice, they reached a vast hall, damp and dripping, the light of their torches not enabling them to form any idea of its size. Here they discovered hundreds of skeletons, the victims of Genghis Khan’s cruelty. Among them was one, evidently the skeleton of a mother, holding in its long arms the skeletons of two infants. The bodies of others had been preserved, and lay as they had fallen, shrivelled into mummies. After leaving this vast sepulchre, they proceeded through several low arches with smaller caverns, until they reached an enormous hall, in the centre of which was a prodigious mass of clear ice, in the form of a bee-hive, its dome-shaped top just touching the long icicles which depended from the jagged roof.

A small opening led into the centre of this wonderful ice-heap, which was divided into several compartments, presenting numerous fantastic forms. In some the glittering icicles hung like curtains from the roof, in others the whole compartment was as smooth as glass. The prismatic colours which presented themselves as the torches flashed on the surface of the ice were beautifully brilliant.

On every side they were surrounded by solid ice, and, scarcely able to keep their feet, they slid noiselessly over the glittering surface of the mysterious hall.

The icicles having reached the floor of one of the largest of the compartments, had the appearance of pillars supporting the roof.

In Italy and the South of France there are caverns with some distant aperture through which the wind enters, and being cooled in its subterraneous passage, sends forth a cold blast at the other end, such as the Aeolian Cavern, near Terni. It has been utilised by the proprietors of some of the neighbouring villages, who have conducted the cold air to their houses by means of leaden pipes, which on sultry summer days convey a pleasant coolness through plaster-of-paris masks, with wide distended mouths, fixed in the walls of the rooms.

Chapter Eight.

Copper Mines.

Next to England, Sweden is one of the chief copper-producing countries of Europe.

The mine of Fahlun, in Dalecarlia, has been worked from times immemorial. In consequence of the careless way in which the excavations were propped up, in the year 1678 the surface of the ground fell in, forming a vast pit of above 180 feet in depth, 1200 feet long, and 600 feet broad, with precipitous and sometimes overhanging walls, so that the spectator appears to be standing on the brink of an enormous crater. The bottom is filled with masses of rubbish and the remnants of ancient shafts, and thick beams of wood are seen protruding in all directions. A broad and convenient wooden staircase has, however, been formed on the northern side of the pit, by which not only the miners, but even horses can descend to their work. Passing through the entrance, the mine gradually widens underground to a depth of 1062 feet. The chief mass of ore is 600 feet broad on its upper surface, greatly narrowing as it descends to a depth of 1200 feet. Round it are other similar deposits. As the copper pyrites are deposited generally on the circumference of the outer shell of these masses, which are of a very irregular outline, the mining operations are carried on in a perfect labyrinth of winding passages and galleries, situated at various depths, and supported either by pillars or walls. It at one time yielded 5000 tons of copper annually, but has of late years furnished no more than 600 tons.

A romantic incident is connected with this mine. In the year 1719, while some miners were exploring an abandoned passage, they discovered a human body, preserved from corruption by the blue vitriol or sulphate of copper produced in the mine under the influence of the atmosphere and water. It was that of a handsome young man. On being brought to the surface, people from all directions flocked to see it, but nobody could recognise in its features a lost kinsman or friend. At length a woman, with tottering steps, upwards of eighty years of age, approached the corpse, when scarcely had she cast a glance at it than she uttered a piercing shriek, and exclaimed,—“It is he! It is Gustavus, for whom I have mourned so long, whom I accused of fickleness in deserting me.”

She had in truth recognised her affianced lover, who had mysteriously disappeared more than sixty years previously, but whose image she still bore in her memory. As he was not employed in the mines, no one thought of searching for him underground. The surface is traversed by various crevices, some leading to the workings underground; and probably Gustavus, prompted by curiosity, had looked down one of them, and had either, losing his balance, fallen in, or been precipitated by some jealous rival in the good graces of the once blooming girl, now a tottering old woman, weighed down with a double burden of infirmity and age. She probably forgot how years had passed away, as she gazed once more on the face of her youthful and handsome lover.

Besides copper, Sweden produces iron of great excellence, won from its celebrated mines of Dannemora, and largely imported into England for the manufacture of steel.

Leaving the university town of Upsala, and passing through a natural barrier of forests and lakes, in which lie the iron-works of Oesterby, the travellers reached the place in which the pit of Dannemora is situated; not a sign announced the vicinity of the mine, until they saw the machines for lifting the ore, and a few huts scattered about, when they found themselves standing on the brink of a vast pit or crater, whose black and precipitous walls fence an abyss of a mile in circumference, and a depth of 450 feet. Here and there in that cold region they perceived patches of perennial snow and along the black walls, the dark entrance to labyrinthine caves fringed with long stalactites of ice. In some of these hollows flames were seen creeping along the cliff as they issued from piles of fir wood to soften the hard rock, while on every part of the deep gulf human beings were at work, the clang of their hammers sounding like the clicking of numberless clocks, mingled with the creaking of machinery, which brings to the surface the casks of ore. At length a bell tolled, and men, women, and children were seen ascending in the tubs, some standing on the edges, holding on with perfect confidence to the rope by which they were hoisted up.

Silence now reigned below, except when the voices of overseers were heard summoning those who had lagged behind, to ascend in haste. Scarcely had they reached the upper surface when a loud thundering roar was heard, which echoed through the cavern. The ground trembled as if convulsed by an earthquake, while black masses of smoke with pieces of stone or ore ascended from the gulf, and the crashing sound of falling masses rent from the mother earth was heard. When all the charges had exploded, the miners again descended to their work.

Although it cannot be classed among the wonders of the subterranean world, the famous Erzgebirge or iron mountain in the Styrian Alps deserves mention. It rises to the height of 3000 feet, the whole being coated with a thin mantle of the richest ore. In all directions it is covered with machines of various forms, horizontal and vertical galleries, tunnels and roads, and represents, as it were, a mine turned inside out. The whole of the operations are exposed to view, like those in the Carclaze tin mine in Cornwall, only in the former the ore is conveyed by tram-roads, galleries, and shafts to the bottom of the mountain, where they all unite in one main shaft, from which a tramway runs to the smelting-ovens of Eisenerz and Vordernberg.

Among the beautiful productions of nature, rock-crystal may be classed, known as the false topaz when yellow, the morion when black, and the smoky quartz when brown. The colourless kinds are often called Bristol or Irish diamonds, and the violet the amethyst. Some few years ago, a party of tourists, led by a guide, Peter Sulzer, set out from Guttannew, in Switzerland. When descending the mountain they reached a dark cavity, out of which they extracted some pieces of black rock-crystal with the handles of their Alpine stocks. The following year, Sulzer and his son, with a few companions, made an attempt to force their way into the cave, by widening the entrance with gunpowder. In spite of hail, rain, and bitter cold, they persevered, remaining during the night close to the cavern, in order to renew their labours the next morning.

Having widened the entrance, they penetrated to a considerable depth into the mountain, through a large cave piled up with débris, in which were embedded large planes of jet-black morions. These beautiful crystals had grown originally from the sides or roof, and had either fallen from their own weight, or been shaken out by some convulsion of nature. Their toil was rewarded by upwards of a thousand large crystals, varying from fifty pounds to more than three hundredweight.

Their expedition and its result becoming known, the whole population of Guttannew turned out with hammers, spades, and baskets, to carry off what they had left. As it was reported that the Government intended to interfere, they laboured night and day for a week, until, by the time the authorities arrived from Ijri, the whole had been removed. Some of the finest specimens are still to be seen in the museum at Berne.

Amber, about which all sorts of fabulous stories have passed current, is found more frequently in the depths of the sea than in those of the earth. There can be no doubt that it is the product of several conifers, or cone-bearing trees, overwhelmed by the waves. Although the gum which exuded from them has remained concealed for ages, until washed up from the bottom of the ocean, flies and spiders, which must have been caught when it was in a semi-fluid state, have been found embedded in it. The insects now appear as perfect as they were thousands of years ago.

The naturalist, Dr Berndt, has discovered 800 different species of insects in amber.

The famed cavern in Kentucky is as well worthy of a visit as any subterranean region. Of late years an hotel has been built near the entrance, detracting from its once romantic appearance. Visitors first descend a well-like pit, into which a stream falls, by a flight of steps, and then passing under a high archway, proceed along a level road, to what are called the vats, where saltpetre was once manufactured. Their blazing torches, numerous as they may be, hardly light up the vast subterranean region. From the large hall they make their way through a low narrow passage, known as the “Vale of Humility,” into another hall of enormous extent, the roof so lofty that the torches scarcely illuminate either the walls or roof. At their feet can be seen the glitter of water, extending far away into the interior, a bright stream flowing over a rocky bed into it. Moving on, they in a short time reach Echo River, on the shore of which a boat is found. When looking upwards, it appears as if a canopy of black clouds hung over their heads. On either side can be seen precipitous cliffs, rising apparently into the sky. Silence and darkness reign around, the smooth sluggish water alone reflecting the glare of the torches. The visitors are not disposed to utter a word, until the voice of one of the native guides suddenly bursts forth into a melancholy chant, which seems as if echoed by the spirit of his departed brethren. Now the notes rise, now they fall, as he gives them forth with the full force of his lungs, or warbles softly, finishing with a melancholy wail, which produces a most mournful effect. When a pistol is fired off, there comes a succession of crashing thundering sounds, echoed from every angle of this enormous vault; backwards and forwards they rush, roaring and reverberating from wall to wall with terrific crashes. The guides say it is perfectly safe at all times of the year to traverse the cavern, but there have been occasions when the waters, rising suddenly, have prevented the return of explorers. A way, however, was at length discovered through a narrow passage, the course evidently, at one time, of a stream, up which they can climb over the mud, and save themselves from being drowned or starved. This passage has appropriately been called “Purgatory.” In one part the river expands into a lake, the gloomy effect of whose dark waters, lost in the darkness, is indescribable. Leaving Echo River, they enter another cavern, known as Cleveland Cabin—a fairy region. Above their heads, and on either side, the roof and walls are adorned with delicate flowers, of snowy whiteness, and domes, turrets, spires, shrubs, and trees, as well as with the forms of birds and beasts of all descriptions; indeed, figures of every shape which imagination, without any great exertion, can picture, appear around. The representations of some are so perfect, that it is difficult to believe that they have not been carved by the hand of man, and yet all of them have been produced by the dripping of water from the gypsum rock. The cavern is not destitute of inhabitants. Huge crickets and spiders of an almost white colour crawl along over the ground, and rats as big as leverets run by, exhibiting sharp teeth and long tails. Another cavern is called “Martha’s Vineyard.” It appears as if a vine had climbed up the sides and spread its branches over the roof, from which hang suspended what look like clusters of grapes, but all of the same stony nature. In another cave it seems to the visitor that he is standing in a wintry scene, ice above and ice on the ground, with here and there patches of snow, the appearance being caused by the excessive whiteness of the gypsum. Farther on, there is a beautiful grotto, called “Serena’s Arbour,” the walls of which are covered with a drapery resembling yellow satin, falling in graceful folds, while through it murmurs a rivulet, which makes its way to one of the many rivers running through the cavern. In another, on the torches being extinguished it appears as if stars innumerable were glittering in the sky. On a stone being thrown upwards, it quickly strikes the roof, and it is soon seen that these seeming stars are produced by pieces of mica embedded in the roof, on which the light of a lantern being thrown in a peculiar way is brightly reflected. Although the caverns seem to be of immense height, the ceiling in most parts is not more than thirty feet from the ground. In the centre of one cavern, a regular hill rises from the ground, with a stream running at its base. Several rivers are crossed in this vast cavern, one is called the Echo River, another the Styx, and a third the Lethe. They are inhabited by fish and crawfish, sightless and perfectly white.

This vast cavern, the ramifications of which are said to measure nine miles, was not known to white men until 1802. For many years no one advanced beyond three miles from the entrance, further progress being stopped by a deep cavern called the “Bottomless Pit,” 1000 feet deep. At length, however, a daring guide threw a ladder over it, and crossing by this means, he was able to explore six more miles of this subterranean region.

A bridge has now been constructed by which people can pass over in perfect safety. It is said that no dog will willingly enter the cavern; indeed, few persons can pass along its passages without a sensation of awe, although with a guide it may be traversed without danger.

Chapter Nine.

Silver Mines, etcetera.

If a true history of the silver mines of South America were to be written it would reveal the cruel death of thousands and thousands of human beings, sacrificed to the lust of gain. High up among the Andes, surrounded by a succession of steep and naked rocks, is the town of Pasco, built above the mines, from which the inhabitants obtain their subsistence. The entrances to most of the mines are situated in the midst of the town. The irregular shafts descend directly down into the interior of the mountain, access being by a series of ladders often ill-constructed and rough, ropes and chains being employed to hoist up the ore. Frequently, the overseers having neglected to put up the necessary props, portions of the mines have broken in and destroyed many of the hapless workers. In one instance 300 perished at once by this means. In most of the mines the labourers, after getting out the ore, have to bring it to the surface in baskets on their backs, often from immense depths, and were it not for the sustaining coca leaf they would be unable to undergo such excessive toil. When rich veins are struck, the wages of the miners increase, but in most instances they spend them in drinking and debauchery, while the proprietors of the mines are almost equally uncivilised.

Fourteen miles from the town of Caxamarca is an isolated mountain called the Cerro de San Fernando de Gualgayoc, traversed by numberless veins of silver. At its summit rise a number of pyramidal pinnacles. Its steep sides are pierced by several hundred galleries formed for the extraction of the ore, as well as by numerous natural openings, while in all directions are seen the huts of the labourers, sticking like the nests of birds, wherever a ledge has enabled them to be constructed. One of the richest silver mines of Peru is that of Salcedo, but nothing is now known of it except its tragical history. A Don Jose Salcedo, a Spaniard, without a maravedi in his pocket, made love to an Indian girl, whose mother promised to reveal to him a rich silver lode on condition that he married her daughter.

Aided by his Indian relatives, with whom he lived on the most friendly terms, he obtained vast quantities of silver from the mine, the entrance to which was kept carefully concealed.

His wealth excited the rapacity of the viceroy Count Lemos, who, to obtain possession of it, accused him of exciting the natives to rebellion, and cast him into prison. In vain Salcedo entreated that he might appeal to the mercy of the king, and promised to give the viceroy a bar of silver daily, from the time the ship left the port of Callao to her return from Europe, which would probably be upwards of a year; but the viceroy, instead of listening to the proposal of Salcedo, ordered him to be hung. No sooner was this known to the natives than they destroyed the works, and so carefully concealed the entrance, that even to the present day it is unknown. The tribes afterwards dispersed, and even cruel tortures could not induce them to reveal the secret.

There can be no doubt that there are many rich lodes in existence worked by Indians, who, knowing that they will be compelled to labour for the benefit of their masters, carefully conceal them. In many of the mines of Peru, the natives having almost been exterminated, the proprietors endeavoured to kidnap the inhabitants of the Pacific to supply their places, but after several hundreds had been nefariously captured, the Governments of England and France interfered and put a stop to the practice. In another part of South America, near the town of Cumana, is a vast cavern in the Valley of Caripe, which was many years ago visited by Baron Humboldt, who found it inhabited by a remarkable species of nocturnal bird, called the guacharo. The mouth of the cavern is pierced in the side of the cliff looking towards the south, in the form of an arch, eighty feet wide and seventy-two in height. The summit of the cliff is covered with trees of gigantic size, and with shrubs and plants growing in all the luxuriance of a tropical vegetation, while a variety of creeping plants hang in elegant festoons before its entrance. Visitors can proceed for upwards of 430 feet without being compelled to light their torches. When the light of day begins to fail, the hoarse cries of the nocturnal birds are heard coming out of the dark recesses of the interior. The guacharo is of the size of the common fowl; its hooked bill is white, like that of the goat-sucker, and furnished at the base with stiff hairs, directed forwards. The plumage is of a sombre brownish grey, mixed with black stripes and large white spots. Their eyes are incapable of bearing the light of day, and their wings are disproportionately large, measuring no less than four and a-half feet from tip to tip. The birds quit the cavern only at nightfall, to feed on fruits. A most horrible noise is made by them in the dark recesses of the cavern, and the clamour increases as they are disturbed by the visitors advancing deeper into it with torches, and those nestling in the side avenues begin to utter their mournful cries. When the first sink into silence, it seems as if the more remote inhabitants were alternately complaining to each other of the intruders. The nests of these birds are fixed fifty or sixty feet from the ground, in funnel-shaped holes, with which the cavern roof is pierced like a sieve.

Armed with poles, the natives once a year, about mid-summer, enter the cavern and knock down the young birds, while the old ones, with lamentable cries, hover over the heads of the robbers. The young which are taken are opened on the spot, when the peritonaeum is found loaded with fat, and a layer of substance reaches from the abdomen to the vent, forming a kind of cushion between the bird’s legs. At this period, called by the Indians the oil harvest, huts are erected by them, with palm leaves, near the entrance. Here the fat of the young birds is melted in clay pots, over a brushwood fire; but although thousands are killed, not more than 160 jars of clear oil are obtained. A small river flows through the cavern, and the visitor is compelled, as he proceeds, to wade through water, not, however, more than two feet deep. From the entrance as far as 1458 feet the cavern maintains the same direction, width, and height, after which it loses its regularity, and its walls are covered with stalactites. The same bird has been found in the province of Bogota, and may probably be discovered in other caverns. Animal life exists in considerable quantities in many subterranean regions, such as beetles, eyeless spiders, scorpions, millipedes, and crustaceans. The most curious is the Proteus anguinus, which breathes at the same time through lungs and gills. It has a long eel-like body, with an elongated head, and four very short and thin legs. The skin is flesh-coloured, and so translucent that the liver and heart, which beat about fifty times a minute, can be seen distinctly beneath. Two little black spots, resembling eyes, lie buried under the skin, and are only partially developed. Weak as it appears, it glides rapidly through the water, when its four little legs remain motionless; it uses them, indeed, only for creeping, and then in a very imperfect manner. Seven distinct species of proteus have been discovered, six of which were found in the cavern of Carniola, besides crickets, spiders, and a few crustaceae. A peculiar blind rat is found in the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky. A blind fish swims in its rivers, and Professor Agassiz is of opinion that they, like all other blind animals of the cavern world, have at no time been connected with the world of light.

Vegetable life also exists in caverns, but consists of such mushrooms or fungi which, shunning the light, love darkness and damp. For their existence, however, moisture and warmth of air is necessary, but they are invariably dependent on organic basis, and are commonly found germinating on pieces of wood, particularly in a state of decomposition. More than seventy subterranean fungi have been discovered, some remarkable for their size. A few years ago a fungus was found growing from the wood-work of a tunnel near Doncaster, which measured no less than fifteen feet in diameter.

In the neighbourhood of Paris the cultivation of edible mushrooms is extensively carried on in the catacombs or caverns, seventy or eighty feet below the surface, where the temperature is uniform all the year round. In one of the caves of Mount Rouge there are no less than six or seven miles of mushroom bedding. Among the wonders of the subterranean world must be classed the bone caves of Europe and other parts of the world. In some caves in England, the bones of a prodigious bear have been found, and many hundreds of those of a hyena, considerably larger and more formidable than those existing in Africa. Besides the bear and hyena, upwards of a hundred species of extinct animals have been found in the ossiferous caves of Great Britain, among them being those of the elephant and a rhinoceros. Though in Europe bone caves contain the remains of animals very different from those now existing in the same regions, yet in the caves of Brazil extinct species of nearly all the territorial quadrupeds now inhabiting this region occur. The Australian caverns contain fossil bones of a large extinct kangaroo. In New Zealand the wingless apteryx is still found in the wilds, and the caves of that country show us that it was preceded by other wingless birds of gigantic stature; among them the moa, which, when alive, must have stood about thirteen or fourteen feet high. A complete leg of the bird has been discovered six feet in length, and portions of the eggs show that they had been about 6 or 7 inches diameter.

Chapter Ten.

Arrangements of the Mines.

In Germany mining operations are carried on in the most systematic manner. Miners are dressed as their ancestors were hundreds of years ago, and they cling pertinaciously to their ancient usages. In some workings prayers are offered up, led by the engineer, before the miners descend to their work, while they stand grouped round him at the opening of the mine, a custom which might well be adopted in our own country. The German miner retains also the superstitions of his forefathers, and still believes in the genii of the mines, named Nickel and Kobald, after whom he has called two metals, nickel and cobalt, originally discovered in the mines of Saxony.

The Germans have introduced into their mines a regular military system, and the engineers, who are denominated captains, wear when in full dress a uniform of a very military appearance, set off by epaulets and gold embroidery. Not inferior to them, however, are the Cornish miners, their captains being those who have risen by their industry and intelligence from the lowest to the highest grades, although men of less education than their German brethren.

The Spanish miners are a sober and frugal race, enjoying their cigarettes even while at work. On leaving the mine they put on their snuff-coloured cloaks and broad-brimmed sombreros. In the southern part of the Peninsula they wear grass sandals, cloaks of bright colours, and handkerchiefs bound round their heads. Leading lives of toil and hardship, their huts are wretched abodes built of stones and mud, their beds the ground, an iron or copper kettle hung from the roof above the fire in the centre of the cabin, a few wicker baskets, and a waterbottle of porous clay constitute their furniture. Still, the lot of the miner of the Sierra Morena is far superior to that of the miner of Almaden, who, poisoned by the noxious vapours of mercury, quickly succumbs, ere he has gained the prime of manhood.

In South America the mining operations of the inhabitants somewhat resemble those of their Spanish ancestors, their habits and customs being imitated by the Indians, who have, however, to perform the harder part of the work. While Mexico and Peru were under the mother country, the Mita or law of compulsion existed, the Indians being forced to toil against their will in the mines, but since the emancipation of the colonies and the abolition of that nefarious law, they have returned to their agricultural pursuits, and are only occasionally found of their own free will labouring in the mines.

Various modes are adopted for descending the mines. In some merely a single rope or chain with a loop at the end in which the miner places his foot is used, even when the depth is several hundred feet; in other mines baskets or tubs in which three or four men can stand are employed. While one of these is hauled up, another descends, and often fearful accidents have occurred by the tubs striking against each other, when their occupants have been thrown out. Occasionally the ropes and chains have given way, and the hapless miners have been dashed to pieces.

Some few years ago, as the engineer and several men of the mine of Méons were descending standing in a tub, each with a lamp in one hand, and holding on to the chain above him with the other, a couple of tubs loaded with coal unhooked theirs, which fell to the bottom. Providentially they had not relaxed their grasp of the chain above their heads, and at once letting go their lamps and desperately seizing it with both hands, they continued their descent, though huge lumps of coal were falling out of the tubs above them. Wonderful to relate, they reached the bottom in safety. On another occasion, while the same engineer was ascending in a tub, it was upset in consequence of the engineman raising the rope too suddenly. The engineer hanging on by one leg, with his head downwards was hoisted a height of forty yards, before the alarm was given and he was lowered to the bottom.

In the same mine, another engineer, while descending in a tub, had his clothes caught by a strut which projected from the side of the pit; he here hung suspended while his companions continued to descend, terrified for his safety and alarmed for their own, as should he fall, they expected to be crushed by his weight. In vain they shouted for assistance, the men at the top of the pit having gone out of hearing. Not until they reached the bottom could they send any aid to their companion. He in the meantime had been vainly endeavouring to find some support so as to relieve the strain on his torn garments, which threatened every instant to give way. After hanging thus for twenty minutes, he was at length set free, but no sooner was he received in the tub than he became insensible. A severe illness of long duration followed, but he ultimately recovered, though he ever afterwards preferred going down the ladders to descending in a tub. Anecdotes of the same description could be given without end. Most accidents of this character have ended fatally. To avoid them various inventions have been devised, one of which is known as the mounting machine, or man-engine. It consists of two parallel rods, furnished at equal distances with steps, while one is raised to a certain height the other is lowered to the same distance. While the movement of the crank is on its turning point, the miner passes from the step on which he is standing to the opposite step of the other. As they are constantly moving up and down, his next step is back again to the rod he had before left, which rising a few feet, he is able to step back to the other, just as it, having gone down, is once more ascending; and thus he reaches the top with little fatigue.

Far superior to this mode of ascending or descending are the safety-cages introduced of late years, which have guides the whole length of the shaft, and bonnets or roofs to protect the heads of the men within. They are made with several stages, in which either the tubs or waggons can be placed, or where the miners can stand or sit. If a rope breaks, a spring placed above the cage and kept taut by the tension of the rope, is set free, and acts upon a double clutch made of the best tempered steel. This catch or wedge falls between the wooden guide and a part of the cage, and brings the latter immediately to a stand-still. By this means numberless accidents have been prevented. The man-engines which have been described are dangerous for novices, for should a person stop at the wrong time, he may be hurled to the bottom, or crushed at the return stroke.

One of the most frequent accidents to which miners are exposed arises from an outbreak of fire-damp. To avoid this, various safety-lamps have been invented. The most celebrated is that known as Sir Humphrey Davy’s lamp. The flame is enclosed in a fine wire gauze, through which, under ordinary circumstances, the gas cannot penetrate. There are other lamps in use constructed on the same principle, but superior in some respects. Too often, however, the miners open them at some fatal moment, or enter the mine, against orders, with naked candles. Still, by means of these lamps, when properly employed, many accidents have been prevented. Another invention exists by which a person can enter in the midst of impure air. The apparatus was devised by Monsieur Kouquayrol, a French engineer. It consists of a reservoir made of sheet iron, into which the air is forced, and, by an ingeniously contrived pump, is secured like a knapsack to a man’s back, and the air is conveyed by means of a tube to the mouth of a nose, and thus into the lungs at the ordinary pressure, while a small external valve allows of the escape of the air after it has been respired.

A still more simple apparatus has been invented by Monsieur Galibert. The system for condensing the pure air is more perfect, while the reservoir consists of a well-prepared goat-skin, which, when inflated, a man can with ease carry on his back. It is furnished with a similar contrivance to the former, a tube passing from the reservoir to the mouth, while the nostrils are compressed, the eyes and head are protected, so that provided with it, a person may exist for a quarter of an hour in the foulest atmosphere, or in the midst of dense smoke. Although the metal miner is subjected to fewer accidents than are his brethren working in coal mines, the atmosphere in the former is far more destructive to human life. In lead mines, the duration of life averages scarcely more than thirty-two years, and in those containing arsenical pyrites or quicksilver ores, the average is still lower. Before the use of gunpowder in underground operations, the rocks containing the ore were attacked with fire, indeed the practice is still retained in some countries. Huge wood fires are made up against the face of the rock, which becomes shattered and traversed by cracks, and when cooled, it is easily detached with a pick or fork. Of late years, however, machines have been devised for boring or breaking the rock. Some form a hole by the continuous motion of a rotating drill, others by means of intermittent blows. One of these rock-boring machines, manufactured by Messrs Turner, of Ipswich, performs its work by a combination of both these operations. By the employment of these machines, the formation of the tunnel under Mount Cenis was greatly facilitated. An example has already been given of the way in which people have been saved from the effects of inundations in mines, others have been dug out when buried by the fall of roofs, but almost countless are the numbers who have perished from other causes, for if the first have destroyed their hundreds, the fire-damp in coal mines has proved the destruction of thousands. It was at one time considered right every night to provoke an explosion by lighting the fire-damp in order that the working stalls should be accessible next morning. The man who performed this dangerous operation wore a thick covering of wool or leather, his face was protected, and his head was covered by a hood like a monk’s cowl. He crept along the ground, carrying in his hand a long pole with a light at the end of it. He was known in the English mines as the fireman, but in the French he was called either the cannonier, the monk, or the penitent, the latter name being given him from his dress resembling that of certain so-called religious orders in the Romish Church. Too frequently the hapless penitent was destroyed by the explosion he had provoked.

Our two friends, however, might have written several large volumes had they given accounts of even a portion of the interesting matters concerning mines which they gathered up during their long and varied tour.

Mark did not fail to benefit largely by the information he obtained, and he ultimately, with the numerous improvements he introduced, became the proprietor of two of the coal mines in which he had worked in his boyhood, while his young sister, on whom he had had the satisfaction of bestowing a high-class education, refined in mind and manners, became the wife of his friend and fellow-traveller.

The End.

W H G Kingston

"The Missing Ship"

Chapter One.

The master of the Ouzel Galley—His son and daughter—The first mate—A calm—A gale springs up—A raft seen—Owen rescues its occupant—Dan, and Pompey, the black cook—Surmises about the stranger—The gale ceases—The stranger appears on deck and gives an account of himself—Gives first news of war between England and France—Lancelot Carnegan becomes second mate of the Ouzel Galley.

“No sign of a breeze yet, Owen?” asked Captain Tracy, as he lay in his cot, slung in the state-room of the Ouzel Galley, West India trader, of which stout bark he was the commander. His fair daughter Norah sat by his side fanning his pale cheek—for he, like several of his crew, had been struck down by fever, and he probably owed his life to her watchful care. For many days the vessel had lain becalmed on the glassy ocean under a tropical sun, the excessive heat tending greatly to increase the sickness on board, three of the crew, besides the second mate, having already succumbed to it. Day after day the survivors had been anxiously looking out for the wind to fill the sluggish sails hanging down against the masts; but each morning they had seen the fiery sun rise out of the calm ocean and pass across the blue vault of heaven, to sink again beneath the horizon, suffusing with a ruddy glow the whole western sky. The night brought relief from the heat, and hope revived; but when morning returned, again the suffering crew had to endure the scorching rays of the sun, from which even the shade cast by the sails afforded them but inadequate shelter. The chips from the carpenter’s bench which had been thrown overboard still lay alongside; while the creaking of the yards and blocks, and the slight splashing sound as the vessel moved from side to side by the now scarcely perceptible undulations of the broad Atlantic, alone broke the silence which, reigned over the watery expanse on which she floated. Norah—a fair and beautiful girl, who, though scarcely sixteen summers had passed over her head, had already the appearance, and what was to her of the greatest consequence, the calm resolution of more mature age—stopping for a moment in her employment, looked up with an inquiring glance from her blue eyes towards the first mate, who had just then, hat in hand, entered the cabin.

“A bank of clouds has just appeared above the horizon in the sou’-west, sir, and from the rapid way in which it is rising we shall, if I mistake not, have the wind before long, and as much as we want of it,” he replied.

“Thank Heaven!” ejaculated the captain. “See all ready for shortening sail. I must try to come on deck, for we are sadly short-handed.”

“Oh! don’t attempt it, father,” said Norah; “you have scarcely strength to stand, and Mr Massey and the crew will do all that is necessary.”

“Miss Norah is right, sir—stay where you are,” said the mate. “I am inclined to furl everything at once, so as to be prepared for the wind when it reaches us; it is near the hurricane season in the West Indies, and they are sometimes felt as far to the eastward as this. Should the wind not prove as strong as I expect, we can easily make sail again.”

“Do as you propose, Owen,” said the captain; “you are always careful and prudent.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the mate, and he sprang quickly on deck. “All hands shorten sail!” he shouted. “Be smart, my lads, or we may have old Harry Cane aboard us before we have time to open our weather eyes.”

He knew well that a joke would tend to inspirit the downcast crew, most of whom were Irishmen—the Ouzel Galley belonging to Dublin, though trading chiefly to the fair port of Waterford. She was a deep-waisted vessel, with three masts, the foremast and mainmast square-rigged, while the aftermast carried a long lateen-shaped sail called the mizen, with a square topsail and topgallantsail. The mainsail and foresail having been brailed up and handed, Owen ordered the crew aloft to furl the main-topsail.

“Gerald, lend me a hand to furl the mizen!” he sang out to a lad who had been actively engaged in the former operation. Gerald Tracy, the captain’s son, a fine-looking youth, sprang aft to the mizen-brails. The mate having already let go the sheet, the sail was drawn up close to the yard.

“Now, aloft to the mizen-topsail,” cried the mate; “we must have every stitch of canvas off her before the wind reaches us; for, depend upon it, it is in no playful mood.”

The mate and Gerald sprang up the rigging, and getting hold of the bunt of the sail, quickly furled it. Pompey, the black cook, and Tim Maloney, a boy, were on deck letting go or hoisting away at the ropes as required; every other man in the ship able to move was aloft. All the after sail having been taken off the ship, Owen, as he was about to descend from the yard, cast a glance to windward.

“Here it comes, sharp and strong,” he sang out; “down—down, quick, all of you!” and, seizing the backstay, he glided like lightning on deck. Gerald followed his example. As soon as the mate reached the deck, he sprang to the deserted helm and gave another look in the direction from which he expected the wind to come. Already could be discerned a long line of white foam curling up above the hitherto calm sea, over the surface of which innumerable cat’s-paws were playing, now sweeping across it, now vanishing, to reappear speedily in another direction. The men were in the mean time employed, under the mate’s directions, in getting the ship snug.

“Gerald, do you go and assist them,” he said; “we haven’t a moment to lose.”

The jib only remained set. Some of the crew had begun to grumble at having so much pulling and hauling, with apparently no object.

“What’s the use of furling sails in a dead calm? we shall be after having to set them again, as I hope we shall get the breeze before long,” exclaimed Dan Connor.

An active seaman was Dan, though he could seldom see much further than his own nose.

“Nebber fear dat,” cried Pompey, “we get de wind ’tiff and ’trong as you and I like de grog, Dan—de mate hab um wedder eye open as ’wide as de captain—see what coming—look out, man—what say to dat?”

Those standing near him turned their glances over the larboard side, towards the south-west, the vessel then lying with her head to the north-west, where they saw a long line which had now assumed the appearance of a vast foaming wave, while at the same time a loud hissing roar reached their ears. The mate shouted for another hand to come to the helm. Dan Connor sprang aft at the mate’s call; but scarcely had he grasped the spokes of the wheel, than the wind with a furious rush struck the vessel. Down she heeled, while a deluge of spray flew over her. For an instant it seemed as if she was irretrievably gone, but the jib happily standing, she drew ahead, and feeling her helm, round she spun, and, righting as suddenly as she had heeled over, away she flew before the hurricane. The young mate drew his breath.

“Gerald, go below and tell your father that we’re all to rights and no damage done. We had a narrow squeak for it, though; but don’t say that—it may trouble your sister,” said Owen.

Gerald went into the cabin with the satisfactory intelligence. On entering he found Norah clinging to the sofa, which was placed athwart-ships, at the after end of the cabin. She looked pale and anxious; happily, the captain had escaped being thrown out of his cot when the vessel had been hove on her beam-ends.

“How goes it, Gerald?” he asked.

“All right, father,” answered Gerald; “the stout ship is behaving beautifully. Thanks to Mr Massey, we were well prepared for the squall when it struck us—though it’s my belief if we’d had our canvas set it would have been all over with the Ouzel Galley. We are now scudding along under bare poles at a rate which will soon carry us into Waterford harbour, if the wind holds as it is.”

“Little chance of that, I’m afraid,” observed the captain; “but, Gerald, tell the mate to have the dead-lights closed. The sea will be getting up presently, and we shall have it washing through the stern windows.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered his son, who knew that an order given must be delivered immediately, and was about to go.

“Stay, Gerald—tell him to set the fore-topsail closely reefed, and to rig preventer-braces; we must not run the risk of having the ship pooped, and there will be a great chance of that happening before long, unless we have merely caught the tail of the hurricane.”

The boy hurried on deck and gave the orders he had received. He found that the mate had anticipated them. The carpenter was at that moment coming aft to close the stern-ports, while several hands were going aloft to loose the fore-topsail. The mate had seen the necessity for this, as already the furious wind had lashed the ocean, hitherto so calm, into wildly leaping seas, which came rushing up on both sides of the vessel, with foaming crests like war-steeds charging on the foe; but onward she flew before them, now rising to the summit of a wave, now pitching down into the trough on the farther side. It needed all the strength of the crew to reef and set the sail. The carpenter, as soon as he had performed his task, went forward again to assist the rest, while the mate and Gerald took the helm. The sail was at length set, and the men came down off the yard. The mate kept an anxious eye on the canvas, doubting much whether it would stand the tremendous strain put on it—he expected every moment to see it blown away from the bolt-ropes—but it was stout and new. He had little fear of the rigging, for every inch of it he had himself assisted in turning in and setting up, and not a strand had parted—all was thoroughly served. He now summoned one of the best hands to relieve him at the helm; he then had a spare fore-topsail got up on deck ready to bend, should the first be carried away. Having made every arrangement which as a good seaman he considered necessary, he sent Gerald back into the cabin to report to the captain; he would, he knew, be anxious to learn how things were going on. Gerald, who was an enthusiastic admirer of the mate, did not fail to tell all that had been done.

“He is a good seaman, father, that mate of ours,” he exclaimed.

“I can always trust him to do the right thing,” observed the captain.

“He is as fine a fellow as ever stepped,” answered Gerald, warmly; “when I thought the ship was going over, I looked at him, and there he stood, as calm and unmoved as if we had been running before a light breeze with all sail set.”

Norah’s eye brightened as her brother spoke, and a smile played over her countenance, though she said nothing.

“You will do well to imitate him, Gerald,” remarked the captain; “he is calm and confident because he thoroughly knows his business and what will have to be done under every emergency. A better seaman never trod the deck of a merchant vessel, or a king’s ship either. When this voyage is over, as Norah insists on my not going to sea again, I intend to get the owners to give him the command of the Ouzel Galley—they know their own interests too well to refuse my request. Before long you will be old enough, Gerald, to become second mate, and perhaps, if the stout ship meets with no mishap, to command her one of these days, should Owen get a larger craft, or take it into his head to come and live on shore.”

Gerald was glad to hear his father speak in this style; it showed that he was already getting better and recovering his spirits, which had been much cast down, especially since the death of so many of the crew. He now inquired how the others were getting on, and sent Gerald forward to learn. He soon came back with the report that two already seemed much better, but that the third had as yet shown no signs of amendment.

“They’ll pick up, poor fellows, when we get into a cooler latitude,” observed the captain. “I feel myself already another man, and hope to be on deck in a day or two.”

Tim, the cabin-boy, now entered to prepare the table for supper. It still wanted an hour or more to-night, but that meal in those days was taken earlier than at present. Pompey, notwithstanding the way the vessel was tumbling about, had managed to keep his fire in and to cook some broth for the captain and the sick men—for they were unable to partake of more substantial fare. Norah had become so accustomed to a sea life in all weathers, that she was able to attend to her father and to take her seat at table. Tim, as soon as he had placed the dishes, well secured with the usual puddings and fiddles, went to summon the mate, who was generally on such occasions relieved by the boatswain; but Tim came back to say that Mr Massey could not quit the deck till the gale moderated. Gerald, having despatched his supper, quickly joined him.

“What do you think of the weather, Mr Massey?” he asked.

“That it is blowing big guns and small-arms,” answered the mate, laughing. “Not that that much matters as long as it holds steadily in its present quarter; but I’m on the look-out lest it should change, and if it does, it will not give warning of its intention. It would be an ugly thing to be taken aback with this sea on, and it is that we must be prepared for.”

The waves had indeed, since Gerald had been below, greatly increased, and were now rising far above the bulwarks, and as they curled over threatened to come down on the deck and overwhelm the good ship.

“Keep a tight hold of a stanchion or the mizen-mast, Gerald,” said the mate; “if one of those seas breaks on board, you might be carried away in a moment. See, the men know what may possibly happen, and are doing as I advise you—though, if I had my will, you should remain below.”

“My father and Norah would be ashamed of me if I did,” answered Gerald; “depend on it, I will take good care to hold on with tooth and nail if we get so unwelcome a visitor.”

Onward flew the ship; already the gloom of night had begun to steal over the waste of waters, when the look-out forward shouted, “A lump of timber or a boat capsized right ahead a point on the starboard bow!” Immediately afterwards he added, “It’s a raft, sir, with a man on it; he’s waving to us!”

The mate sprang into the mizen rigging, and having glanced at the position of the raft, of which he caught sight as it rose to the summit of a sea, he exclaimed, “We must save the poor fellow’s life—port the helm half a point. Steady now. Get ropes ready to heave to him,” he next shouted out; and, securing one round his own waist, he leaped into the fore-chains.

The ship flew on, but he had rightly calculated the position of the raft. There was a fearful risk, however, that she might run over it, or that the force of the sea might dash it against her side and crush its occupant. But no time was allowed for considering the risk to be run. Owen saw that the man had disengaged himself from the ropes by which he had been secured to the raft, and was holding on to one of them alone. He must have well known his terrible danger, for a sea might in a moment wash him away, in spite of his holdfast. The mate stood ready with another rope in hand to heave to him. The next instant the raft was driven against the side of the vessel, and the man lost his hold. Prompted by a generous instinct, Owen, at the great risk of his own life, sprang on to the raft, and, grasping him round the waist, put the rope into his hand, while he held him fast. The crew were in readiness, in the rigging or leaning over the bulwarks, and before another moment had passed both Owen and the stranger were drawn up and stood in safety in the main-chains, whence eager hands hauled them on board.

“You have rendered me a good turn, and I hope to live long enough to repay it,” said the rescued man, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered his breath to speak; for he had been pretty nearly exhausted by the efforts he had made to hold on to the raft, and the sudden jerk he had received in being hauled on board.

He was evidently a seaman, for a seaman and a strong and determined man alone could have exerted himself as he had done to preserve his life. By his dress and manner, also, he appeared to be an officer. The physical suffering and mental anxiety he must have gone through had naturally so much exhausted him that, though able to stand, he was compelled to hold fast to the bulwarks to support himself. From his appearance, however, he looked like a man capable of enduring as much as most persons; he was strongly built, rather above the middle height, with a countenance which if not handsome was good-looking, and betokened courage and resolution.

“I am glad that I was fortunate enough to get hold of you, and to help you on board—though, as I should have tried to do the same for any human being placed in the situation in which you were, I do not feel that you have any special reason to be thankful to me,” answered Owen.

“As to that matter, all I know is, that if you hadn’t jumped on the raft at the moment you did and thrown me a rope, I should have been washed away, and have been by this time where many a bold fellow has gone before; and though a more exalted fate may be in store for me, according to the old saying, as I have no wish to leave the world just yet, I am bound to be grateful to you, captain—for I conclude that you are the skipper of this craft,” said the stranger.

“No, I am but the mate,” answered Owen; “the skipper is ill, and as the berths in the state cabin are occupied, I can only offer you mine—and I would advise you to get off your wet clothes and turn in between the blankets, with a stiff glass of grog, or you may be the worse for your wetting and exposure.”

“I have knocked about too much up and down at sea, with all sorts of adventures, to be much the worse for what I’ve gone through. However, I will accept your offer. A stiff glass of grog, especially, will be welcome, and something to eat with it; for I had no opportunity of dining on the raft, as you may suppose,” answered the stranger.

He said this in an off-hand, careless manner, laughing as he spoke; but notwithstanding his boasts, he was glad of the assistance of Owen and Dan Connor, on whose shoulders he rested while they conducted him to the cabin of the former. No sooner did he reach it than he sank down utterly exhausted, and it was not without considerable help from Dan that he was able to get off his garments and turn in to bed.

“You’ll be all to rights now, your honour, and I’ll be after bringing you a basin of soup and a glass of grog,” remarked Dan, as he was gathering up the wet clothes to carry to the galley fire.

“Stay, there are some papers in my pockets which I wish to keep in my own possession,” said the stranger, as he saw what Dan was about.

“They’re like to be in a pretty mess, which it will take a pair of sharp eyes to read, by this time,” observed Dan.

“They are in a tin case—hand it to me,” was the answer, as Dan began to feel about in the pockets of the stranger’s jacket. “You may take the clothes away now, my man; and don’t be long in bringing me the grog, mind you,” added the stranger, when he had possessed himself of the tin case and, in addition, a well-filled purse and several other smaller articles, which his pockets had contained.

“By-the-by, what’s the name of this vessel, and to what port is she bound?” he asked.

“Shure, she’s the Ouzel Galley, your honour,” answered Dan, “and as sweet a craft as sails between the West Indies and Dublin city—though we’re bound just now to Waterford, and we’ll be after getting there, I hope, some day.”

“And what’s the name of your skipper and your mate, who pulled me out of the water?” continued the stranger.

“It’s Captain Tracy you mane, and the mate’s Mr Owen Massey, as fine a man as iver stepped a deck. I’m after belaving, if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have done what he did just now, as your honour will be willing to own,” answered Dan.

“You’re right—it was a brave deed,” said the stranger. As soon as Dan, bundling up the clothes, had left the cabin, its occupant eagerly opened the tin case and examined its contents, apparently to satisfy himself that they had escaped damage; then closing it, he placed it under his pillow, on which he sank down exhausted.

“Faith, I’ve had a narrow escape—but as this craft is bound to fair Waterford, I must either quit her before she gets there, or take care that none of my friends recognise me when I step on shore,” he murmured to himself. “However, my good genius may enable me to escape that danger, as it has to scramble through many others. Strange that my life should have been saved by Owen Massey—he does not know me, however; but that is not surprising, as I am greatly changed since we were together. Few traces remain about me of the slight youth I then was. I must be on my guard not to betray myself to him, or he and his commander may take it into their heads that their loyalty obliges them to deliver me over to the Government. As long as they don’t find out who I am, I shall have no difficulty in making my escape, even though I am compelled to set foot on shore in Waterford itself. I wish those fellows would bear a hand and bring me some food—that and a night’s rest will restore my strength and enable me to consider what to do better than I now can. I have run many a narrow chance of losing my life, but never was I nearer to death than to-day—another hour or two on the raft would have finished me, and then where should I have been? Bah! I must not allow such thoughts to trouble me, or I shall become nerveless as a young girl.”

In spite of all his efforts the thoughts he dreaded would intrude on the stranger’s mind. He looked eagerly for the return of the seaman with the promised food and grog. Dan, in the mean time, with the bundle of wet clothes under his arm, had made his way forward to the caboose, where Pompey was busy blowing away at his fire and trying to get his kettle and a saucepan of broth to boil.

“Well, Dan, my jewel, who dis fellow just come on board? What you tink about him?” asked Pompey.

“Faith, it’s more than he thought fit to tell me,” answered Dan. “All I know is that he’s a mighty fine-spoken gentleman, with a big purse of gold in his pocket.”

“In which pocket?” asked Pompey eagerly, taking up the jacket.

“You big thief, you don’t think I am after laving it to your itching fingers—no, no, Pompey, even if the gentleman himself hadn’t taken it out, he’s been too long at sea not to guess pretty shrewdly that the shiners would vanish if the purse found its way forrard,” said Dan.

“You’ll not be after calling me a big thief, Dan?” exclaimed Pompey, getting angry at this insinuation against his honesty.

“No, but I’ll back your tongue to wag faster than any man’s in this ship,” replied Dan. “Come, bear a hand and get the water to boil, and then we’ll hang up these clothes to dry, for the stranger doesn’t look like a man who’ll be content to lie in bed longer than he can help, and he’ll be wanting to get up to-morrow morning and show himself on deck.”

“He may be a mighty fine gentleman,” muttered Pompey, “but I never did see much good come in hauling a man, whoever he was, out of de water.”

“What’s that you say, you old thief of the world?” exclaimed Dan. “Whether good or bad comes of it, it was as brave a thing as you or I or any man ever saw done, to leap on the raft as our mate did and manage to bring the stranger on board. We’ve some stout fellows among us, but not one would have dared to do that same. When the skipper hears of it he’ll be after praising him as he deserves; and there’s some one else, too, who’ll not think the less of him than she does now. It won’t be my fault if I don’t let the skipper know how it all happened—though maybe the stranger won’t forget to tell him—but as for the mate himself, he’s as likely as not to make light of it, and just to say that it’s what any other man would have done as well.”

The opinion uttered by Dan was shared generally among the crew, with whom Owen Massey stood deservedly high.

“Come, bear a hand, Pompey,” continued Dan; “the watch will be out before you get that fire to burn.”

By dint of hard puffing Pompey succeeded in his object, and Dan went aft with a kettle of hot water in one hand and a basin of soup in the other. He then, having obtained the requisite amount of rum, repaired to the mate’s cabin, where he found the stranger on the point of dropping off from exhaustion, and almost in a state of insensibility. The broth and grog, however, quickly revived him. He uttered but few words of thanks, and again falling back on his pillow, dropped off to sleep.

Gerald, who had witnessed Owen’s gallant act, trembling lest he should fail and lose his life, gave a shout of joy when he saw him successful and safe again on board. Prompted by his feelings, he sprang towards the mate, and grasping his hand, exclaimed, “Bravely done, Mr Massey! Oh, how thankful I am that you got him on board! It did not seem possible. Had you been lost, it would have broken Norah’s heart, and my poor father’s too—for, sick as he is, he couldn’t have borne it. I must go and tell them how it all happened—they’ll think more of you than ever—but I’m very glad Norah wasn’t on deck, for she would have felt as I did, and been terribly alarmed.”

“Hush, Gerald, hush! you think more of the affair than it deserves,” said Owen; “had I run any risk of losing my life, your father might have blamed me, as the safety of the ship while he is ill is committed to my charge; but remember that I took the precaution of having a rope round my waist, so that I couldn’t come to any harm, and what I did any man with strength and nerve could have done likewise—so, Gerald, don’t make a fuss about the matter. I saved the man’s life, there’s no doubt about that, and he, therefore, is the only person who need thank me.”

Notwithstanding what the mate had said, Gerald hurried into the cabin and gave a report of what had occurred, not failing to express his own opinion of the gallantry of the act. Norah, who had listened with breathless interest while he spoke, uttered an ejaculation of thankfulness, forgetting to make any inquiry about the man who had been saved. Captain Tracy, however, expressed himself much as Owen expected he would.

“It was a rash though brave deed,” he observed, “but I’ll not blame him—he had no time, evidently, to think of the risk he was running, but acted as his gallantry prompted him. He did not get any hurt, I hope?”

“No, father, beyond a thorough wetting—it was all done in a moment—he was on board again almost before I could have looked round, walking the deck as if nothing had happened,” answered Gerald.

“I am thankful for that,” said the captain; “and where have they stowed the man he saved? Poor fellow! it would have been hard lines with him, in such a sea as is still running, if he had not been picked up.”

“The mate put him into his own cabin,” said Gerald; “the cook has been heating some soup for him, as he seemed very weak and pretty nigh exhausted.”

“Owen might have let him go forward with the men; they would have looked after him carefully enough,” observed Captain Tracy. “There was no necessity for Owen to give up his own cabin—but he is always generous and ready to sacrifice his own comforts for others.”

“But the stranger from his way of speaking and dress seems to be an officer, and he would think himself badly treated if he had been sent forward,” said Gerald.

“I must hear more about him from Owen,” said the captain; “ask him to come here as soon as he can leave the deck and has got on dry clothes. How’s the weather now, Gerald?”

“It is moderating rapidly, father, and the mate thinks we shall have smooth water and a light breeze before night,” was the answer.

When Gerald returned on deck he found the mate giving orders to loose the topsails. As soon as this was done, the wind still decreasing, the foresail and mainsail were set, and before long the ship was bounding proudly over the seas with as much canvas as could be carried. At length, leaving the deck in charge of the boatswain, Owen repaired to the cabin and answered many questions put to him by the captain. He might well have been satisfied with the approbation he received from Norah, if not from her lips, from those bright blue eyes of hers—even the captain forgot to scold him as he had intended for his rashness.

“We shall hear more about the man to-morrow, when he has recovered,” he observed; “he’ll need a long rest, for he must have pretty well given up all hope of his life when you saved him, till the ship hove in sight—and even then he could scarcely expect to be picked up with the sea there was running at the time. Well, I trust that he’ll be grateful.”

The captain then made inquiries about the sick men, of whom Owen was able to give a favourable report.

“Thank God for that!” said the captain. “I feel myself quite another man to what I have been for many a day, and I hope to-morrow to be on deck again. If this stranger proves to be a seaman he may give you some relief by doing duty on board; you’ve had a trying time of it, Owen, and it is a mercy you’ve not knocked up.”

Owen now bade the captain and mistress Norah good night, and went on deck, when he desired the boatswain—the only person besides himself to whom the charge of the ship could be confided—to turn in, that he might relieve him in the next watch, should the weather continue to improve as he hoped it would do. He was not disappointed; when the morning broke, the ship was running on before a fair and moderate breeze. The rest of the usual canvas was set, and under all sail the Ouzel Galley made good way towards her destination. With a thankful heart, soon after breakfast, Norah accompanied her father on deck. The other sick men were able to crawl up and enjoy the fresh air, their pallid faces showing, however, how near death’s door they had been. It was evident that some time must elapse before they would be fit for duty. The stranger had not yet made his appearance; but Dan, who had dried his clothes, had taken them into the cabin, and reported that he was at length awake and expressed his intention of getting up. Norah was seated with her father under an awning stretched over the poop-deck, where both shade and air could be enjoyed. When the stranger came up the companion-hatch, the first person he saw was Owen. He put out his hand.

“Though I got but a glimpse of you last night, you are, I am sure, the man who hauled me off the raft, and I will again thank you heartily for saving my life,” he said, in a frank tone. “I find that I have deprived you of your cabin; you must stow me elsewhere for the rest of the voyage, for I must not continue to incommode you.”

“There is another berth I can take, so don’t talk about that,” answered Owen.

“As you wish,” said the stranger, who having, to his own satisfaction it may be, expressed his thanks, took a seaman-like glance round the ship. As he did so, his eye fell on Norah and the captain. An expression of surprise crossed his countenance, succeeded by a look of admiration, as he beheld Norah, who appeared even more beautiful and attractive than usual, her colour heightened by the fresh breeze and her heart joyous with the thoughts of her father’s recovery. She withdrew her gaze, which had naturally been turned towards the stranger who had thus unexpectedly appeared. He at once, guessing who the captain and his daughter were, stepped on to the poop and advanced towards them. Doffing his sea-cap with the manners of a man accustomed to the world, he bowed to the young lady, and then addressed the captain. “I have come without any formal invitation on board your ship, sir, but faith, I hadn’t my choice—your mate hauled me on board without asking whether I wished it or no; and, to confess the truth, I am very much obliged to him, for had he stopped to inquire I should not have had the opportunity of answering, as in another moment I should have been carried to lie where many a brave fellow sleeps, at the bottom of the sea. I am therefore indebted to him for saving my life—what he did, he did well and gallantly, at no slight risk of losing his own.”

“I am thankful that he succeeded,” answered Captain Tracy; “and, for my part, all I can say is that you are very welcome on board—and glad I am to see you so much recovered this morning.”

“A night’s rest has worked wonders—yesterday evening I felt very much unlike myself, but I am now strong and well as usual.” The stranger took two or three turns on deck to verify his assertion; again stopping, in an off-hand style he inquired how long the ship had been out, what weather had been met with, and where she was bound for—though, curiously enough, he did not offer to give any account of himself, apparently intending to let the captain put any questions to him on the subject he might think fit. Norah, not being destitute of the curiosity natural to her sex, was longing to learn who the stranger was—yet she did not like to ask him herself. She waited, hoping that her father would do so. She could at length restrain herself no longer.

“Had you been long in the water, sir?” she inquired.

“Five or six hours, I believe, more or less,” he answered, smiling. “By-the-by, I must apologise for not having before given an account of myself. To the best of my belief, I am the only survivor of the gallant fellows who manned the Dragon privateer, of which I had the honour to be first officer. She carried sixteen guns and a crew of 110 hands, all told.”

“A privateer!” exclaimed Captain Tracy. “What flag did you sail under? Has England again gone to war? We had heard nothing of it before we left Port Royal.”

“Oh, that is not surprising—it is scarcely six weeks since England declared war against France,” replied the stranger. “We knew what was in the wind, and sailed from Bristol, to which port the Dragon belonged, immediately the news reached us, in search of French homeward-bound ships, hoping to get hold of them before they had heard of the breaking out of war. We had, as you may judge, a quick run to the southward, having on our way made three captures, and by having to send prize crews away in them our strength was considerably diminished. Still our captain, Simon Avery—you may have heard of him, sir—was not the man to give up while there was a chance of falling in with other vessels. Short-handed as we were, we had to keep watch and watch; and yesterday morning, while the watch below were asleep, and most of the hands on deck much in the same state, the ship was struck by a squall, and before sheet or brace could be let go, over she went and began to fill. I had just time, with three others, to get hold of a half-hatch, to cut some spars adrift, and to shove off to a distance, when down she went, carrying with her every soul on board. I don’t wish to harrow the young lady’s feelings by describing the scene. A few floated up and shouted out for help, but we couldn’t give it, for our own raft was already loaded. Before many minutes were over, even the stoutest swimmers had sunk beneath the surface. I had got hold of an axe and a coil of rope, and we managed to lash the spars to a grating. While so employed, one of the men slipped off; as he couldn’t swim, he was drowned, and thus we had more room. The sea rapidly got up, and now another of my companions was washed away, and then the last. I secured myself to the raft, resolved to struggle for life while I had strength; but had not, fortunately, your ship stood towards me, and your brave mate gallantly hauled me on board, I should to a certainty have been lost.”

“I am very thankful, sir, that my mate was the means of saving you,” said Captain Tracy; “you cannot praise him too highly. He has sailed with me since he first came to sea, and though he took to the life somewhat later than most people do, he has become a better seaman than many of his elders.”

“I don’t doubt it, sir; I should judge from his looks that he is all you describe him to be,” answered the stranger.

“You say,” resumed Captain Tracy, “that the English and French are at loggerheads again—can you tell me whether any king’s ships have been sent out for the protection of our commerce, or, what is of more consequence to us, whether many French privateers are already afloat?”

“As to that, it was reported that a fleet was fitting out at Portsmouth with all despatch to be placed under the command of Sir Edward Hawke; and it was said that Admiral Byng was to be sent to the Mediterranean with a squadron. Another fleet was already at sea, under the command of Admiral Holburne; and the news has arrived that he came up with and attacked the French fleet, commanded by Admiral Macnamara, off the American coast, and captured two 64-gun ships, with a considerable number of troops on board. It is evident, therefore, that the English are no longer asleep, as they have been for some time past, and are intending to carry on the war with vigour. With regard to the Frenchmen, they are pretty wide awake, though they may not have expected to be attacked so suddenly; and as far as I was able to learn, they have not been slow in sending both men-of-war and privateers to sea—and I would advise you to stand clear of any strange sail we may fall in with: it is wiser to avoid a friend than to run the risk of being caught by a foe.”

“This is bad news indeed you give me, sir,” said Captain Tracy, “though I have to thank you for it, as it is better to be forewarned; and you may depend on it, I will follow your advice. Had I thought it likely that war would break out, I should not have brought my young daughter to sea; but she was anxious to come as she had no one to look after her, and I intended this to be my last voyage, for I have knocked about enough on the ocean to long to settle down quietly on shore. We know that we must run all risks, but I cannot bear the thought of what might happen should we be captured by a picarooning privateer, for most of them are but little better than pirates.” He said this in a low voice, aside, to the stranger, intending that Norah should not hear him.

“I sincerely hope that we shall not fall in with a Frenchman of any quality, either a man-of-war or one of the picarooning rascals you speak of,” answered the stranger, in a somewhat sarcastic tone.

“Well, Mr—I beg your pardon, you haven’t mentioned your name—I have again to thank you for the information and advice you have given me, and I hope you’ll find yourself at home on board this chip. We’re pretty well provisioned, and we’ll not starve you, at all events,” said Captain Tracy.

“Thank you, captain, I have no fear about the matter,” answered the stranger; “and as to my name, I quite forgot to give it. Indeed, you are not likely to have heard of me before, for I have been knocking about in distant seas for most of my life—it is Lancelot Carnegan. I hail from Ireland, as you may suppose; and perhaps you may have already discovered a touch of the brogue—but it has been well-nigh washed out of me; still, though we children of Erin roam the world over, we never entirely get rid of our mother tongue.”

“Bad luck to us if we do,” answered the captain, laughing. “I might have guessed that you came from the old country—and now you’ll have an opportunity, if you wish to remain when we reach harbour, of renewing your acquaintance with it and any friends you may have.”

“There are few, if any, who know me,” answered Mr Carnegan. “I played truant at an early age, and have seldom since then set foot on my native shore.”

Norah had made no attempt to join in the conversation. The new-comer, now turning towards her, addressed her in a deferential tone, and with a look which clearly showed the admiration he felt. He inquired how she liked the West Indies, and what parts of the islands she had seen, and whether she enjoyed being at sea. They were but commonplace questions, but his manner encouraged her to speak freely, and she described with much graphic power the scenery and places she had visited.

“I delight in the sea,” she added. “I enjoy it in all weathers; and even when a storm has been raging I have felt no fear, for I knew that the good ship is sound, and that those in command were well able to manage her. I should have been ready to accompany my father in as many more voyages as he might wish to make, and it is not I who have persuaded him to quit the sea. I fear, indeed, that he will soon get tired of the quiet life he will lead on shore.”

A complimentary remark was rising to Mr Carnegan’s lips, but he restrained himself, not quite certain how it might be taken, and merely said, “Captain Tracy will have no cause, I am sure, to regret his choice. Though I love the sea, I confess that I often long to take up my abode in some romantic spot in the old country, with the companionship of one whose happiness I could watch over. In truth, I could gladly spend the remainder of my days far away from war and strife, and out of sight even of the stormy ocean—for, should I catch a glimpse of that, I might at times be tempted to wish myself again bounding over the buoyant wave.”

The speaker perhaps expected to see Norah cast down her eyes as he addressed her; but she looked up with a steady glance, and laughingly answered, “If you think that, you have very little confidence in your own resolution.”

Mr Carnegan was about to reply, when the captain observed, “Let me advise you, sir, to keep to the sea, unless you have some better calling in view. An idle life on shore won’t suit you, a young man of spirit; and those who try it have to repent of their folly. But you will excuse me when I say that I think you would find as honourable employment in the merchant service as on board a privateer—not but that I am ready to allow that many gallant fellows engage in that sort of work; though, when you look at it in its true light, privateering is but licenced robbery at the best.”

“I cannot say that I so view it,” observed Mr Carnegan; “while benefiting ourselves and lining our own pockets, we are serving the country. We capture our foes in fair and open fight, while we run the risk of being taken ourselves. However, to prove to you that I don’t despise the merchant service, as you appear to be rather short-handed, I shall be happy to do duty on board as one of your mates, if you will trust me. I don’t ask for wages, but it will be a satisfaction to me to feel that I am working my passage home.”

“I don’t doubt your knowledge of seamanship and navigation, and gladly accept your offer,” answered the captain.

Mr Carnegan was accordingly duly installed in the office of second mate of the Ouzel Galley.

Chapter Two.

Further discussions about the stranger—Mr Carnegan shows his admiration of Norah—Approaching Ireland—A confession—A sail in sight—Chased—The enemy gains on the Ouzel Galley—Norah and Gerald sent into the hold—The fight begins—The Ouzel Galley holds out bravely, but is rapidly overtaken—Both mates wounded—The Frenchmen board the Ouzel Galley—Gerald defends Norah—The French captain’s courtesy—The Ouzel Galley in the hands of the Frenchmen—The Coquille goes off in chase—A sleep-loving lieutenant—An idea occurs to Gerald.

The wind continued fair and the weather fine, and the Ouzel Galley made good progress on her voyage. Norah was not free from anxiety with regard to her father, who had sufficiently recovered his strength to come on deck and carry on duty, but she longed to get him safe on shore, where alone she believed he would be restored to his usual health. The new mate showed himself to be a good seaman, and was evidently accustomed to command, as far as the captain could judge by the way in which he trimmed sails and issued his orders to the crew. They obeyed him as seamen always do an officer whom they look upon as a good sailor—not that they were particularly disposed to like him, for he never spoke to any of them except to tell them what to do, and his tone was always that of a person who intended to have his orders carried out. Had he come on board in the ordinary way, they would have taken this as a matter of course; but Pompey had expressed his opinion that there was some mystery about him—he might be a true man, but it was possible that he might be of the character of the well-known Flying Dutchman, and had appeared only for the sake of betraying them. The rest of the crew were well disposed to take up this opinion; indeed, few believed that a mortal man could have survived on the raft in the heavy sea there was running at the time; and Mr Carnegan was more narrowly watched than he suspected.

“I tell you what, mates,” observed Pompey one evening, when he and two or three of his especial chums were seated together in the forecastle, “you may be sartain sure no good will come of having this stranger aboard. Why de captain make him mate is more than I can tell. De oder night, as he walked the deck shouting out to de hand on de fore-topsail yard-arm, I see a flame of fire come of his mouth, and den I says to myself, ‘I know who you are.’ I tell you only what true, as I am living man.”

“Shure, he was only knocking the ashes out of his pipe,” remarked Dan Connor; “it’s one he brought on board with him, and I’ve seen him smoke it many a time.”

“He may have a pipe, but dat was no pipe he was smoking den,” answered the black.

“I ain’t quite sure but as how Pompey isn’t right,” remarked Tom Stokes, an English seaman. “I’ve heard say that the Flying Dutchman he was speaking of plays all sorts of tricks to get aboard; sometimes he comes alongside in a boat with a bundle of letters, and woe betide the crew who take them on board! Their ship’s doomed, and will be sure to blow up, or be burnt, or go to the bottom, or run on a sunken reef. To my mind, half the ships that are cast away are lost by some such trick as that. Maybe he thinks he’s been found out, and is now trying a new dodge; if I had my will, we’d lay him by the heels some dark night and heave him overboard—it’s the only chance there is of saving the ship.”

Meantime the subject of these remarks would have been very indifferent to them had he heard what was said. He was doing his best to ingratiate himself with the captain and his fair daughter. Whenever Norah was on deck he was sure to be there also, and was always ready to assist her when the sea was running somewhat high and the ship was tumbling about more than usual. She appeared to receive these attentions as a matter of course, and always thanked him courteously. She could not, however, fail to remark that, where-ever he was standing, his eye was directed towards her; and especially, if her father and Owen were below, that he invariably drew near to enter into conversation. It is possible that she may have suspected the admiration she had excited, but she certainly never, by word, or look, or manner, did anything to encourage him. He also was on his guard not to say anything which might annoy or alarm her, while his manner was always deferential. He continued on friendly terms with Owen, and always spoke good-naturedly to Gerald, taking evident pleasure in describing the countries he had visited and the strange scenes he had witnessed, to which the boy always eagerly listened. Although the ship was short-handed, as it was of the greatest importance to get home as soon as possible, all sail which could be prudently set was carried night and day. At that period it was the custom on board merchant vessels to shorten sail at night, go that should the ship be caught by a squall she might the better be prepared for it; but as the two mates now took watch and watch during the hours of darkness, they allowed all the sails to remain standing which had been carried during the day. A bright look-out was kept from the mast-head from sunrise to sunset, and occasionally when a strange sail was seen, as soon as it was ascertained in what direction she was steering, the course was changed to avoid her. As each day brought the Ouzel Galley nearer to the shores of Ireland, the captain’s spirits rose, as did his hopes of getting in safe. The second mate seemed quite as anxious on the subject as any one else on board; but Pompey was not yet satisfied.

“We’re not in yet,” he whispered to Dan Connor. “Why he not send de ship to de bottom before dis I not know; but you see—he play some scurvy trick before he done wid us.”

Fortunately for the second mate, the rest of the crew were not so deeply imbued with Pompey’s opinions as to induce them to act according to his advice; but they still regarded Mr Carnegan with suspicion, though they obeyed his commands with as much alacrity as at first. Several other strange sail were seen in the distance, and as before carefully avoided. The ship had got to about the latitude of Lisbon.

“How soon may we expect to get into port?” asked Norah of her father.

“If the wind holds fair, another week will carry us safe up to the quay of Waterford,” answered the captain; “but we may meet with a head wind, and it may be a fortnight or three weeks before we make the land—but we’ll hope for the best, and it will not be for lack of doing all that seamen can do if we don’t succeed.”

The sea was smooth, the wind being from the southward, while a light mist prevented the sun’s rays being over oppressive. Norah as usual went on deck after breakfast with her work and a book. Owen was below; it was the second mate’s watch, and soon after she had taken her seat he approached her.

“In a few days, Miss Tracy, we shall be doomed to part,” he said, “It may be that, compelled by a cruel fate to wander over the world, I may never again meet you; but, believe me, the time I have spent on board this ship I shall ever look upon as the happiest of my life.”

“You are very good to say so,” answered Norah, “though I should have supposed, from the account you have given of yourself, that you would have met with many other opportunities of enjoying life far more than you could have done on board the Ouzel Galley.”

“It is not the place, Miss Tracy, but the person with whom one is associated, on which one’s happiness depends. I speak from the depths of my heart—if I could hope to enjoy existence with you, I would not exchange my lot for that of the proudest monarch on earth,” said Mr Carnegan.

Before Norah could reply, the look-out from the mast-head shouted, “A sail on the larboard bow!” At that instant, as he spoke, the captain came on deck, followed by Owen.

“What course is she steering?” asked the former.

“About south-east, sir, close-hauled,” was the answer.

While the captain was speaking Owen had gone forward, and was now making his way up the fore-rigging. He quickly reached the mast-head; he had not been there many seconds before the breeze freshening blew away the mist, disclosing to view a large ship under all sail, her hull already rising above the horizon. Unslinging his glass, he directed it towards her.

“What does she look like?” asked the captain.

“She is flush-decked, and I make out ten ports on a side, sir,” answered Owen from aloft. Saying this, he quickly came down on deck, from whence the movements of the stranger, which was standing directly across the course the Ouzel Galley was steering, could be discerned as well as from the mast-head.

“If we hold on as we are now we shall be within range of her guns in less than an hour, and I much fear that she is an enemy, sir,” said Owen, as he came up to the captain.

“We’ll do our best, then, to keep out of her way,” was the answer. “Port the helm—man the larboard braces—ease off the starboard braces and bowlines! We’ll stand away to the sou’-west till we run her out of sight; it will cause us some delay, but it will be better than running the risk of capture.”

The two mates and Gerald, with all hands, went to the ropes, while the captain taking the helm, the ship was brought on a wind, the mizen, which had hitherto been furled, being also set, and the Ouzel Galley stood away on a bowline under all sail to the south-east.

“She has the look of a fast craft, and is probably strong-handed,” observed the second mate.

“We shall soon see which has, notwithstanding, the faster pair of heels—the Ouzel Galley is no sluggard, Mr Carnegan, and we may still hope to run the stranger out of sight. Let her go along, my lad,” said the captain to the man at the helm; “she sails best two points off the wind; we’ll run on till dark, Owen, and if by that time the stranger isn’t to be seen, we’ll tack, and may chance to give her the go-by.”

“I trust we may, sir,” said Owen, in a tone of some doubt; “we have the advantage of being well to windward, though, as Mr Carnegan was observing, if she has a strong crew she can tack in half the time we can, and we couldn’t do better than to stand on till nightfall, as you propose, and then try to give her the slip.”

The eyes of all on board were naturally turned towards the stranger. As yet, however, it was difficult to say whether or not she was gaining on them. Norah saw that her father and his mates were anxious on the subject, but, being sure that they were acting for the best, restrained her own feelings—yet, as may be supposed, she could not help reflecting what might be her and her father’s fate should the stranger prove to be an enemy and capture them. She had often heard of the cruelties to which the prisoners of privateers were exposed, and she was well aware of her father’s hatred to the system, although privateering was generally allowed to be honourable and lawful. The stranger, though an enemy, might be a king’s ship; and, if so, she might hope to receive courteous treatment from the French officers. Though she had resolved not to ask questions, she listened to her father’s and Owen’s opinions as to the character of the stranger. At noon, which soon arrived, the captain and his mates came on the poop to take an observation in order to ascertain the ship’s position. They had before this run some way to the northward of the latitude of Lisbon.

“Sure, it’s enough to provoke a saint,” exclaimed Gerald, who was accustomed to express himself somewhat vehemently; “if it hadn’t been for that fellow out there we should have been half across the Bay of Biscay by this time or to-morrow. I only hope, if he comes up with us, that we’ll be after giving him a good drubbing; it will serve him right if we send him to the bottom.”

“What, do you think our father intends to fight the strange ship, should she prove to be an enemy?” asked Norah, with some natural trepidation in her voice.

“I’m sure we’re not going to be taken, and lose the ship and our cargo, and be made prisoners and ruined without having a fight for it,” answered Gerald, “especially as Owen says that he feels pretty sure she is a privateer. Why he thinks so, I can’t quite make out, except that her masts rake more than those of most men-of-war and her sails are cut somewhat differently—it is impossible to be certain.”

“Grant Heaven that, if there is a fight, our father and you and Owen may be preserved!” murmured Norah.

“They wouldn’t fight without a good hope of success—but we must run our chance,” said Gerald, laughing; “but, you know, we shall stow you down in the hold among the cargo safe enough.”

“Oh no, no! I hope if there is a fight that I may be allowed to remain on deck, or at least in the cabin, where I may be ready to help any who are hurt,” exclaimed Norah.

“That would never do,” answered Gerald; “you might be hit as well as anybody else, and you wouldn’t like to have a leg or an arm shot off.”

Poor Norah shuddered at the thoughtless remark of her brother. Gerald observed the expression of her countenance.

“I didn’t intend to frighten you,” he said; “I hope that none of us will be hurt—only of course there’s a risk, and we must save you from being exposed to it. We shall only make a running fight of it, and try to knock away some of the enemy’s spars and prevent her from following us. If she were to come up with us, she is so much bigger than we are, and so much more heavily armed, with probably six times as many hands, that we should have no chance in a broadside fight.”

“If we are captured what will happen?” asked Norah.

“I suppose we shall be carried into a French port, and be kept prisoners till the war is over, and you and I must learn to talk French. It won’t be so very bad, after all, so you needn’t look so grave, Norah,” answered Gerald.

“It will break our poor father’s heart, I fear,” answered Norah, “and Owen will be miserable.”

“Well, then, though wishing it won’t exactly help us, we’ll hope to escape, and that none of the dreadful things you expect will happen,” said Gerald.

Though Gerald made light of the matter, others on board did not do so. From the first Owen had had little doubt that the ship chasing them was French. The captain differed from him, but agreed that she was probably a privateer. Though her masts raked, so did those of many British ships, especially of those sailing from Jersey and Guernsey, while there was nothing that he could see remarkable about the cut of her sails. The second mate expressed no opinion. After a time, however, a cloud was seen to gather on his brow.

“I thought you boasted of this craft being remarkably fast,” he observed to Owen. “Now, as far as I can judge, that ship yonder is sailing nearly two feet to our one, and will be within hail of us before dark.”

“She sails faster than we do, I acknowledge; but you over-estimate her speed,” answered Owen. “I still expect that we shall keep well ahead of her till dark, and we may then alter our course and escape.”

“I tell you your hopes are vain; yonder ship is as fast a craft as any out of a French port—we haven’t a chance of escaping her,” replied Mr Carnegan.

“You know her, then?” answered Owen.

“I have seen her more than once—before the war broke out, of course—and, from her size and the weight of her metal, if we attempt to fight her we shall be sent to the bottom,” was the answer.

“The captain intends to try and knock her spars away, and thus to enable us to escape,” said Owen.

“She is more likely to send our masts over the side than to suffer any harm our popguns can do her,” observed the second mate.

Captain Tracy, who had been watching the stranger for some time, now summoned them both and asked their opinion. They repeated what they had before said. “Owen, we can trust our crew?” he observed.

“Even the sick men would be ready to fight—we can depend on all of them,” said Owen.

“Then we’ll train two guns aft, and fight them as long as our own masts stand,” exclaimed Captain Tracy. “Hoist our ensign, that there may be no mistake—though I own that I have now little doubt of that fellow being a Frenchman. We shall soon see—yes—there, up goes the white flag with the lilies of France; it won’t be long before she is within range.”

“I think not, sir,” observed the second mate, “and if you take my advice you will not attempt to fight—even if we do knock away a spar or two, with her crew of not less than a hundred and twenty men, I’ll warrant she’ll speedily repair her damages; and as she carries heavy metal, if I mistake not, her first broadside will send us to the bottom.”

The captain made no reply. “Gerald,” he said, “take your sister down to the hold—Dan Connor and Tim will arrange a secure place for her, and I put her under your charge—remember, you’re to remain with her, and not to return on deck till I send for you.”

Gerald looked very much disappointed, but he well knew that it would be vain to expostulate. He had fully expected to engage in the fight, or to “take part in the fun,” as he called it. Norah had before this gone into the cabin, to which Gerald repaired, and with no very good grace delivered their father’s orders. Without a murmur Norah prepared to obey them. The second mate and some of the men were engaged in dragging one of the guns aft. As she came on deck, Norah found her father standing near the companion-hatch. Embracing her, he kissed her brow and said, “Don’t be alarmed, my child; we shall manage to escape the Frenchman, I hope, and come off without damage. Go into your nest, now, with Gerald, and I hope before long I shall have a good report to give you.”

As she went forwards towards the main hatchway she glanced at Owen; he sprang to her side and without stopping to ask leave assisted her below. It was a dreary place which had been prepared for her among sugar-hogsheads, rum casks, and packages of other West India produce. Dan Connor, who had been till that moment busy in arranging it, appeared with a lantern to light them the latter part of the way. Norah looked with no little dismay at the dark recess in which she and Gerald were to pass the period of the impending action.

“Shure, Miss Norah, you’ll find it more aisy and pleasant than you think for,” said Dan, who observed the expression of her countenance, “when the lantern’s hung up, as I’ll be doing to give you light; and I’d make bold to say that if you’d brought a book to read, or just some work to amuse yourself, you’d be after finding the time pass pleasantly enough away.”

Norah, as may be imagined, felt little disposed to read or work, or to fancy that the time could pass pleasantly. She almost smiled at the idea. It appeared to her that it would be the most dreadful period of her existence. On entering, however, she found that Dan had arranged a seat with some cushions and a grating to keep her feet off any moisture which might have oozed out of the casks, Dan secured the lantern, as he proposed, to a sugar cask, while Owen pressed Norah’s hand.

“Hope for the best, dearest,” he whispered. “I’d have given worlds to save you from this; but we can trust to One who rules all things for protection, and we may still escape the threatened danger. A calm may come on before the Frenchman gets up with us, or an English ship of superior force may heave in sight—hope for the best; I must stay no longer. Gerald, you heard the captain’s orders—let nothing induce you to quit your sister. I know your spirit, and that you’d rather be on deck; but your duty is to remain below, and by doing your duty, however much against the grain it may be, you’ll be showing truer courage than by going where round shot and bullets may be flying round your head like hail.”

“You are right, Mr Massey, and you may depend on my not quitting Norah, whatever happens;” and Gerald sat himself down on a tub which Dan had placed for him, and resolutely folded his arms as if he felt that in no other way could he keep his post. The next moment Owen sprang upon deck, followed by Dan. Never before had Owen Massey been so anxious to avoid a fight—indeed, all on board were, for various reasons, much of the same mind. Captain Tracy was resolved to escape if he could, and to fight only if it would enable him to do so. The hope that a British ship of war might heave in sight had only just occurred to Owen when below with Norah, and as soon as he returned on deck he went up to the mast-head, almost expecting to see another ship standing towards the enemy; but though he swept the whole horizon with his glass, not a sail appeared in sight, and he had quickly to descend to attend to his duties. The crew, meantime, were bringing up powder and shot from below, and loading the guns. Two of the longest pieces had already been run out astern; they were of brass, and of small bore, but were able to send a shot as far as most guns in use in those days. The others were smaller pieces, carried for the purpose of defending the ship, should she be attacked by any of the picaroons, at that time the pest of the Caribbean Sea. When Owen again looked out, he saw that the enemy had considerably overhauled them since he went below. Had he before entertained any doubt about the character of the vessel chasing them, it completely vanished, and his experienced eye assured him that she must be a French privateer. The wind also continued as steady as at first, and with deep regret he was convinced that the stranger was superior to the Ouzel Galley on any point of sailing, whether before the wind, going free, or close-hauled; while her numerous crew would give her every possible advantage in manoeuvring, or repairing damages should any of her spars or rigging be knocked away.

Meantime, poor Norah and her brother remained in their dark cell far down in the hold of the ship, listening anxiously for any sounds which might betoken the commencement of the action. The air was close and redolent of unsavoury odours, and would of itself have been sufficient to weigh down their young hearts; it might be a place of safety, but they would both of them infinitely rather have been on deck and able to see what was going forward. Norah sat with her hands clasped on the couch Dan had arranged for her; while Gerald, soon losing patience, got up, and, as there was no room to pace backwards and forwards, could only give vent to his feelings by an occasional stamp of the foot, as he doubled his fists and struck out at an imaginary Frenchman.

“Oh, I do hope we shall thrash that fellow,” he exclaimed, “big as he looks. I am glad our father didn’t determine to give in without fighting. It wouldn’t have been like him if he had, though the second mate advised him to do so. I should have thought Mr Carnegan was full of pluck, but he appeared to me to show the white feather, and I’m not at all sure how he’ll behave—not that it much matters, for I am very certain that Owen will make the men stand to their guns as long as there’s a shot in the locker.”

“I only hope that we may avoid fighting altogether,” said Norah. “Owen thought it possible that an English man-of-war might appear in sight and put the enemy to flight, or that we may keep ahead till nightfall, and then manage to escape.”

“Depend upon it, the Frenchman is coming up much too fast to give us any chance of keeping ahead till dark—we must not expect that. I have more confidence in our knocking away some of his spars; Owen is a first-rate shot, and if it can be done he’ll do it. Don’t be cast down, Norah; it would never have done for you to remain where you might have run the risk of being hit. Our father was right in sending you here, though I wish he had allowed me to stay on deck—but then, you see, you couldn’t be left alone; and if, after all, the Frenchmen do take us, why, there would have been no one to protect you. That consoles me for remaining here, and if the worst happens I’ll fight for you. See, I’ve brought a cutlass, and a brace of pistols, and it would be a hard matter for any one to get in here without my leave.”

“Oh, it would be dreadful!” cried Norah, shuddering at the thought of the ship being captured—for she could not conceal from herself that such might too probably be the case. “Don’t attempt to fight if any of our enemies should find their way down here—it would be utterly useless, and only exasperate them.”

“Well, perhaps they won’t find their way down here,” said Gerald, who directly he had uttered anything calculated to alarm his sister was anxious to remedy the mistake; “let us try and talk of something else, and wait patiently for what may happen.”

The proposal was not as easily carried out as made; in another minute Gerald was again talking of what might or might not occur. Some time went by. “Hark! hark! what is that?” exclaimed Norah suddenly, as the boom of a gun, which from its faintness showed that it must have been fired at a distance, reached their ears.

“There comes the first shot, but it didn’t strike us—the Frenchman is trying whether he has got us within range,” said Gerald.

“It shows, though, that the enemy must be very near,” cried Norah.

“It will be the sooner over,” said Gerald. “We shall hear our guns go off soon—they’ll make a much greater noise; but don’t be frightened, Norah dear—they, at all events, will not injure you.”

“I am not thinking of myself,” answered Norah, “but for those on deck, and for our poor father—he is still so ill and so little able to bear all this anxiety—and for Owen, should they be struck by those dreadful cannon-balls.”

“The round shot, you mean,” said Gerald; “but they are not to be so much dreaded, after all. They may fall pretty thickly aboard without doing any harm. I’ve heard some of our men who were in the last war say that they’ve known ships firing away at each other for an hour or more without anybody being hit. Hark! there’s another gun; that came from the enemy, but the shot missed us. I wonder we don’t begin to fire—we soon shall, though, no doubt about that. I wish that I had brought down the boat’s compass with us, to know how we were steering; we are keeping, however, on the same tack as before—I can tell that by the heel of the ship.”

Norah, while Gerald was talking, held her breath, expecting every moment to hear the guns go off with a loud roar, not aware how much the sound would be deadened before it reached the hold. Neither she nor Gerald had at first observed the increased motion of the ship, or that she was heeling over to larboard considerably more than at first. Gerald now, however, remarked it.

“The breeze has freshened,” he exclaimed, “though I don’t know if that will be in our favour. I wish that our father had not told me to stay here without moving—I would run upon deck to see how things are going on, and be back in a moment.”

“Gerald, not for my sake but for your own, I earnestly pray you to remain—remember, our father ordered you not to leave this, whatever might happen,” exclaimed Norah.

“Yes, I know that; I was only saying what I should like to do,” answered Gerald.

Nearly another minute elapsed, during which not a word was spoken; then came a much louder report than had before been heard.

“That was one of our guns, I am sure of it,” exclaimed Gerald; though, from its deadness, Norah could scarcely believe that it was from one of the Ouzel Galley’s guns.

“Hurrah! we’ve begun at last,” cried Gerald, “no fear; I shouldn’t be surprised to find that the shot had knocked away one of the enemy’s topsail yards.”

Another and another gun followed in rapid succession; at intervals could be clearly distinguished the firing of the enemy’s guns, and every now and then a report succeeded by a loud thud, showing that the shot had struck some part of the Ouzel Galley.

“Fire away, my boys, fire away!” shouted Gerald. “I wish that I could be on deck, even if I’d nothing better to do than hand up the powder!”

Norah again entreated him to remain. For some time the firing continued, but from the sound of the enemy’s guns it was pretty clear that the ships had not yet got to close quarters.

“Sure, we must be giving it them,” cried Gerald. Scarcely had he spoken when there came a loud crashing sound, as if one of the masts had been knocked away and had fallen on the deck. Cries and shrieks of injured men writhing in pain penetrated even to the depths of the hold.

“Oh that some one would come and tell us what has happened!” exclaimed Norah. “I wonder our father or Owen don’t send—it must be something dreadful.”

“I’ve heard of ships holding out, even though a mast has been shot away,” said Gerald; “we don’t know what has happened to the enemy—perhaps she is worse off than we are.”

Not another gun was fired from the deck of the Ouzel Galley; that was a bad sign, and presently afterwards there came a violent concussion and a grating sound, as if one ship had run alongside the other.

“Gerald, oh, what is taking place?” cried Norah, seizing her brother’s hand.

“We are about to be boarded, or perhaps we are going to board the enemy,” he answered; “I don’t see why one thing shouldn’t happen as well as the other.”

“I am afraid it is as you first suggested,” said Norah. “Hark to those loud shouts; they are the voices of Frenchmen—they must have boarded us. I hear their feet tramping on deck, and there they come down below. Our people must have been quickly overpowered; what resistance could such a mere handful offer to the numerous crew of the enemy? Oh! our poor father and Owen—can they wish us to remain here? They may be wounded and bleeding to death, and may require our help.”

It was now Gerald’s turn to insist on obeying orders. “Norah, Norah! stay where you are,” he exclaimed. “Should the Frenchmen have boarded us, you might meet them, and we can’t tell how they might behave. If any come here they’ll have to repent their audacity,” he added, placing himself with a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other at the entrance of Norah’s retreat.

“I must fight for you if they come down here—it is my duty, and I’ll do it,” answered Gerald to his sister’s expostulations; for she dreaded lest, by offering resistance, he might induce the enemy to kill him. He, however, would not listen to her entreaties. “At all events, don’t speak, Norah,” he said; “the Frenchmen may hear us and find us out—whereas if we remain quiet we may escape discovery till the boarders have gone back to their own ship and ours is left in charge of a prize crew, and we may be very sure that neither our father nor Owen will be induced to quit the Ouzel Galley without us.”

Norah saw the prudence of this advice. She wisely also put out the lantern, the light from which would very certainly have betrayed their hiding-place.

We must now return on deck. As soon as Norah and Gerald had gone below, the captain addressed the crew and asked whether they would stick by him and assist in making every effort he could devise for escaping. They one and all declared that they were ready to fight to the last to preserve the Ouzel Galley from capture and to escape a French prison.

“Then we’ll make a running fight of it, my lads,” he said. “The enemy has probably much heavier metal and many more men than we have, but our two guns will be of as much service as her twenty if we can keep her as she now is, right astern—and that’s what I intend to do.”

The second mate had narrowly scanned the French ship. “I can tell you what, Captain Tracy,” he said at length, “you haven’t a chance of escaping from her. I know her and her commander well, and not a better or more determined seaman ever walked the deck of a ship. I have reason to be grateful to you for the way I have been treated on board this vessel, and to your first mate for saving my life; and for your own sake I would advise you to haul down your flag at once and surrender—you will probably be far better treated than if you lead the Frenchman a long chase and are taken at last.”

“I am obliged to you for your good intentions in giving the advice you do,” said Captain Tracy, “but my principle is to hold out till the last hope of success has gone—and we haven’t quite arrived at that point yet. If you don’t wish to fight you can go below.”

“You mistake me,” answered the second mate, in a somewhat angry tone, and he walked away. The next instant a puff of smoke was seen to issue from the bows of the French ship, and a shot came flying across the water; but it fell short of the Ouzel Galley.

“Stand by to fire our stern-chasers, Mr Massey,” sang out the captain, “but we’ll let the enemy find out the range before we throw a shot away.”

The captain did not fail to keep his eye on the canvas, to be ready to alter his course should there be the slightest shift of wind. The second mate continued walking the deck in sullen silence, determined apparently to take no further part in defence of the ship. Owen stood ready, match in hand, to fire the stern-chasers. In the course of a few minutes the Frenchman fired another shot; it went ricocheting over the water, and passed the quarter of the Ouzel Galley.

“Our guns will carry as far as the Frenchman’s,” exclaimed the captain. “Now see what you can do, Owen.”

The first mate, looking along his gun, fired; the shot struck the enemy. The crew of the Ouzel Galley watched eagerly for the effect of the shot. It went through the Frenchman’s fore-topsail. A loud cheer showed their satisfaction.

“Well done, Owen—fire the other and try to wing him,” cried the captain. While the crew were loading the first gun, Owen fired the second. The captain, who had his glass turned towards the enemy, shouted, “Hurrah! it’s struck the fore-topsail yard.”

The spar, however, remained standing, and some of the Frenchmen were seen running aloft to fish it. Owen sprang back to the first gun he had fired, and again discharged it; but the enemy at that moment kept away, and before what damage it had effected could be seen, clouds of smoke issued from her, and the shot from her whole broadside came rushing towards the chase. They were mostly aimed high, and either went through the sails or passed by without doing any injury; but two struck the quarter, and another glanced along the side, leaving a long white furrow.

“Those shots were well aimed, but if she plays that trick often we shall have a better chance of escaping,” observed the captain, calmly; “try another shot, Owen.”

The French ship quickly came up to the wind. Owen again fired, and one of the Frenchmen was seen to drop to the deck. The enemy had now brought a gun on the forecastle, from which they opened fire in return to the Ouzel Galley’s stern-chasers. Both vessels then fired away as fast as the guns could be loaded and run out; but though most of Owen’s shot told with some effect, the damage he produced was speedily repaired, while several of the Frenchmen’s shot struck the Ouzel Galley, though as yet no one had been injured. The former was, however, in the mean time, creeping up nearer and nearer, and also, from sailing closer to the wind, weathering on the chase. The second mate, who had been walking the deck with as much calmness as if no fight was going on, again came up to the captain.

“I before warned you that it would be useless to contend with yonder ship,” he said, “and before many minutes are over we shall have the shot from her broadside crashing on board us. By holding out you risk your own and your people’s lives, and the lives of others dear to you—for it is more than possible that another broadside will send the ship and all in her to the bottom. We must—”

Before the captain could reply the enemy fired his two foremost guns, the shot from which shattering the bulwarks sent pieces of splinter flying about, one of which struck Carnegan on the arm.

“It might have been worse,” he observed; and after staggering a few paces he recovered himself. He added, “I will thank some one to bind up my wound.”

“Shure, I’ll be glad enough to do that same,” exclaimed Dan Connor; “and if you’ll just step into your cabin, sir, we’ll have you all to rights in a jiffy.”

“I shall not be the only one hit,” observed the second mate, as he allowed Dan to take off his coat.

Still the captain had not abandoned all hopes of escaping, and kept to his resolution of persevering to the last. He ordered the guns on the lee side to be hauled over to windward, and as they could be brought to bear on the enemy they were fired; but what effect they produced was not perceptible, as both vessels were encircled in smoke. Several more shot struck the Ouzel Galley, and at length two of her gallant crew fell, desperately wounded, to the deck, and the next instant a third had his head taken off. Still no one thought of giving in.

“We’ll shift the stern-chasers, Owen,” cried the captain; “they’ll soon be of little use where they are.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the first mate, and he with several hands began to haul one of the guns along the deck, when again the enemy fired his whole broadside. The guns had been elevated—the shot whistled overhead—a crash was heard, and down came the main-topmast of the Ouzel Galley on her deck, striking dead another of her crew. The survivors made a desperate effort to clear the wreck and prevent the fore-topmast from sharing the same fate, but even the captain now saw that all hope of escaping the enemy must be abandoned. On looking round to direct Owen to haul down the ensign, to his grief he saw that he too was wounded, and apparently severely so from the stream of blood flowing from his shoulder. At the same moment the French ship, which had rapidly shot up abeam, ran alongside and, throwing grappling-irons on board the chase, held her fast, while a party of the enemy headed by an officer leaped on the deck from the bows. Resistance was vain, but a few of the British crew instantly attempted to defend themselves with their cutlasses, the fallen topmast serving as a barricade; but the Frenchmen scrambling over it, the former were quickly driven aft. Owen had in the mean time hauled down the ensign by the captain’s orders, and shouted out that they surrendered. The enemy, however, enraged at the stubborn resistance they had met with, were rushing aft, when the second mate appeared from the cabin with his arm in a sling and encountered the officer who led the boarders.

“You will not injure a beaten foe!” he exclaimed. “You know me, though you must be surprised to find me where I am. See, my shipmates have surrendered and can offer no further resistance.”

As he spoke he put out his right hand, which the French officer grasped, and together they walked aside, where they held a hurried conversation while the survivors of the crew threw down their weapons. The Frenchmen, however, while their leader’s eye was off them, rushed into the cabin and began ransacking the lockers and appropriating such articles as took their fancy. Dan, on observing this, sprang before them and placed himself at the door of Norah’s berth, into which he would allow no one to enter.

“You can’t come in here, mounseers,” he exclaimed; “shure, you’ll be too polite to frighten a lady out of her wits—and it’s already fright enough she’s had with hearing all the hullabaloo you’ve been after making.”

Dan hoped by this artifice to prevent the Frenchmen searching for Norah, which he was afraid they might have done had they broken into the cabin and discovered female gear. As it was, he made them understand that the captain’s wife was the occupant of the cabin.

Meantime Owen, overcome by loss of blood, sank exhausted on the deck. The French officer, a fair, slightly built man, with more the appearance of a Briton than a Gaul, now approached Captain Tracy and addressed him in English with but little French accent. “I must compliment you on your bravery, though I cannot do so on your discretion in attempting to resist me,” he said. “Your vessel has become my prize, and, as I understand that your cargo is of value, I must send you into a French port; but having heard that you have the yellow fever on board, I will not remove any of your people to my ship, though I will leave an adequate prize crew to navigate her.”

Just then the report of a pistol was heard, and a shriek was heard coming from the hold of the ship.

“What’s that?” exclaimed the French officer.

“My daughter!—save her from your people!” cried Captain Tracy, hurrying towards the main hatchway. The more active Frenchman sprang before him and descended, followed by the captain and Carnegan, who, suffering from his wound, was less able than they were to move quickly. The Frenchman by his loud shouts soon let his men know that he was approaching. On reaching the hold he found Gerald in the hands of several of them, while Norah was endeavouring to protect him from their rage which he had excited.

“Let go that boy!” shouted the French officer, at the same time drawing his sword to enforce his order. He was quickly obeyed. “Who is this young lady?” he asked, turning to the captain; “I was not aware that she was on board.”

“She is my daughter, sir; and I sent her down here to be out of danger during the fighting. I am sure I can trust to your gallantry to protect her,” said Captain Tracy.

“You may depend on my doing so,” answered the French officer; then addressing Gerald, he said, “Come here, my lad—you are a brave boy, I see, and thinking my people were about to insult your sister, you fought for her. The fellow you wounded deserved his punishment. Return on deck and go on board your own ship,” he continued, addressing his crew in French. The men quickly obeyed him. “And now, young lady, let me escort you to your cabin,” he added; “you need be under no further anxiety, as no one will venture to intrude on you.”

Carnegan had before this reached the hold. He was about to assist Norah in ascending.

“I must claim that honour,” said the Frenchman; and, offering his hand, he conducted Norah out of the dark place. No sooner had they reached the deck than her eyes fell on Owen lying wounded on the poop. Disregarding every one, she threw herself down by his side.

“Oh, speak to me, Owen—tell me where you are hurt!” she exclaimed. Owen tried to answer her, but could only point to his wounded shoulder. “He will bleed to death!” she cried. “Run, Gerald—get some bandages from the cabin. Oh, father, come and help me!”

“I will send my surgeon to dress the young officer’s wound,” said the French captain, approaching; “he will attend also to the other injured men, and I regret that I cannot remain near you to be of any further use.”

Carnegan had watched Norah; an angry frown passed across his brow, but he made no remark. The French surgeon was quickly on board; he desired that Owen should be carried to his cabin, where he speedily dressed his wound and gave him a stimulant which restored him to consciousness. He then left directions with Norah how to treat his patient, assuring her that the hurt was very slight, and that he would soon recover.

“Come, my friend,” said the French officer to Carnegan; “as you are not from the West Indies, we shall have no fear of your giving us the fever. I must therefore beg for your company—you will require the attendance of the surgeon, and one wounded man is enough for that young lady to look after.”

Carnegan appeared to be expostulating; but the French officer refused to accede to his request, and hurried him on board, without allowing him even the opportunity of wishing farewell to Norah.

The French crew had in the mean time brought a fresh topmast on board the Ouzel Galley, to supply the place of the one shot away, and had been busily employed in getting it up. They had not, however, completed the work when the look-out from the mast-head of the French ship shouted, “A sail to the south-east!” and they were immediately summoned back to their own ship. A young lieutenant and seven men, forming the prize crew, then came on board the Ouzel Galley, the surgeon being the last person to quit her.

“Who is the officer who boarded us, and what is the name of your ship?” asked Captain Tracy, after expressing his thanks to the surgeon for his attention.

“He is Captain Thurot, and his ship is the Coquille, the most celebrated privateer out of Dunkirk,” was the answer. “It is positively an honour to be captured by him—let that be your consolation, my dear sir.”

“Faith, it’s but a poor consolation, then,” answered Captain Tracy; “but I thank you for suggesting even a shadow of comfort. I will follow your directions with regard to my poor wounded fellows, and once again beg to express my gratitude for what you have done for them.”

The Coquille immediately casting off her prize, made all sail in chase of the stranger, the rapidly approaching shades of evening soon concealing her from sight. The French prize crew, aided by the seamen of the Ouzel Galley, went on with the work which had been left incomplete of setting up the main-topmast rigging and getting the yard across. Night compelled them to knock off before the work was finished. The wind, however, continued steady, and the ship ran on almost dead before it under her head-sails the French officer, Lieutenant Vinoy, was a remarkably polite young gentleman, but whether or not he was a good seaman remained to be proved. He expressed his wish in no way to incommode Mademoiselle, as he called Norah, and declared that he should be perfectly satisfied to occupy the second mate’s cabin, and would on no account turn her or her father out of theirs. Besides himself, he had but one person, a petty officer, capable of taking charge of a watch, so that he had but very little time to bestow on the young lady those attentions which, under other circumstances, he might have been inclined to pay. She too was fully engaged in attending on Owen and in visiting with her father the wounded and sick men.

The night passed off quietly, and the whole of the first day was spent by all hands in setting up the topmast. It was not till supper-time that the lieutenant entered the cabin, and, throwing himself on a chair, expressed his satisfaction that the task was at length accomplished. “And your men, captain, deserve credit for the way they have worked,” he observed; “they could not have done so more willingly had they been performing the task for their own advantage. For my part, I am pretty well worn out—you may be sure that I shall sleep soundly during my watch below.”

“Do you generally sleep soundly, Lieutenant Vinoy?” asked Gerald.

“Yes, I am celebrated for it,” answered the lieutenant, laughing; “it takes a good deal to awake me when once my eyes are closed. I am never idle, you see; I work hard and sleep hard—that is as it should be.”

Gerald recollected the lieutenant’s remark, and a thought at that moment came into his head which he kept there, turning it and round and over and over till he carried it into execution.

Chapter Three.

A heavy gale ahead—The wind becomes fair—Gerald’s plan to recover the ship—Carries it out—Norah’s resolution—The lieutenant caught napping—The Frenchmen’s weapons secured—Busson and the French crew overpowered—Gerald and Norah hold Lieutenant Vinoy in check—The Ouzel Galley regained—A course steered for Waterford—Precautions against recapture—Approach the land.

The Ouzel Galley had run very nearly as far north as the latitude of Ushant, though she was still some way to the westward. Her crew had got on very well with their captors, who called them bons garçons, and were perfectly willing to fraternise with them. No one coming on board would have suspected their relative positions. The lieutenant made himself at home in the cabin; he was polite and courteous to Norah and Captain Tracy, and in no way presumed on being, as he was, the real commander of the ship. Gerald, however, did not seem inclined to associate with him, and seldom came into the cabin when he was there. Gerald, indeed, spent most of his time in assisting Norah to attend on Owen, by whose side he would sit patiently for hours together; or else he was holding secret confabulations with Dan Connor and Tim Maloney. Although Owen had been greatly weakened by loss of blood, it saved him from fever, and his wound, which was not deep, rapidly healed. Of this, however, Gerald advised Norah not to tell the lieutenant. The other wounded and pick men continued in their berths, apparently making no progress towards recovery; so that, of the original crew of the Ouzel Galley, there were only five hands besides Gerald and Tim fit for duty. These, of course, the Frenchmen, with their officer, considered that they were perfectly able to keep in order. The weather, which had hitherto been especially favourable, now greatly changed for the worse; a strong north-easterly gale springing up threatened to blow the Ouzel Galley far away to the westward. Lieutenant Vinoy was in despair; he had been anticipating the pleasure of carrying his prize into Boulogne, the port to which Captain Thurot had ordered him to take her, in the course of two or three days—and now she might be kept out for a week, or three weeks for that matter, and the risk of being recaptured greatly increased. Still he did his best to hold his ground, keeping the ship close-hauled, now on one tack, now on the other; while either he or his mate, Jacques Busson, were ever on deck ready to take advantage of any change of wind.

“I shall sleep soundly when this vile wind from the eastward has ceased to blow,” exclaimed the lieutenant one day, on coming down to dinner.

“I hope you will,” said Gerald, looking him boldly in the face. “You deserve some rest after keeping watch and watch so long.”

“Gerald,” said Norah, when they were together in the cabin, the captain being on deck, “I suspect that you are thinking of attempting to recover the vessel, and that our father has not been told what you intend to do.”

“Why should you suppose so?” asked Gerald.

“Because I see you constantly talking to the men in a way you never used to do, and because you avoid the French lieutenant and speak to him in so strange a manner,” answered Norah.

“I won’t deny that I have a plan in my head; but you are to know nothing about it till it has succeeded,” replied Gerald. “One thing I’ll tell you, that I’m very sure it can’t fail of success if all hands are true to each other—and, Norah, don’t be alarmed if you hear that two or three more of our people are down with the fever; and if our father says anything, you can just remark that I told you I was sure they would very soon be well again.”

“I have confidence in your discretion,” said Norah, “but I pray that there may be no necessity for violence, and that neither the young officer nor any of the men may be injured.”

“That depends on circumstances,” said Gerald; “no one wishes to hurt a hair of their heads if they behave themselves—if not, they must take the consequences.”

The gale increasing, it taxed all the strength of the Frenchmen, and the few of the original crew who remained, to shorten sail; but anxious as Lieutenant Vinoy was to get into port, he refused to heave to, and continued beating the ship to windward. At length, one day, soon after noon, the wind began to decrease, and before dark a moderate breeze was blowing from the southward. Captain Tracy had every day taken an observation, the French officer not objecting to his doing so, and Gerald always asked him whereabouts they were, noting the spot carefully down on the chart when the lieutenant was on deck, so that his proceedings might not be remarked. This day, according to Gerald’s calculations, they were exactly a hundred and fifty miles to the southward of Waterford. The night was cloudy, and, as there was no moon, it was darker than usual. One-half of the Frenchmen had turned in, as had Lieutenant Vinoy; Jacques Busson had the middle watch. Gerald had gone to his berth, but not to sleep; he merely pulled off his shoes and jacket, and then, lying down, drew the blanket over him. After waiting for about an hour he got up and groped his way to Lieutenant Vinoy’s cabin; the door was partly open—the sound which issued from within showed that the French officer was fast asleep. Gerald cautiously entered and possessed himself of a brace of pistols which hung within reach of the lieutenant’s hand at the head of his cot, as also of a sword suspended to the bulkhead. Carefully carrying them out, he then, quietly closing the door, made his way to Owen Massey’s cabin.

“We could not have a better opportunity than the present,” he whispered. “If you will get ready, I will call my father and warn Norah to keep quiet. Here are the lieutenant’s pistols—do you take one of them, and I will carry the other and a sword to my father. You will have no difficulty in keeping the lieutenant shut up in his cabin, while I creep forward and get Pompey and Dan to come aft and secure Jacques Busson. Just as they do so I will give a whistle loud enough for you and my father to hear, and immediately you do so you both will spring on deck and overpower the man at the helm. The rest of our people are prepared to act as you have arranged; one of them will knock down the look-out forward, while the others will throw themselves upon the other Frenchmen and secure the hatches on those below. You wished Tim and me to keep ourselves free to act according to circumstances; Tim was to get into the boatswain’s storeroom, and to cut as many lengths of rope as we shall require. He will have them in readiness for the moment they are wanted. There can be no mistake, I hope?”

“None, provided the Frenchmen don’t take alarm,” answered Owen. “You, at all events, understand the plan perfectly.”

“We may carry it out, too, I trust, without bloodshed,” said Gerald. “Shall I go forward and give the signal?”

“Yes. I feel well able to do my part, though my left arm may not be of as much use as I should wish,” answered Owen. “Call your father and Norah, and then lose no time, or the lieutenant may be waking and give us more trouble than is necessary.”

Gerald then crept back into the state cabin. He first went into Norah’s berth, and uttered a few words in her ear in a low voice. She had not undressed, having been warned by Owen of what was likely to happen, and she had resolved to give every assistance in her power; though her arm was weak, she possessed nerve and courage, and might be able to keep watch over the French officer, or even to turn the scale in favour of her friends, should any part of the plan miscarry.

“Give me the pistol,” she whispered; “I know that it is ready for use, as I saw the lieutenant loading it this afternoon.”

“Do you think he suspected anything?” asked Gerald.

“That was no sign of his doing so,” answered Norah; “he has frequently withdrawn the charges and reloaded his pistols since he came on board.”

“All right, you shall have it,” said Gerald; “but you mustn’t mind shooting him if it is necessary. Remember, if you don’t we may possibly be overpowered, and shall be much worse off than we are now.”

“I hope that no such necessity may arise,” answered Norah, and her voice trembled as she spoke.

“There, stay quiet till you’re called, and I’ll take the sword to our father,” said Gerald. The captain was awake, and prepared for the attempt to recapture the ship, he and Owen having decided on the best plan for carrying it out. He took the sword which his son brought him—the lamp which swung from the deck above shed a feeble light throughout the cabin—he had just quickly dressed, when Norah appeared.

“I had wished you to remain in your berth till we had secured the Frenchmen,” he whispered.

“Pray do not insist on my doing so,” she answered. “I may be able to help you, and I cannot bear the thoughts of hiding away while you are exposed to danger. Do let me try to be of use, father; I shall run no greater risk than I should by keeping in my berth. See, Gerald has given me a pistol, and I know how to use it. It will serve, at all events, to frighten the Frenchmen.”

The captain, seeing Norah was determined, at length consented to do as she proposed. Owen now joined them, and he and the captain crept to the foot of the companion-ladder, up part of which they mounted, to be in readiness to attack the man at the helm as soon as Gerald’s signal should be heard. Meantime, Gerald had made his way on deck. He had on a dark jacket and trousers and dark worsted socks, and by creeping along close under the bulwarks he would be able, he hoped, to get forward without much risk of being seen. Jacques Busson, the officer of the watch, was slowly pacing the deck, now looking up at the canvas which like a dark pyramid seemed to tower into the sky, now addressing the man at the helm to keep the sails full or else to steer rather closer to the wind, now shouting to the look-out forward to ascertain that he was awake and attending to his duty. Gerald stopped to observe what Jacques Busson was about; he could distinguish the Frenchman’s figure against the sky, as he paced backwards and forwards on the raised poop, halting now and then to take a glance to windward, and again taking a few steps towards the stern. The moment Gerald thought that his back was turned he again crept forward. He had no fear of being discovered by the man at the helm, whose eyes, dazzled by the binnacle lamp, were not likely to distinguish him. Thus on he went, quickly doubling round the guns, till he reached the fore hatchway, down which he slipped without being perceived by either of the Frenchmen on deck, who were seated under the weather bulwarks, and, as he rightly concluded, with their eyes shut.

“We shall have no difficulty in tackling those two fellows,” he thought. The Frenchmen were berthed on the starboard side of the forecastle, the Ouzel Galley’s people on the larboard side; Gerald was thus easily able to find his friends. He had previously made all the arrangements with Dan and Pompey—they had communicated them to the rest of the crew, who only waited his arrival to carry them out. Gerald and Dan had undertaken to get possession of the Frenchmen’s pistols. It was the most perilous part of the work to be performed, for should they be awakened they might give the alarm, and put the watch on deck on their guard. Both Dan and the black had noted accurately the places where the Frenchmen had put their weapons, who, instead of depositing the pistols under their pillows, had hung them up just above their heads, within reach of their hands, while their cutlasses lay by their sides. To remove the latter might be difficult without making a noise, and it was, besides, considered of less importance to get hold of them. Stealing silently across the fore-peak, Gerald and Dan reached one of the bunks; Dan then leaning over, felt for the occupant’s pistol, which he carefully unhooked and handed to Gerald, who, almost breathless with eagerness, grasped it tightly. They then went to the next berth, and possessed themselves of the other weapons in the same manner. The third man turned as they approached, and uttered a few incoherent words; Dan and Gerald crouched down out of sight lest he should awake, but a loud snore showed them that there was no great fear of his doing that, and his pistols were successfully abstracted. The fourth man seemed restless, and at length raised himself on his shoulder, and looked out.

“Qui va là?” he asked in French. Gerald and Dan were standing in deep shade, and remained still as mice, scarcely daring to breathe. The Frenchman, seeing no one, must have thought that he had been dreaming, and again lying down composed himself to sleep. They waited till they heard him also begin to snore, and Dan then crept forward and got hold of his pistols. They each took one, and gave the remainder to their shipmates. Tim was then sent up, furnished with a piece of line, with directions to conceal himself close to the hatchway, down which he was to let the line hang, and his pulling it up was to be the signal that the Frenchmen were off their guard. On feeling it pulled all the party below were to spring up on deck and overpower the crew forward. Gerald accompanied by Dan and Pompey were, however, to make their way aft in the same cautious manner in which he had come forward. The black, in order to run less risk of being discovered, had stripped himself naked, and oiled his body all over. The doing so was his own idea, and he grinned when he proposed it to Dan.

“I like one big eel, and if dey try to catch me I slip out of dere hands,” he observed, chuckling.

“We could not hope for a better opportunity than the present,” whispered Gerald into Dan’s ear.

“All right, sir,” answered Dan, touching Pompey and Tim. The former, as agreed on, noiseless as a cat, crept up on deck, when he immediately gave a tug to the string. Gerald, with Dan and Pompey, followed, and, crawling on all-fours, began to make their way aft. The booms and boats would have concealed them for some part of the distance from Jacques Busson even had it been daylight; they therefore ran no risk of being discovered till they reached the after-part of the quarter-deck. Pompey had now to play the chief part in the drama. Crawling up on the lee side of the poop, he lay flat on the deck, while Gerald and Dan stole after him, ready to spring up to his aid directly he had thrown himself on Busson, leaving the helmsman to be dealt with by the captain and Owen. Pompey had just reached the break of the poop, having waited for the moment that Jacques Busson’s back was towards him: a few seconds passed, when the Frenchman again turned round, and, advancing a pace or two forward, shouted to the man on the look-out. No answer came. “Bête,” he exclaimed, “he is asleep. I must arouse him with a rope’s end.”

As he spoke he advanced, about to descend the steps leading to the quarter-deck—at that moment Pompey, who had been watching him as a serpent does its expected victim, springing to his feet, threw his arms round the Frenchman’s neck, while he at the same moment shoved a large lump of oakum into his mouth before he could even utter a cry. Dan, quick as lightning, joined him, while Gerald whistled shrilly the promised signal to his father and Owen. It was heard too by Tim, who pulling the line, the rest of the Ouzel Galley’s crew sprang up, some throwing themselves on the two Frenchmen slumbering under the weather bulwarks before they had time to draw their pistols. The men on the forecastle, however, aroused by the noise, fired theirs at their advancing opponents; but owing to the darkness and their hurry the bullets missed their aim, and just as they got their hands on their cutlasses they were both knocked over with well-planted blows in their faces, and brought to the deck, at the same instant that Tim, to whom the duty had been confided, closed down the hatch on the watch below. The helmsman, on hearing the scuffle, was turning his head to see what was the matter, when he found his arms pinioned by the captain and Owen. On seeing this, Gerald ran forward to where Tim had concealed the rope. He soon returned with a sufficient number of lengths to lash the arms of Busson and the men, while Tim carried the rest of the rope to his shipmates forward, who were not long securing the three Frenchmen. The remaining four of the French crew, who had been aroused by the scuffle, were now making desperate efforts to force their way up on deck, and one on the top of the ladder had just succeeded in lifting up the hatch, when Tim saw his head protruding above the combing.

“Bear a hand here, or shure the mounseers will be out of the trap,” he shouted, at the same time seizing a capstan-bar, which was close at hand, and dealing a blow with it at the head of the Frenchman, who fell stunned off the ladder, back upon his companions following at his heels. Notwithstanding this, immediately they had recovered themselves they again attempted to get up, and another man had succeeded in raising half his body above the hatchway. Tim attacked him as he had done the first; the man, however, who was a powerful fellow, grasped the capstan-bar, and getting his knee on the combing was about to deal a blow at Tim which would have felled him to the deck, when one of the English crew, attracted by his cries, sprang to his assistance, and, wrenching the weapon from the Frenchman’s hands, struck him dead. Two more only had now to be disposed of; they, still in ignorance of the fate of their companions, sprang up the hatchway, and before they had time to gain their feet were thrown down and secured. The man who had fallen below was groaning heavily.

“He’ll do no harm,” observed Pat Casey.

“Arrah, don’t be too shure of that,” said Tim; “if he was to come to life, he’d be after letting loose the others. It will be wiser to lash him too; and unless the dead man is kilt entirely, I’d advise that we prevent him from doing mischief.”

Pat felt the Frenchman’s head. “Shure, I never knew a man come to life with a hole like this in his skull,” he remarked, “but to make shure in case of accidents, we’ll heave him overboard;” and without more ado the body of the Frenchman, who was undoubtedly dead, was shoved through the foremost port.

Lieutenant Vinoy had not vainly boasted that he was a sound sleeper, for notwithstanding the scuffle over his head, he did not awake; and happily Norah, who had been stationed at his cabin door to keep him in check should he attempt to break out, was not called upon to exercise her courage. The two events which have been described were, it will be understood, taking place at the same time. During those exciting moments no one thought of what the ship was about; the consequence was that she flew up into the wind, and it became necessary to box her off. All hands were required for this purpose—the fore-yards had to be braced round, the after-yards squared away. Owen, from his wound, being the least able to exert himself, went to the helm, the captain hauling away with the rest of the crew.

“Gerald, do you go forward and keep a look-out on our prisoners,” cried the captain. “If their arms by chance are not securely lashed, one or more of them may be getting free and setting the others at liberty. Call Tim Maloney to help you.”

Gerald was about to obey this order, when the sound of loud knocking and Norah’s voice came from below, exclaiming, “The lieutenant is awake and trying to break out of his cabin.” Gerald heard it, and shouting to Tim to look after the Frenchmen forward, he sprang down the companion-ladder. He was not a moment too soon, for the French officer, awaking and believing from the sounds which reached him that something was the matter, had leaped out of bed with the intention of hastening on deck, when he found the door fastened on him—then, hearing the captain issuing orders, he guessed truly what had occurred. Supposing that there might yet be time to regain possession of the ship, he frantically endeavoured to break open the door. The only weapon he could discover was the leg of a stool, which having wrenched off, he managed with it to prise open the door. The light from the state cabin fell on him as he appeared at the opening; just at that moment Gerald sprang down from the deck. Catching sight of the lieutenant, he presented his pistol.

“Stay, monsieur,” he exclaimed, “if you venture out of your cabin, I shall be under the disagreeable necessity of shooting you.”

The Frenchman hesitated, for, the light glancing on the pistol-barrel, he recognised his own weapon, which he knew never missed fire, and showed him also that he was totally unarmed. Gerald saw his advantage. “Let me advise you, monsieur, to go back and sit down quietly, and no harm will happen to you,” he continued. “The ship is ours, and we intend to keep her.”

“Parbleu!” exclaimed the Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders; “you have indeed gained an advantage over me.”

“Very true—but not an unfair one,” said Gerald, laughing, but still keeping his pistol pointed at the officer, who now caught sight of Norah, also with a pistol in her hand, standing a little behind her brother. He might have made an attempt to spring upon Gerald and wrench the weapon from his hand, but from the determined look of the young lady he thought, in all probability, that she would fire over her brother’s head should he do so. He therefore stepped back and sat down on the only remaining stool in the cabin, folding his arms with an air of resignation.

“I acknowledge myself defeated,” he exclaimed; “but when I have a young lady as an opponent my gallantry forbids me to resist.”

“It all comes of being a sound sleeper, monsieur,” said Gerald, “but if you had kept your weather eye open it might not have happened. However, you may turn in again now and sleep as soundly as you like till we got into Waterford harbour, where we shall be, I hope, if the wind holds fair, in another day or two. But don’t agitate yourself we’ll treat you as politely as you treated us, except that we shall be compelled to keep you a prisoner, in case you should try again to turn the tables on us.”

The ship had now been brought round; the head-yards were squared, and the course laid for Waterford. Still there was a great deal to be done; it was necessary to secure the prisoners, so that there might be no risk of their rising. Jacques Busson was a powerful and determined fellow, and he would to a certainty, if he had the opportunity, get free and try to set his countrymen at liberty. The lieutenant also, though addicted to sleeping soundly, was likely to be wide enough awake for the future, and would in all probability try to regain possession of the ship. He was therefore requested to confine himself to his cabin.

“I am sorry to treat you so inhospitably,” said Captain Tracy, “but necessity compels me, and I hope that it will be but for a short time. I must warn you, however, if you attempt to break out, that we shall be obliged to secure you as we have done your men; but to save you from temptation, we shall secure your cabin door on the outside in a way which will prevent you from doing so. If, however, you will give me your promise not to attempt to regain your liberty, you will be treated with no further rigour.”

“I must make a virtue of necessity,” answered the lieutenant; “it is a very disagreeable one, but I submit.” And without more ado he threw off his coat and quietly turned into his cot.

“Don’t trust him, Gerald, whatever he may say,” whispered Captain Tracy, “till we have the door firmly secured.”

“Ay, ay, father,” answered Gerald; “if he shows his face at the door without leave, I’ll make him draw it back again pretty quickly.”

Pompey had been left to watch over Jacques Busson and the man who had been serving at the wheel. He had no pistol, but instead he held in his hand a sharp, long-bladed sheath-knife, which effectually kept the prisoners from stirring. He evidently took especial delight in his office, and reluctantly consented to drag Jacques Busson into a cabin, where it was arranged that he should be confined, but at the same time with his arms and legs firmly secured. The rest of the men were carried down into the forecastle, and were placed in their bunks, the captain having examined each of them to be certain that they were lashed in a way from which they could not liberate themselves.

Morning dawned soon after these arrangements had been made. Jacques Busson grumbled greatly at the treatment he had received.

“What for you make all dis fuss?” said Pompey, who was standing sentry over him. “You want to take us into French port—we take you into Irish port. Waterford berry nice place, and when we get dere we take you out of limbo, and you live like one gentleman.”

“Sacré!” answered the Frenchman, who had only caught a word or two of what Pompey had said, “if we fall in with a French ship before we get there, I’ll pay you off, mon garçon, for nearly strangling me with your greasy arms.”

Pompey only grinned a reply. There was no use wasting words, considering that neither understood the other’s language. The lieutenant took matters more philosophically than his inferior. He was, however, not to be trusted, and either Gerald or Dan kept watch at his door with a loaded pistol. The arms and legs of the other men were too securely lashed to afford much risk of their getting loose; still, a trusty man was stationed over them, as there was no doubt that they would make the attempt could they gain the opportunity, and if one could cast off his lashings he might speedily set the others at liberty.

The sea was smooth; the sun shone brightly; and the Ouzel Galley made good way towards Waterford. She was, however, upwards of a hundred miles from that port, and might before reaching it fall in with another French ship. She was, indeed, now in a part of the ocean in which privateers were likely to be cruising, on the look-out for homeward-bound vessels. It was necessary, therefore, to avoid any strange sail till her character could be positively ascertained. A hand was accordingly stationed aloft to give timely notice should a sail appear in sight. This, of course, weakened the crew, who were already insufficient to work the ship; the wounded men, though they had aided in overpowering the Frenchmen, were but little capable of performing continuous work. Owen felt his wound very painful, yet he persisted in attending to his duty, and could scarcely be persuaded to lie down on the sofa for a short time to rest, while the captain took his watch on deck. Gerald was highly applauded by his father and Owen for his courage and judgment, which had so much contributed to the recapture of the vessel; even the French lieutenant expressed his admiration of the way he had behaved.

“If young English boys are so brave and cool, no wonder that we should have been overpowered,” he observed. “I only wish that we had had a French boy on board, and it is not impossible that he might have discovered your plot and counteracted it. The next time I have charge of a prize, I will place a French boy to watch the English boys, and then we shall see which is the sharpest.”

“I don’t know which may prove the sharpest, but I am ready to fight any two French boys of my own age I have ever met in my life,” answered Gerald, laughing; “first one come on, and then the other, or both together, provided they’ll keep in front, or let me have a wall at my back, when they’re welcome to do their worst.”

“Ah, you are too boastful,” said the lieutenant.

“Pardon me, monsieur, not at all. I am only sticking up for the honour of Old Ireland,” answered Gerald.

The Ouzel Galley was drawing nearer to her port, and the chances of recapture diminished; still there was another night’s run, and no one liked to boast till they were out of the fire. The crew of the Ouzel Galley were pretty well worn out, and it was with the greatest difficulty many of them could keep their eyes open. Perhaps the Frenchmen counted on this, and the hope that they yet might regain their liberty prevented them from losing their spirits, and they amused themselves by singing snatches of songs and every now and then shouting out to each other. They were also well supplied with food, and as much grog as they chose to drink.

“It’s shure to comfort their hearts,” observed Dan, as he went round with a big can and a tin cup; “besides, they’ll be less likely to prove troublesome.”

The night came on; the captain, Owen, and Gerald did their best to encourage the men and to urge them to keep awake, however sleepy they might feel, continually going among them and reminding them that in a few hours more they might turn in and sleep for as many hours as they might like at a stretch, without the fear of being knocked on the head and thrown overboard. “And, my lads,” observed the captain, “if the Frenchmen retake us, depend upon it that’s the way we shall be treated—they’ll not give us another chance.”

The only person who slept that night was Norah, who, although she had not gone through any physical exertion, had felt more anxiety than any one, from knowing the risk those whom she loved were about to run. It would be difficult to describe her feelings as she saw her father and Owen steal upon dock to attack the man at the helm; and often during that night she started up, believing that the scene was again being enacted.

The wind continued fair; the Ouzel Galley held on her course, and no suspicious sail came near her during the night.

Chapter Four.

Land in sight—A suspicious sail—The Coquille again—Many a slip between the cup and the lip—Norah and Gerald sent off with Owen—The wind changes—Recalled—The Coquille chases the Ouzel Galley into the harbour—Safe at last—Captain Tracy and Norah visit Mr and Miss Ferris—Captain Tracy’s illness—The house described—Owen Massey and his mother—Visit of Norah and Ellen to Widow Massey—The widow gives a history of the O’Harralls.

“Land! land!” shouted Gerald, who had gone aloft at daybreak to be ready the moment there was light enough to catch eight of the looked-for shores of Ireland. As the sun rose the coast could be distinguished, indented with numerous deep inlets; but at first it was difficult to see what part of it the ship was approaching. At length, however, Gerald, whose eyes were as sharp as those of any one on board, made out a tall tower standing at the end of a long, low point of land. “Hurrah! I see Hook Tower!” he shouted out; “we’re all right!”

“Never made a better land-fall in my life,” exclaimed the captain, who had gone up the rigging, and had been examining the coast with his glass. As he spoke, Gerald shouted from the mast-head, “A sail on the larboard bow!”

“What does she look like?” asked the captain, who had returned on deck.

“A ship close-hauled under all sail,” answered Gerald; “she’s standing this way, and seems to have come out of Dungarvon Bay, as I can see Helvick Head beyond her.”

“Whatever she may prove, we shall be well in with Waterford harbour before she can reach us,” observed the captain.

“An enemy is not likely to have ventured so close in to the Irish coast, with the risk of encountering a British man-of-war,” said Owen.

“Not quite so certain of that,” observed the captain; “she may have run in hoping to pick up a few merchant craft and coasters without much trouble, and may have ascertained from other prizes she has taken that there are no men-of-war on the coast. For my part, I would rather be safe up the harbour than have to speak her.”

The captain and Owen agreed that at all events it would be unnecessary to keep Lieutenant Vinoy shut up in his cabin. “As he has behaved like a gentleman,” said the captain, “go and tell him, Owen, that if he will give his word of honour not to interfere with the other prisoners, I beg that he will come on deck, should he feel so disposed; and that I regret having been under the necessity of confining him to his cabin for so many hours—but, Owen, keep an eye on him, notwithstanding; it may be as well not to trust him too much, and if he were to release that desperate fellow Busson, the two together might play us some trick we shouldn’t like.”

“No fear of that, sir,” answered Owen, glad to show the French lieutenant an act of courtesy, “but I’ll keep my eyes about me.”

He immediately went below and gave Monsieur Vinoy the captain’s message.

“Certainly,” answered the lieutenant; “I willingly accept the conditions. I have nothing to complain of—it was the fortune of war; you acted towards me as, under the same circumstances, I should have behaved to you. I will gladly come on deck.”

Saying this, he preceded Owen up the companion-ladder, making a polite bow to Norah, who had just before joined her father, and was looking out eagerly towards the land. In a short time the ship could be clearly discerned from the deck. The squareness of her yards and the cut of her canvas made it evident that she was not a merchant vessel; but whether an English or French man-of-war, or a privateer, it was difficult at that distance to determine. She was making good way with the tide, which was then about half flood, running to the eastward; as this was almost across the course of the Ouzel Galley, it was rather against than in favour of the latter, whereas it added greatly to the rapid progress of the stranger. Under ordinary circumstances probably neither the captain nor Owen could have had much doubt about the character of the vessel in sight; but having so narrowly escaped the loss of the ship, they both felt more than usually anxious. Every stitch of canvas the Ouzel Galley could carry was set on her, the sails being wetted that they might the better hold the wind. The captain kept his glass constantly turned towards the approaching ship. When first seen, she was about twelve miles off, while the Ouzel Galley was supposed to be about eight miles from the Hook Tower. At the rate she was going it would take her upwards of an hour to get off it; whereas, should the wind hold, the stranger, with the advantage of the tide, would get her within range of her guns before that time. No flag had as yet been seen flying from her peak; but even should she show British colours it would be no proof that she was not an enemy, as she would be certain to hoist them for the sake of deceiving any merchant vessels she might meet with.

“I very much fear that she is a privateer,” observed Owen, after carefully examining the stranger through his glass; “still the wind may fall light and prevent her reaching us—or, better still, shift to the eastward and throw her to leeward, and we may then soon run up the harbour, and got under shelter of Duncannon Fort before she can reach us.”

Lieutenant Vinoy had been eagerly gazing at the stranger—a look of perplexity appeared in his face.

“What do you think of yonder ship?” asked Owen.

“I will not disguise my belief from you that she is the Coquille,” answered the lieutenant. “I know her too well to be mistaken, even at this distance; but remain tranquil—should she recapture your vessel, of which I entertain, I confess, very little doubt, Captain Thurot will treat you with the same courtesy he did before, notwithstanding what has occurred. I am the person he will chiefly blame; and I must beg you to inform him how long I had been on watch and how fatigued I was when I retired to my cabin. Morbleu! to tell you the truth, I am as anxious as you can be to keep out of his way, but don’t tell him that I said so.”

“You may rest assured that we will do our best to avoid an encounter,” answered the captain, “and, should we be recaptured, that we will say all that we can in your favour; but I trust that we shall escape—it would be cruel to be caught after all.”

The wind was becoming lighter and lighter, and thus their anxiety was prolonged. Still the Coquille—for that such she was very little doubt existed—kept creeping up. The sea became much calmer.

“I will send a boat away with Norah and Gerald; it were better to save her from the annoyance to which she would be exposed should we again fall into the Frenchmen’s hands,” said Captain Tracy. “I should wish to let you go too, Owen; suffering from your wound, you are but ill able to stand the confinement of a French prison.”

“I am grateful to you, captain; and thankfully would I escort your daughter, but she will be safe with her brother, and I cannot bring myself to desert the ship,” answered Owen.

“That is like you, Owen,” replied the captain; “perhaps I might have said the same were I in your place. It is my principle that every officer should stick to his ship as long as a plank holds together; but we shall have hands enough to take her in, should yonder stranger prove not to be the Coquille, but a friend—or should we be recaptured, the fewer people there are on board, the fewer will there be to suffer. I have therefore made up my mind that you shall go. I will send Dan Connor or Pompey, and Tim and Gerald can pull an oar and you can steer; you’ll not have more than ten or twelve miles to row before you can get fresh hands, either at Duncannon Fort or at Passage, to take you up to Waterford. See, we are scarcely making three knots an hour; the boat can pull nearly twice as fast as that, and you will be able to keep well ahead of the enemy. Come, I wanted to see what you would say, but I have resolved you should go; so order the boat to be got ready, and the sooner you are off the better.”

Owen was, of course, willing enough to go for the sake of Norah; he had no choice but to obey his commander.

“Norah,” said the captain, turning to his daughter, to whom the French officer was endeavouring to make himself agreeable, and who had not heard the conversation between her father and the mate, “go and get your traps together, my girl; I am going to send you and Gerald with the mate on shore, and I hope that we shall be soon after you.”

Norah was too well accustomed to obey her father to question the command, and immediately went below.

“Gerald!” shouted the captain to his son, who had some time before come down from the mast-head, “go and help your sister; you must be smart about it—the boat will be in the water in less than five minutes.”

In a short time Dan and Tim, who had been sent into the cabin, appeared with Norah’s trunks. She quickly followed. Having learned from Gerald the reason of her being sent on shore, she addressed her father. “Oh, father, I must not, I ought not to leave you,” she exclaimed; “you think that the Ouzel Galley will after all be recaptured, and you will be carried off to France, and perhaps ill-treated by those men from whom you have retaken the ship, while I shall be left.”

“Far better that it should be so than that we should both be made prisoners and ill-treated,” replied the captain; “so be, as you always have been, an obedient girl—and now, my child, may Heaven bless and protect you!” and the captain, giving his daughter an affectionate kiss, led her to the gangway. The boat was already alongside, and Owen in her ready to help Norah down. She was soon seated in the boat; Gerald followed her. Just then the captain took another glance at the stranger, which was about three miles off; as he did so, the French flag was seen to fly out at her peak. At the same moment the sails of the Ouzel Galley gave a loud flap; the captain looked round.

“Praise Heaven! here comes the breeze from the eastward,” he exclaimed. “Hold fast with the boat; come on deck again, Norah—we’ll not part with you yet;” and, leaning down, he took her arm as she quickly climbed up the side. The rest of the party followed; and to save time the boat was dropped astern. All hands were busily engaged in bracing up the yards. The Ouzel Galley was now well to windward; the French ship tacked, but was still able to steer a course which would bring her within gunshot. The two vessels stood on; the Ouzel Galley was rapidly approaching the land, while the Coquille was getting further from it. Another tack would, however, place her astern, and it would then be a question whether she could overtake the Ouzel Galley before the latter could run up the harbour. Much would depend upon the way the wind blew when she got inside; it might come down the harbour, and in that case the Frenchman might overtake her before she could get up to Credda Head, within which it was not likely even Thurot himself would venture. The breeze held firm; the captain looked over the side.

“The good ship seems to know her danger, and is slipping along famously,” he observed to Owen. “We shall be up to Waterford Quay before nightfall, I hope; we have still a good part of the flood, and when Captain Thurot finds that there is no chance of taking us, he’ll give up the chase.”

“He’ll not do so till the last moment, captain,” observed Lieutenant Vinoy. “There is no man like him; and should the wind fail us when we are inside the harbour, he will, or I am much mistaken, send in the boats to cut your vessel out.”

“We’ll hope, then, that the wind will not fail us,” answered the captain—and he much doubted whether the Frenchman would venture on so bold an act. “If your friends come, we’ll give them a warm reception, and we shall be under the necessity of shutting you up in your cabin again.”

“I shall be ready to submit to your orders,” said the lieutenant, shrugging his shoulders.

Poor Norah naturally felt very anxious, even though Owen endeavoured to reassure her by pointing out the position of the French ship, which could not tack with advantage till a considerable way astern. The breeze was every moment freshening, and the tall lighthouse on the east side of Waterford harbour became more and more distinct.

“No fear now,” cried Gerald at length, as the very beach on it stood, with the water rippling on it, could be clearly discerned, and the harbour up to Duncannon Fort opened out to view. The Ouzel Galley was just abreast of Hook Tower when the French ship was seen to tack and boldly to stand after her.

“That looks as if the lieutenant were right in his notion; and should we get becalmed inside, or find the wind drawing down the harbour, Thurot will send in his boats after us,” observed Owen to the captain.

“I have no fear of being becalmed till we get inside of Credda Head, and still less of the wind, as it is outside, drawing down the harbour,” answered the captain. “Should the boats get up with us, we must try and beat them off; we were not afraid of the ship herself, and those Frenchmen, though brave enough, are not like our own fellows in cutting-out affairs. See to the guns, however, and get ammunition up on deck, for, should they come, we mayn’t have much time to spare.”

The Ouzel Galley stood on in mid-channel; the well-known landmarks, church steeples, country-seats, and castles on either side were recognised; Credda Head, a long, high point at the entrance of the harbour, was neared, when Duncannon Fort came into view. Still the daring privateer followed as if her bold captain did not yet despair of overtaking the chase. The wind, as the captain had hoped it would do, held fair, blowing over the low land on the east side of the harbour; once up with Duncannon Fort the Ouzel Galley would be safe, both from the privateer herself and from an attack by her boats. At length Credda Head was rounded.

“Hurrah!” cried Gerald, who, not having to attend to the navigation of the ship, was watching the privateer, “she’s afraid of standing on further—she’s about; but, hillo!—she has hoisted English colours.”

“No proof that she is not French, though,” answered the captain; “it is simply to deceive the people on shore.”

“At all events, she’s standing out of the harbour again, and won’t do us any mischief,” cried Gerald.

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed the captain, “we’re safe at last.” And the long breath he drew clearly showed how anxious he had been.

“A boat coming off from under the Head!” sang out Dan from forward. The topsail sheets were let fly, the courses trailed up to allow the boat to come alongside, and a river pilot stopped on deck.

“Welcome back to Old Ireland!” he exclaimed, as he shook the captain’s hand. “Shure, it’s a pleasure to see the Ouzel Galley again, for it’s long we’ve been looking for her, and many began to say that she was lost, or taken by the French.”

“We very nearly were so, but we managed to take some of these same gentlemen instead,” answered the captain with a laugh, to which he could now give vent; “and only just now we had a narrow squeak for it. What do you think of yonder ship, Pat?”

“Of course, she’s an English man-of-war,” answered the pilot; “we’ve been expecting one in here for some days past, and we thought that craft was her. To say the truth, we were going on board her; for, shure, the Ouzel Galley knows her way up to George’s Quay by herself.”

“Had you done so, Pat, you’d have been carried off, and made to serve as pilot on board a French ship till the end of the war,” answered Captain Tracy.

“Maybe you’re right, captain; but see, she carries the English flag, and no Frenchman would have the impudence to come into our harbour,” said the pilot.

“That gentleman says she is French, and he ought to know, for he belonged to her,” observed the captain, pointing to Lieutenant Vinoy. Pat Monaghan, however, was not convinced; though, as the stranger was rapidly running out of the harbour again, he had no opportunity of ascertaining for himself. Under Pat’s pilotage the Ouzel Galley stood on up the harbour, which now narrowed considerably. At length she rounded Cheek Point, when with a fair wind she ran up the Suir, on the south bank of which Waterford is situated. It was late in the evening when at last she dropped her anchor off George’s Quay. Before her canvas was furled, Mr Ferris, the senior partner of her owners, Ferris, Twigg, and Cash, came on board, and warmly congratulated the captain on his safe return. On hearing of the gallant way in which possession of the Ouzel Galley had been regained, Mr Ferris invited Norah and Gerald to his house.

“My daughter Ellen will be delighted to see her old schoolfellow, Miss Tracy, who was a great favourite of hers,” he said; “and many of my friends will be glad to see your son, who from your account was the principal actor in your adventure.”

“I must not praise Gerald too much,” said Captain Tracy, after he had accepted the invitation; “my mate, Owen Massey, was the chief concoctor of the plot, and had I not a high opinion of his judgment and courage, I should not have ventured to give my consent to it.”

Before leaving the ship, Captain Tracy was anxious to be relieved of his prisoners. Mr Ferris hurried back to the chief magistrate of the town, who at once sent down a guard to march them off to the jail. The lieutenant, however, on being brought before him, was more courteously treated, and on giving his parole not to leave the town or to communicate with the enemy, he was allowed to be at large. As soon as he was set at liberty he received an invitation from Mr Ferris to take up his abode at his house in King Street.

Thankful indeed was Owen Massey when, the prisoners having been carried off, he was able to give up charge of the ship and go on shore. He had a home to go to, though an humble one, with his mother, who resided in a pretty little cottage in the outskirts of the town. She had seen better days, for both she and her husband were of ancient lineage; but he had been engaged in a long-protracted lawsuit, which he ultimately lost, and died, leaving her very limited means with which to support herself and their only child Owen. Captain Tracy, an old friend, offered to take Owen to sea; and the lad was delighted with the thoughts of the life in prospect. His mother had not only given him the best education the place afforded, but had sent him to Trinity College, Dublin, to complete his education. Here his means, however, did not allow him to remain long; but, being clever and diligent, he was better prepared than most lads were at that time for his future calling. He knew nothing about the Royal Navy, or he would certainly have desired to enter it, which he might easily have done had he possessed any friend able to get him placed on the deck of a man-of-war. He had, like other youths, read accounts of the voyages of the old explorers, of the adventures of the buccaneers, and other works; he was scarcely aware of the difference which then existed between the officers of the Royal Navy and merchant service. Captain Tracy, though anxious to promote his interests, did not think fit to enlighten him, as he fully believed that during the “piping times of peace” he would be far more likely to succeed in the latter than in the former service; and belonging to it himself, he rightly looked upon it as an honourable one.

Mrs Massey was struck by her son’s pale face and languid manner. The voyage over, the effects of his severe wound, and the long-continued anxiety he had suffered, at once told on him. She immediately sent for the best surgeon in the place. Dr Roach quickly arrived; he had a great respect for Widow Massey, and had known Owen, from his boyhood. On examining his wound he put on a grave face.

“It surprises me, my dear boy, that you could have managed to move about with so fearful a laceration,” he said; “it has been well and carefully dressed, I will allow, or you would not have been alive at this moment. Many a poor fellow has died from a less hurt than this. However, you will do well now, if you follow my directions; but you must lie by and get your mother to nurse you. Come, turn into bed at once; you are not fit to be about—you’ll get well the sooner.”

Owen expostulated; he had been on his legs for several days, and why should he now lie by? he asked.

“For the very reason that you have done more than you have strength for,” answered the doctor.

“But the duty of the ship must be attended to, and I am anxious to see my captain,” urged Owen.

“And your captain’s daughter, eh, my young friend—is it not so?” said Dr Roach. “Well, I will let her know your wishes; I have been called in to attend on Captain Tracy, who requires some doctoring, though not as much as you do—and as to the ship, there are others whose duty it is to look after her; it was yours to bring her safely into port, and you did that in a very gallant way, I hear. Now, Mrs Massey, I lay my commands on your son to remain quietly in bed till I tell him to get up; if he disobeys me, we shall be having a stiff arm or something worse, so he is warned. I will come and see him regularly, and you’ll give him the medicines as I direct;” and Dr Roach, kindly shaking the widow’s hand, walked away towards the town, with his gold-headed cane pressed to his lips—a sure sign that he was lost in thought.

Captain Tracy was, as the doctor had said, really ill; he was even worse than it was at first supposed, and required all Norah’s attention. Though much wishing to see Owen and Mrs Massey, she could not venture to leave him. Gerald, however, willingly undertook to pay a visit to the mate, who not being positively prohibited from seeing visitors, Gerald was admitted. Owen more clearly understood the message which Norah had sent than Gerald did himself. Though longing to see her, he acknowledged that it was her duty to remain with her father.

“However, Owen, you need not be in a hurry to get well,” said Gerald, “for the Ouzel Galley won’t be fit for sea again for many months; she suffered so much during her last voyage, and got so knocked about by the enemy’s shot, that she is to undergo a thorough repair. My father, not wishing me to be idle, talks of sending me to sea in some other craft—if I have my choice, I would go on board a man-of-war, where I might have plenty of opportunities of fighting the enemies of our country. I don’t like the idea of sailing in a ship which may be attacked and captured by any French privateer we might fall in with.”

“I am sorry to hear you say that, Gerald, for I had hoped to have you with me when I next go afloat;” answered Owen. “To my mind, the merchant service is as honourable as that of the Royal Navy, if a man does his duty. I am very sure that God did not design men to be fighting animals; it was Satan, and no one else, who put it into their heads that it is a fine and noble thing to attack and kill each other.”

“Why, Owen, I always thought you a brave fellow, and as fond of fighting as any man,” exclaimed Gerald.

“I grant you that I am ready to fight in defence of the life and liberty of my shipmates and the property committed to my charge, because I can see that to be my duty,” answered Owen. “The merchant service affords ample opportunity for the exercise of a man’s courage and determination. Though I respect the officers and men of the Royal Navy, who are engaged in fighting for their king and country, I have a very different opinion of privateersmen, who go forth to plunder the harmless merchantmen of other nations merely for the sake of enriching themselves. It may be necessary to destroy the commerce of the enemy for the purpose of crippling their means of offence; but privateersmen seldom trouble their heads about that—they are incited by the instinct of pirates, and plunder is their sole object. Whatever you do, let me urge you, Gerald, never to turn privateersman; if you were to consult your father, he would, I know, say as I do, for we have often spoken about the matter.”

“I dare say you are right, Owen,” answered Gerald. “If the Ouzel Galley were going at once to sea I would gladly sail in her. The owners, as I heard from my father, intend to give the command of her to you.”

“I am thankful to him, and very happy to hear it,” said Owen; “and I hope, Gerald, that if you go afloat in the mean time, which it is very right you should do, that you will be back soon enough to join me. Tell your father that I will try to get well as fast as I can, that I may attend to fitting out the Ouzel Galley.”

Gerald did not give a very favourable report of Owen Massey; he described him as looking pale and ill, and dreadfully out of spirits, quite unlike himself. It made poor Norah exceedingly anxious; she had bestowed on him her heart’s best affections, with the full sanction of her father, who highly esteemed him.

To give Gerald employment till arrangements could be made for his going to sea, he was sent on board the Ouzel Galley, to assist in landing her stores and unrigging her, previous to her being hauled up on the slip to be repaired.

A few days on shore had so far restored Captain Tracy’s health that Norah was able to pay her promised visit to Mrs Massey, and Ellen Ferris offered to accompany her. They set off together. Ellen was nearly a year older than Norah; both were remarkable for their beauty. Ellen was somewhat taller and slighter than her friend, with dark brown hair and clear complexion, and fine, sparkling eyes; many persons would have admired her the most. Having mixed in good society in Dublin, she had more the manners of the world than Norah, though in reality equally artless and unsophisticated; while she was able to take her part in conversation on any of the topics of the day, of which, naturally, Norah knew but little. She was amiable, lively, and right-principled, and altogether allowed to be a very charming girl, the pride of her father, who had no other child. She was therefore, of course, looked upon as an heiress; she did not, however, give herself any airs, but was thoroughly unaffected, her aim simply being properly to do the honours of her father’s house. Their chief residence was in Dublin, but she was always his companion when he came to his house at Waterford. It was a pleasant place, a rus in urbe, as the worthy merchant delighted to call it. The house itself, a large, well-built mansion, with nothing remarkable about it, faced the street. On the other side was an extensive piece of ground. Immediately behind the house it was level, and laid out with a lawn and flower-beds. Beyond this a hill rose to a considerable height, the hillside being cut into slopes and terrace-walks, with an artificial canal fed by an ever-flowing stream at the bottom of it. In accordance with the taste of the day, these terraces were ornamented with statues; and at one end was a fine arch, part of the ruin of an ancient Gothic chapel. At the other end was an aviary filled with numerous feathered songsters, several species of gay plumage. Further round the hill was an enclosure stocked with various kinds of deer, and a white doe, an especial favourite of the fair mistress of the garden. Besides the canal, at the foot of the hill were two large reservoirs for the purpose of supplying it with water, containing carp and tench and other fish; and at the summit of the hill stood an obelisk to the memory of King William, whom the owner held in especial reverence. The views from the hill of the city on one side, and of the rough rocks and wild uncultivated hills on the opposite side, of the river, the shipping at anchor, with vessels and boats decked with gay flags constantly moving up and down the stream, were picturesque and attractive, and afforded an object of interest to the numerous guests whom the hospitable owner was wont to entertain at his house. The place was laid out more according to Dutch than English taste, and of course was especially admired by the natives of Holland, among whom the firm of Ferris, Twigg, and Cash had extensive connections, as well as with the West Indies, to which part of the world they chiefly traded. The Ouzel Galley was only one of the numerous vessels owned by the firm, and all being strongly built, well found, and well officered, with sufficient crews, they made successful voyages. Mr Ferris himself was a dignified, good-looking, and somewhat portly gentleman, frank and hearty in his manners, fond of a good joke and a good story, and highly respected for his upright and liberal conduct.

Ellen, of course, had many admirers, but as yet it was generally believed that she had favoured no one. She was, in truth, the light of her father’s home, and he had no wish to part with her. She and Norah set off one bright afternoon on their walk to Widow Massey’s cottage. Norah had confided to Ellen her engagement to Owen.

“I am young, and so is he, and we are to wait till he has made two or three more voyages, while I am to keep house for my father, who does not intend again to go to sea,” she remarked. “He inherited some property lately, which prevents the necessity of his doing so, and though I enjoyed the voyage to the West Indies, and the beautiful scenery and strange sights I saw there, I am very glad to have him remain at home, especially since the war has broken out, and there is now the risk of capture by an enemy, such as we so narrowly escaped from. I wish, indeed, that Owen could give up the sea, but he is very fond of it, and promises me not to run into more danger than can be helped; and as it is the lot of so many poor women to have those they love at sea, I must not complain.”

Ellen, sighed. Norah looked up with an inquiring glance at her countenance, but Ellen only observed, “It must be borne with patience; and then, you know, you can pray for those you love, and that is a great comfort.”

Mrs Massey, who had from her front windows seen her visitors approaching, opened the door to admit them. She welcomed Norah with an affectionate embrace, putting back her hair to kiss her fair brow.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Ferris,” she said, “for neglecting you; but you will excuse me—it is so long since I have seen this dear girl, and I so rejoice to have her back in safety. My son Owen, the doctor says, owes his life to the careful way she dressed his wounds.” She continued, after her guests were seated, “He will be wishing to come down and see you, Norah, and I cannot forbid him, though he is not fit to present himself before Miss Ferris.”

“Do not let me prevent Mr Massey from coming down,” said Ellen, rising, and giving a smile to Norah; “I will go out and take a look at your pretty garden, Mrs Massey, and you shall show me the flowers.”

Norah felt grateful for the tact of her friend, and the widow having gone upstairs to tell Owen that he need not fear the meeting with a stranger, she returned and took Ellen into her garden, which contained a shrubbery, a lawn and flower-beds, and an arbour with a view of the river and shipping in the distance, and invited them to sit down.

“This is a very pretty spot, Mrs Massey,” said Ellen. “Now you have got your son back, you must be perfectly happy.”

“I ought to be so, my dear young lady, and am indeed thankful to have him with me,” answered the widow; “but recollections of the past will intrude. I cannot help thinking how different would have been his lot had he not been unjustly deprived of his inheritance; and little good has it done those who got it. Wealth gained by fraud or violence never benefits the possessors.”

The widow, who spent much of her time in solitude, was inclined to talk when she found a willing listener. Ellen’s looks betokened sympathy, for she was aware of the wrongs the Massey family had endured.

“The O’Harralls were ever a lawless race,” continued Mrs Massey; “they were leaders among the Rapparees in Cromwell’s and James’s times, and lived by robbing their countrymen and neighbours, till William of Orange established a firm government. They then exercised their cunning by means of the law, and, supported by the Evil One, their frauds were successful. Scarcely, however, had they gained possession of Tramore Castle and its broad lands than they took to their wicked courses. Denis O’Harrall set all the laws of God and man at defiance; yet, as he kept open house and entertained guests of high and low degree, he was universally popular till he had been brought to the verge of ruin. Such a father could not fail to bring up his sons ill: his eldest son was as extravagant and reckless as himself. Brian, his second, had more talent than his brother. Having been sent to college in Dublin, he at first gave some promise of turning out well. Owen was at that time acquainted with him, and, harbouring no ill-feeling, was ready to be on friendly terms; but Brian soon showed the cloven foot, and although he remained for some time, he was at length dismissed with ignominy. Living near the sea, he had been accustomed from his earliest days to go out with the fishermen, and to make short trips to Drogheda, Dungarvon, Youghal, and occasionally even further. After his return home, having no means of indulging in the bad courses to which he was addicted, he, it was said, joined a band of smugglers, who under his leadership became the most daring and successful of all the gangs of desperate men who carry on their illicit trade across the English Channel. Now they appeared in one part of the coast, now in another; so that, although a constant watch was kept for them, owing to the vigilance of their agents for several years, they never failed to escape the king’s cruisers. From long impunity becoming less cautious, a valuable cargo in which he had ventured all his property was captured, with himself and several of his companions, by a king’s ship. They were brought into Waterford, and were imprisoned in Reginald’s Tower, on the quay. During the night, however, they rose on the guard, whom they killed, to prevent alarm being given, and stealing a boat made their way down the river. In the harbour they found a Dutch ship, the Saint Peter, of Hamburg, which had put in from stress of weather. As she was on the point of sailing, they pretended that they had come down on purpose to take a passage on board her to Dantzic, for which port she was bound. The captain, believing their story, willingly received them, as they offered to pay a considerable sum for their passage-money. Scarcely, however, had they got out of sight of land than they set upon the captain and his officers and killed them all, and so overawed the men that no one dared to offer the slightest resistance. By threats and promises they induced the greater number to join them, and those who would not do so were thrown overboard. One, however, a good swimmer, recovering from the blows which had apparently killed him, got hold of a grating and was picked up the next morning. Being carried into Cork harbour, he gave information of what had occurred, and the authorities in all places along the coast were informed that they might seize the pirates should they appear. Their intention was to proceed up the British Channel, to plunder any vessel they could fall in with, and afterwards, when they had completed their cargo, to sell it and the ship. A violent north-easterly gale, however, drove them far away to the westward, and it was not till many days were over that they were again able to stand to the eastward. They had, as it happened, from not taking proper observations, got out of their reckoning; while steering, as they thought, up the Channel, they found themselves close in with the Irish coast. By this time being short of water and provisions, they ran into Dunmanus Bay, supposing that, no one suspecting their character, they might remain as long as was necessary to repair damages and to procure whatever they wanted. Among the crew was a young black, whose life had been spared under the idea that he was too stupid and ignorant to think of betraying them. As he appeared to be perfectly contented on board, he was allowed to be at liberty; but he was in reality a remarkably sharp lad, and only waited his opportunity to get on shore. One night, after the ship had been there two or three days, he managed to slip overboard, and, getting safely to land, made his way to Dunbeacon Castle, at the head of the harbour. He here described what had occurred, and it was at once guessed that the vessel in the bay was the one for which the authorities had been directed to be on the watch. A despatch was immediately sent off to Bantry; before the morning a party of soldiers arrived, and, procuring boats, boarded the ship and captured all found in her. The ringleader, however, Brian O’Harrall, was on shore, and though strict search was made for him he was nowhere to be discovered. He had friends in the neighbourhood, and it was only sufficient for them to know that the officers of justice were after him to induce them to assist in his escape. My son happened to be in Bantry at the time, just before he went to sea; to save the boy, who was carried there, from the vengeance of O’Harrall, he took him back to Waterford, and Captain Tracy received him on board the Ouzel Galley. It was from Pompey I heard all the particulars I have narrated. The five other men on board the Saint Peter were tried and condemned to death, and after their execution their heads were set up at Waterford, Youghal, Cork, Kinsale, and Blantyre. The ship and cargo being restored to the owners, O’Harrall was outlawed, and a price set on his head; but though, from time to time, he was heard of in connection with various desperate acts, he never failed to escape the grasp of justice. It was supposed that he at length joined a band of smugglers, though he has not for a year or more been heard of. He has, I should have said, a younger brother remarkably like him in character and appearance, who greatly assisted in his escape. This brother, Michael, made his appearance now in one part of the country, now in another, letting it be supposed that he was Brian; thus distracting the attention of those in search of the culprit. He is himself, from what I have heard, fully as determined a ruffian as Brian, and has long followed the same lawless pursuits.”

“What a fearful character!” exclaimed Ellen, shuddering; “and yet you say that Brian was at one time at college, mixing with young men of education and refinement.”

“Yes, and, with the talents and advantages he possessed, might have gained an honourable position in the county,” replied Mrs Massey; “for, his elder brother having no children, he would probably have succeeded to the estate. I should have been more reconciled to the loss of Tramore had it been in possession of honourable people, who would have attended to the property and watched over the interests of the tenantry; and it is sad to see the place going to ruin, and the unfortunate people who might look up to the owner for assistance becoming every day more degraded and wretched.”

“But perhaps, Mrs Massey, if the present owner should die, and as the wretched men you have been describing cannot succeed, you, or rather your son, may recover the property,” observed Ellen.

“I fear not,” answered the widow, with a sigh. “I do not understand legal matters, but the youngest brother might, I fancy, succeed in spite of his crimes, and without ample pecuniary means I believe that it would be impossible to regain the estate. I have long been reconciled to my lot, though I should be thankful could Owen avoid the necessity of going to sea, and enjoy a sufficient fortune to enable him to marry our dear Norah in the course of a year or two.”

“Now you have told me the particulars of this strange history, I shall not despair of success,” said Ellen. “The want of money must, at all events, not be a hindrance; there are, I am sure, those who would be ready to assist your son.”

Ellen sat on, readily listening to all the widow’s conversation; for, heartily sympathising with Norah, she was in no hurry to break in upon her and Owen’s tête-à-tête. However, the length of the shadows stretching across the lawn at last warned her that the evening was approaching, and she remembered that it would be disagreeable, if not dangerous, to be compelled to walk home in the dark. Norah, however, had not noted how time had gone by; but when she looked out of the window and saw that the sun was on the point of setting, she expressed her readiness to return home without delay. Ellen, wishing Mr Massey good-bye, and hoping that he would soon recover, hurried to the door, leaving Norah, who was putting on her cloak and hat, to follow and pay her parting adieux in the way she might think proper. Had Owen not been absolutely forbidden, in spite of his weakness he would have accompanied them—though Ellen laughed at the idea of there being any cause for apprehending danger during the short walk into the town.

Chapter Five.

Arrival of a Jersey privateer—An invitation sent to the officers—Norah and Ellen meet a stranger on their walk home—Attempt to carry off Norah—She is rescued—Fruitless search for the ruffians—Arrival of the captain and lieutenants of the privateer—The merchant’s house and grounds—A banquet—Captain Dupin requests the pleasure of a visit from his Waterford friends—A dance on board the privateer—An unpleasant surprise.

Just after the young ladies had set off on their walk to visit Mrs Massey, a Dungarvon hooker arrived at the quay, and her skipper brought the intelligence that a sloop of war had anchored that morning in the mouth of the harbour. She carried eighteen guns, for he had counted nine on a side; having boarded her to dispose of some of his fish, he was sure that he could not be mistaken. When he was more than half-way up the river, he added, the wind being light, a gig had passed him; but though he looked everywhere, he had not again seen her. He believed that she belonged to the sloop, as an officer was seated in the stern, and she had the appearance of a man-of-war’s boat; but of that he could not be certain.

Mr Ferris had invited a party to dinner, and as he always wished to pay attention to naval officers, he immediately despatched a letter by a fast rowing-boat, requesting the company of the commander and officers of the sloop at the intended banquet. Mr Ferris received a letter in reply, signed “Jean Dupin, commander of the Orestes, private ship of war,” observing that Mr Ferris had been misinformed as to the character of the vessel he had the honour to command, she not being a king’s ship, but belonging to Jersey, and the property of a firm with which he was probably well acquainted, Messrs Saint Croix and Cie; and he was unwilling to sail under false colours—but that if Mr Ferris still desired his company, he and his officers would have infinite pleasure in availing themselves of his hospitable invitation. Mr Ferris immediately sent back the boat, assuring Captain Dupin that it would afford him the greatest possible satisfaction to receive him, and any of his lieutenants and junior officers who might be able to accompany him.

“Ellen will be disappointed when she finds that the ship is not a man-of-war,” he said to himself. “She takes much interest in the navy; she saw a good specimen of the naval officer in that gentlemanly and pleasing young lieutenant, Norman Foley, who was occasionally at our house in Dublin when his ship lay off Kingstown, and she has consequently an idea that all naval officers are like him. However, many of the Jersey privateers are commanded and officered by gentlemen of good family in the island, and I doubt not that Captain Dupin will prove an agreeable addition to our party. I wish that Captain Tracy were well enough to be present; he and Captain Dupin might find that they were old acquaintances, and would, at all events, have many subjects in common to talk about.”

We must now return to Norah and Ellen. They hastened their steps, for the sun had set, and darkness was stealing over the landscape, and unless they hurried on they would scarcely have light sufficient to see their way through the narrow and dimly illuminated street, and might perhaps meet with drunken men who would cause them annoyance.

“I am pretty well known here, so that it is not likely any one will insult us; but it would be unpleasant to encounter strangers,” said Ellen. “I am very sorry, Norah, for it was my fault remaining so long listening to Mrs Massey’s dreadful accounts of the O’Harrall family. I was much interested, and I have taken it into my head that Mr Massey may be able to regain his ancestral property. You know I am somewhat romantic, and I should be so delighted to see you mistress of Tramore Castle.”

“I am afraid there is very little hope of that,” said Norah; “nor am I ambitious, but shall be content to enjoy with my dear Owen the limited fortune we shall be able to muster.”

They had just reached the most secluded part of the road, when they heard footsteps behind them; and Norah, looking round, saw a man following, his figure shrouded in a Spanish cloak, a broad-brimmed hat ornamented with a feather drawn down over his brow, partly concealing his countenance. The end of a scabbard which appeared beneath his cloak showed that he was a gentleman, while his firm though hurried step gave proof of what was of still more consequence, that he was perfectly sober. As he passed them he lifted his hat, an act which served rather to conceal further than to show his features. After going on a short distance he stopped; then, facing about, walked rapidly towards them.

“Miss Tracy,” he exclaimed, “I have been impelled by an irresistible power to endeavour to see you, and I am more fortunate than I expected. Will your fair friend favour me by going on a few paces before us, while I speak what I wish to reach no other ear but yours?”

“Who is this gentleman?” exclaimed Ellen. “Is it your wish that I should do as he requests?”

“Oh no, no! do not leave me on any account,” whispered Norah, tightly grasping Ellen’s arm. “Surely you must be under a mistake, sir, and take me for some one else,” she continued, turning to the stranger.

“Miss Tracy, your features, your voice, your figure, are all too indelibly impressed upon my mind,” he replied. “Do not you remember the last words I spoke to you ere we parted?”

Norah, on hearing this, was still more convinced than at first that the stranger was under a mistake. And yet the stranger had addressed her by name! Could he be out of his senses?

“Know you not that you have inspired the deepest and most devoted affection, which death alone can destroy?” he continued. “To meet you again I have gone through difficulties and dangers which would otherwise have appeared insuperable; and can you be so cold-hearted as to regard with indifference a love so ardent and true?”

His voice as he spoke had more of a tone of anger than affection in it.

“I must not listen to such language as this,” answered Norah, the idea of who the person was now flashing across her mind; “I beg that you will not stop my friend and me, as we are anxious to return home without delay.”

“I must and will be heard,” exclaimed the stranger, attempting to grasp Norah’s hand. “Come with me; I offer you a heart which loves you to desperation, and mine you must be. I have the means of enforcing my request—if your friend interferes, she must take the consequences, and will be compelled to accompany you.”

“You are mad, sir, to suppose for a moment that I would consent to such a proposal; let me and my friend go, I entreat you.”

“For your refusal I was prepared,” exclaimed the stranger, “but it will not avail you;” and putting a silver whistle to his mouth, he blew it shrilly. It was answered from a distance, and Ellen, looking in the direction from which the sound came, saw two mounted men, each with a led horse, approaching. Ellen now gave way to her fears, and uttered loud shrieks for help. Norah felt all her energies paralysed by the threatened act of violence, and could only cling to Ellen’s arm and murmur, “Don’t leave me! don’t leave me!”

A wall rather too high to be leaped over intervened between them and the horsemen. They had to make a circuit to reach a gate which opened into the road before they gained it. The rattle of wheels was heard, and loud shouts of laughter between snatches of song. Just then Ellen saw a line of cars, the horses at full speed, coming along the road; the stranger saw them too, and seizing Norah round the waist, endeavoured to drag her to the wall; but Ellen and she clung frantically to each other, Ellen again and again shrieking loudly for help. On came the cars; some men in seamen’s dresses sprang from the first, one of them shouting out, “Shure, it’s the young mistress! Be alive, and dale smartly with the outrageous thief of the world who’s dared to lay hands on her;” and, joined by a dozen or more men from the other cars, armed with stout shillelaghs, Dan Connor dashed forward at headlong speed. The stranger glanced round to see how far off their horses still were from him, and finding that they had not yet passed through the gate, and that all hope of carrying off Norah must be abandoned, vaulted over the wall and ran towards them. His companions, seeing what had occurred, hurried up to his assistance. Just as the party of seamen had got close upon his heels, he threw himself upon one of the led horses and galloped off, followed by the shouts and execrations of the seamen, who were, fortunately for him, without firearms.

“Shure, Miss Norah, jewel, you’re all safe now, and that mighty big blackguard, whoever he may be, will do you no harm,” exclaimed Dan. “If you and the young lady will just mount on the car, we’ll escort you safe into Waterford; and if he and a score of Rapparees like himself were to come back, we’d bate them all off before they could come near you.”

“Let us get up on the car, as the sailor advises us,” said Ellen; and she mounted and helped Norah up, when the seamen running on each side, they set off at a brisk pace, followed by the other cars.

“It’s at the wake of poor Pat Casey we’ve been, Miss Norah. He niver was himself after the wound he got when we fought the privateer—and shure, we were coming home at daybreak; but somehow or other, what with the potheen, and the friends we met, and a scrimmage or two, we made a long morning of it; and bedad, good luck it was, or we wouldn’t have come up in time to put that fellow to flight.”

Ellen, who had somewhat recovered from her alarm, assured Dan how thankful she felt to him and his shipmates and friends for the service they had rendered Norah and herself.

“Service, Misthress Ferris! it was the greatest pleasure I’ve had since I was born, and I only wish I’d the same every day of my life. What would Mr Massey have been after doing if that thundering villain had got you and Miss Norah upon his horses and galloped off through the country wid ye!—but he’d betther not be showing his face again in these parts, whoever he is,” answered Dan. “As soon as we’ve seen you both safe home, we’ll go in chase of him, and it will be hard if we don’t catch him, too.”

Norah did not say whom she suspected the ruffian to be who had attempted the outrage; indeed, she was far too nervous to speak, and it was not till, escorted by Dan and his friends, they arrived safely at home, that she mentioned her suspicions to Ellen. She begged her to make as light as possible of the matter, for fear of agitating Captain Tracy in a way which might be injurious to him in his present state of health. Still, the circumstance could not be altogether concealed from him. Abduction was at that time too common in Ireland for what had occurred to create much surprise. The only difficulty was to ascertain who the man could be, though it was generally believed that his intention was to carry off Miss Ferris, who was known to be an heiress. At that time there actually existed in the neighbourhood an association known as the Abduction Club, all the members of which had sworn to assist each other in carrying off such young ladies as either of them fixed upon. By means of their spies, they made themselves acquainted with the fortunes of every marriageable girl and the domestic arrangements of the family. Sometimes, when she had not been claimed by any particular member, they drew lots to whom she should belong, and the rest were then bound to assist the fortunate winner. No class of society, from the highest to the opulent farmer or tradesman, was exempt from the depredations of the associates. They themselves were mostly the younger sons or relations of families of some standing, who, looking upon commerce as beneath them, with too little education to succeed in the learned professions, if they could not obtain a commission in the army, spent their lives in idleness, and were known as squireens. Generally being able to borrow good horses from their rich friends, they rode about the country habited in red waistcoats lined with narrow gold or silver lace or fur, tight leather breeches, and top-boots; making themselves conspicuous at fairs, markets, races, and assizes, and in other places where people congregated. They excelled in athletic sports, especially in the game of hurling, when they took the lead among the young men of the peasant class who engaged in it, and thus became identified with them, and could on all occasions rely on their support. Though the crime of abduction was punishable with death, as the girls who were thus carried off were in most instances immediately married, few were found willing to prosecute their husbands. The law was consequently almost inoperative, and the abominable practice up to this day had continued unchecked.

Mr Ferris was of course highly indignant. He at once took steps to discover the offender, though, as he had not succeeded in his attempt, there was little probability that he would be captured, or if so, punished. The annoyance, also, to which his daughter and her friend must in future be subjected, from being unable to venture outside the garden without a strong guard, was provoking in the extreme; still, the daring characters of the men who were known to be combined for the purpose rendered it unsafe for the young ladies to go abroad unless thus protected.

Dan and Pompey, with the other seamen of the Ouzel Galley, and several friends who joined them, as soon as they had left Norah and Ellen safe at home, set off in chase of the ruffians, armed with such weapons as they could hastily obtain, in addition to the shillelaghs they had before possessed. Following in the direction they had seen the horsemen going, they made their way over all impediments, inquiring of every one they met, and hoping by perseverance to overtake them. They learnt, however, after proceeding a considerable distance, that the men had separated, one going off with the led horses in the direction of the mountains to the westward, another turning southward towards Tramore Bay, while the third followed a road which would conduct him to Passage, near the mouth of the river, whence he could cross into Wexford. The parties accordingly divided, but had not gone far when they lost all trace of the fugitives, and as Dan observed, “They might as well be looking for a needle in a bottle of hay, as hope to find the spalpeen.” Late at night they returned to Kingscourt House, the residence of Mr Ferris, to report the ill-success of their expedition.

“Bedad, your honour, we’ll be after keeping a sharp look-out on the fellows, and if any one of them shows his ugly face in the neighbourhood, we’ll be down upon him as quick as lightning,” said Dan.

“But if you don’t know the men—and from what I understand, you only saw their backs in the gloom—you will find a considerable difficulty in recognising them,” observed Mr Ferris, “and may chance to lay hands on the wrong persons.”

“Shure, your honour, we’ll ask them if they’re the right ones before we give them a taste of the shillelagh,” answered Dan.

“At all events, Connor, I wish you, and a dozen stout fellows you may pick out, to act as a guard at my house, to protect my daughter and her friend, should any yet more daring attempt be made to carry them off,” replied Mr Ferris.

“I’ll do that same with all the pleasure in life,” answered Dan, “though it may be a hard matter to keep our eyes open to-night, seeing we were waking Pat Casey till a late hour this morning, and then, after seeing him laid dacently under the turf, had to drink long life and success to his sperrit and a short stay in purgatory, where the praste told us he had gone—though, being a kind-hearted man, he’d do his best to pray him out of it.”

“I have no fear of any fresh attempt being made to-night, so you may all sleep soundly in your beds,” said Mr Ferris; “but I shall require you to-morrow, and for some time to come after that, while I remain at Waterford.”

In those days the dinner-hour, even in the houses of the opulent, was at two o’clock, and some time before that two well-manned boats, from the stern of which floated the British ensign, reached the quay at Waterford. Only three officers, however, stepped on shore, the captain and two others, whom he introduced as his lieutenants to Mr Ferris, who went down to meet him. All were dressed in uniforms closely resembling that of the British navy, for such privateersmen were wont to wear. Captain Dupin, who spoke with a slight French accent, as most Jersey men did at that period, was a fair, good-looking young man, with a somewhat short though well-knit figure, his countenance betoking courage and determination. His first lieutenant, whom he introduced as Mr Macarthy, was a man of a very different mould. His well-bronzed features were concealed by a large beard and moustache, while a black patch over one eye, and another down his cheek, showing that he had suffered in the fight, did not add to the attractiveness of his appearance.

“As he is a countryman of yours, he was anxious to avail himself of your invitation, though scarcely recovered from wounds he received is our last action with a French ship, which we captured after a determined resistance,” observed the captain. “He was shot through the mouth, which considerably impedes his speech; but he will be able notwithstanding to do justice to your good fare, as I have no doubt you will perceive.”

Mr Macarthy shook hands with Mr Ferris, and expressed his satisfaction at finding himself once more on his native soil.

“It is many a long year since I left the old country, and from that time till I landed a few months ago in Jersey I have been knocking about in distant seas,” said the lieutenant. “Although Ballyadare, in Sligo, is my native place, I have more than once in my younger days visited Waterford, and this is not the first time I have been on shore at your beautiful town. Faith, sir, it is a place to boast of; so fine a river, such magnificent quays, and that old tower I see there—I forget its name—where will you find the like?”

Mr Ferris, pleased with the compliment paid to his city, was ready to overlook the somewhat rough manner and exterior of his guest.

“Indeed, sir,” he said, “we are apt to boast of our virgin city and its quays, a mile long as you will perceive, at which sixty sail of vessels can unload at a time; of our dry dock, lately built by our townsman Mr Congreve; of our conduits, which supply both our houses and the shipping with water; of the privileges enjoyed by our citizens; and of our militia, mustering five hundred men, and capable of giving a good account of any enemy who may dare to invade our shores. You will, I hope, meet some of the officers at dinner to-day.”

“By my soul, it is a city you may well be proud of,” answered the lieutenant; “and it is to be hoped that no enemy for their own sakes will ever venture within gunshot of your redoubtable militia.”

The second lieutenant was introduced as a young Jersey man, Mr Latrobe. He spoke with more French accent than his chief, who accounted for his so doing by remarking that he had not come to sea till he was nearly grown up, and had during peace time served on board a French merchant vessel. “We Jersey men,” he added, “though our sympathies are thoroughly English, yet retain, as you know, the language and customs of our Breton ancestors.”

“Come, gentlemen, I must conduct you to my humble residence,” said Mr Ferris, and, leading his guests up Hanover Street, so called by the loyal inhabitants in compliment to the reigning royal family, they entered King Street, towards the west end of which was situated Mr Ferris’s house, overlooking the river. On reaching the house, as there was time to spare, Mr Ferris took them round his grounds, of which they were loud in their compliments. So pleased did they declare themselves that they begged to go round them a second time, when the lieutenant might have been seen narrowly observing the localities. As they paced round the outer circuit on their walk, they met Ellen and Norah, to whom of course Mr Ferris introduced his guests. The officers bowed, and Captain Dupin, addressing Ellen, expressed his admiration of her beautiful garden and the taste with which it was laid out.

“Surely I need not inquire whether you were the chief designer of these lovely terraces and sparkling fountains, and that picturesque rockwork,” said the captain, bowing as he spoke.

“No, I can claim no merit for the beauties you admire,” answered Ellen; “my father purchased the property from the former owner. I should have liked it better had it been left more to nature.”

“Ah, if you could see Jersey! How you would delight in my own native island!” exclaimed Captain Dupin; “it contains just the scenery you would appreciate.”

“I can assure you that in Ireland we have most romantic and beautiful scenery,” answered Ellen; “and in the county of Kerry are the lovely Lakes of Killarney, such as I believe all strangers consider the most romantic in the world.”

“Ah, I know nothing of Ireland, though I may hope some day to be better acquainted with it,” said the captain.

The other two stood aloof, as if they did not consider themselves of sufficient consequence to address the young ladies to whom their commander was speaking. Ellen, offering to show Captain Dupin the aviary, led the way along the terrace. Norah followed by herself, leaving the two lieutenants in conversation with Mr Ferris. The elder of the two after a little time stepped forward, and Norah, looking round, found him walking by her side.

“Is this spot as attractive as some of the scenes you have visited in the West Indies, Miss Tracy?” he asked, speaking low.

Norah started as she heard the voice; but looking at the speaker, whose countenance she failed to recognise, she asked, “How do you know that I have been in the West Indies, Mr Macarthy?”

“I heard from a seaman who came on board the Orestes that you had accompanied your father on board the Ouzel Galley,” he answered quietly. “Irishmen are wonderfully communicative, you know. It is an unusual thing for young ladies to take such a voyage in time of war.”

“I sailed before war had broken out, or I am very sure my father would not have taken me,” she replied, banishing the idea which had flashed across her mind. “He probably heard from the seaman that a young lady was staying with Miss Ferris, and thus guessed who I was,” she thought to herself.

After again going round the grounds, the party returned to the house, where the other guests had begun to assemble. Captain Dupin and his officers were duly introduced and cordially welcomed to Waterford. Among others, Lieutenant Vinoy was brought up by the host.

“Though you gentlemen would look upon each other as enemies were you to meet on the ocean, here, I trust, you will be friends,” said Mr Ferris. The officers bowed politely.

“I ave moche plaisir to meet Monsieur le Capitaine Dupin in dis hospitable maison,” said the French lieutenant; “if ve evare encounter vis one anodare on de sea, den ve fight like des braves hommes—n’est-ce pas, Monsieur le Capitaine?”

“I could not desire a greater honour,” answered the Jersey man. “Nor, by my faith, could I,” exclaimed the first lieutenant of the Orestes.

“Ah, I moche fear I remain prisonare here to do end of de war,” sighed Monsieur Vinoy; “but, ma foi, I am too happy in dis charmante ville vid dese aimable young ladies to vish to leave. It was de fortune de la guerre vich brought me here, and I vill not complain.”

“You might certainly have been much worse off,” observed Captain Dupin. “I have no doubt you fought your ship, like a brave man, till all hope of victory was gone.”

“Ve vill not talk of dat,” answered the lieutenant, turning away, probably not quite relishing the remark, recollecting how he had been caught napping.

Three of the officers of the city militia were next introduced to the naval guests. Judged by their uniform, they were remarkably fine fellows, for their coats were blue, with scarlet linings and gilt buttons, their waistcoats and breeches being also of scarlet, and their hats richly adorned with gold lace. They had evidently, as was natural, a decidedly good opinion of themselves, and were somewhat inclined to look down upon the more simply dressed tars. The first lieutenant of the Orestes eyed them askance from under his shaggy eyebrows, apparently regarding them, for some reason or other, with no friendly feeling. After exchanging salutations, he at once turned aside and addressed himself to some of the civilians.

“We are expecting a king’s ship every day to visit our harbour—the Champion, 18-gun sloop of war, Commander Olding,” observed one of the gentlemen. “Contrary winds may have detained her, or perhaps she has fallen in with a Frenchman; and I will venture to say, if such is the case, that she has taken him, for the navy does not possess a more gallant and resolute officer than my friend.”

Captain Dupin involuntarily shrugged his shoulders and bowed. “I have no doubt of the gallantry of the officers of the Royal Navy,” he observed. An opportunity occurring, he stepped back and spoke a few words to his two lieutenants. The younger of the two looked somewhat agitated; though the elder, whatever thoughts were passing in his mind, retained a perfect composure. He managed to hand in Norah to dinner, and to obtain a seat by her side. He spoke in a low voice, which once or twice, it seemed to her, was unnatural; but he accounted for it as his commander had done to Mr Ferris, by saying that he had received a wound in his mouth. He described many strange places and scenes he had visited, and appeared, notwithstanding the time he had been absent from his native country, to be well acquainted with various parts of Ireland. Altogether, he succeeded in making Norah think him an agreeable person, although ill-favoured and rather rough in his manner. Captain Dupin was equally successful in gaining the good opinion of Ellen, near whom he sat; while he contrived at the same time to ingratiate himself, by his lively conversation and the compliments he paid to Ireland, with most of the guests—and all agreed that he was superior to most of the privateer officers they had met.

The feast need not be described; the viands were in abundance, and claret, followed by whisky punch, flowed freely. A watchful observer would have discovered that neither of the officers drank more than they could help, though they were compelled to take no small quantity, simply in accepting the pledges they received in turn from the rest of the guests. The usual Orange toasts were drunk—especially the chief one, “The glorious and immortal memory!” the whole party standing, although they did not, as was occasionally done, shiver their glasses on the ground—the principal inhabitants of Waterford being great admirers of William of Orange. Soon after this the ladies retired. The officers, to the surprise of the other guests, rose to take their leave, and some were inclined to insist on their stopping.

“It is altogether contra bonos mores, gentlemen, to leave us at this hour with only half a cargo on board,” exclaimed Mr Peter Vashan, one of the sheriffs of the city; “we shall suspect you of being no true men. Sit down and help us to finish another dozen of claret.”

Similar expressions were uttered by others. Captain Dupin was firm, even though he saw angry and contemptuous glances cast on them by some of those whose rule of good fellowship he was about to infringe.

“To tell you the truth, gentlemen,” he said, “I cannot be longer absent with my chief officers from the ship. You know that privateersmen are not the most orderly of characters; I am uncertain how my fellows may behave during my absence, though I can answer for their good conduct when I am among them. Before I left the ship I gave directions to have a slight entertainment provided, and I invite our generous host, with all who favour me with their company, to bring their wives and families with them. The evening is fine, and the moon will be up to light you on your return; and, as an inducement to some who have an eye to business, I may add that we have on board part of the cargo of the last prize we took, rich silks and brocades, and other manufactures of France, and as I am in no hurry to go into port, I shall be glad to dispose of them on moderate terms; while I am anxious to purchase provisions and stores, which I am sure your town will supply of the best quality.”

The captain, as he spoke, looked round on the party, and was perfectly satisfied that his invitation would be accepted, and that he would be able to obtain whatever he required for his ship. No further effort was made to detain him; even Mr Ferris promised to come, with his daughter and her friend, and most of the other gentlemen expressed their readiness to take the ladies of their families on board. Captain Dupin and his two lieutenants hurried down to their boats, which were in waiting at the quay, the crews having, according to orders, not even landed or held any communication with the people on shore, notwithstanding the pressing invitations they had received from the tavern-keepers on the quay.

“Begorra, I never knew a Jersey man who couldn’t spake dacent English,” exclaimed one of the men, who had been trying to induce the sailors to land. “Their captain may be what he says he is; but, shure, it’s strange for sailors to come into harbour and not to look out for a dhrop of the crathur.”

Similar remarks were made by others, though they ceased when the captain and his officers appeared and hailed the boats, which came to the shore and took them in. They immediately pulled down the river as fast as the crews could lay their backs to the oars. This proceeding began to excite the suspicions of the people on the quays, but they were once more lulled when it was known that they had gone on board to prepare for the reception of visitors from the shore.

When Norah heard of the invitation, she declined accepting it on the plea that her father required her attendance, which indeed was the truth, as he was more unwell than he had been for some days. Having also lately been at sea, to her there was no novelty in a visit to a ship; besides which, she had not entirely recovered from the agitation she had suffered the previous evening. Ellen would have remained to keep her company, pleased though she was at the thought of visiting a man-of-war; but her father wished to have her with him, as several ladies, wives and daughters of the sheriffs and aldermen, were going. The party, consisting of nearly thirty ladies and gentlemen, soon assembled at the quay. Their respective boats having been got in readiness, with civic and private flags flying, the little flotilla proceeded at a rapid rate down the river, the tide being in their favour.

Mr Ferris had invited Lieutenant Vinoy, who had won the good opinion of his captors by his quiet behaviour and amiable manners, to accompany the party. He would probably like to see a British ship of war, and of course there was no fear of his being detained on board. The lieutenant at first hesitated, but finally accepted the invitation, and accordingly formed one of the party.

The boats made good way, and though the pull was a long one, they soon came in sight of the privateer, which lay in mid-channel.

“Why, that craft has a spring on her cable,” observed Captain O’Brien, who had accompanied Mr Ferris; “her topsails are loose, as if she was ready to put to sea at a moment’s notice.”

“So probably she would, should she catch sight of a Frenchman in the offing,” observed Mr Ferris; “the enemy’s merchant vessels do not hesitate to stand along this coast, as we have so seldom a man-of-war on the look-out for them. Captain Dupin is of course aware of that, and was consequently in a hurry to get us to pay him a visit.”

The ex-merchant captain said nothing, but still kept examining the Orestes with a critical eye. “She may be a Jersey privateer, but she has a French cut about her from her truck downwards,” he muttered to himself.

The leading boats went alongside, and the officers were seen standing ready to assist the ladies on deck. The other boats followed, and the whole party were soon on board. Hurried arrangements had been made for their reception; the after-part of the main-deck was roofed in with flags, and supper-tables had been rigged on either side, already spread with white cloths, on which several servants were placing dishes of all sorts, while a band of musicians began to play lively airs.

“I must not boast of our music,” said the captain, bowing to the ladies; “but finding that some of my men could play on various instruments, I formed them into a band, and perhaps the young ladies may be inclined to walk a minuet or to try a country-dance.”

No young ladies of the party were likely to decline such an offer. The captain himself led out Ellen, and two or three of his officers, with Lieutenant Vinoy and some of the young gentlemen from the shore, followed his example. The minuet being voted slow, a country-dance quickly succeeded it. The young ladies who had the officers of the ship for their partners were struck by their extraordinary taciturnity; for, with the exception of the young lieutenant who had visited the shore, not one of them spoke a word. Captain Dupin remarked that they were rough fellows, little accustomed to the society of ladies, and were too bashful to speak—though Miss Kathleen O’Rourke, one of the belles of the party, observed that they seemed anything but bashful from their looks.

“Ah, they are all more accustomed to French; indeed, scarcely one of my crew knows a word of English,” said the captain.

While the younger members of the party were dancing away on deck, the captain, requesting another gentleman to take his place, invited the merchants who had honoured him by a visit to come below into his cabin, where they found an elegant supper spread, with an abundance of sparkling wines. He begged them to be seated, remarking that the dancers would be entertained on deck, and would prefer the fresh air to the somewhat confined atmosphere of the cabin.

“We older hands are seasoned, and the quiet we can here enjoy is more to our taste,” he said. The party at once set to; the wine flowed freely, and all declared they had never tasted finer claret or Burgundy. The captain apologised for having only French wines on board, but remarked that he liked to have them of the best. After some time, one of the gentlemen reminded him that they had come on business, and begged to see samples of the goods he had to dispose of. Others expressed the same wish.

“As you desire it, gentlemen, I will have them brought,” replied Captain Dupin; and he spoke in French to one of the people in attendance, who in a short time returned, accompanied by two other persons bringing in numerous parcels and cases, pieces of cloth, satin and silk. The captain called for a book, and read out the quantities of each, requesting his guests in the mean time to examine them.

“They are sold in good faith, and I believe you will not be disappointed,” he observed. “Now, gentlemen,” he continued, “I am in want of a considerable amount of fresh provisions and stores for my ship, and with which I feel sure you will be ready to supply me. I have, however, to remark that I require them immediately, and I shall feel obliged to you if you will send on shore and order them to be brought off without delay. From among so many honourable merchants I have no doubt that I can be speedily provided with the whole amount.”

“Will you furnish us with a list of your wants?” asked Mr Ferris, “and I and my friends will gladly send them on board as soon as we return on shore.”

“I do not mistrust your good intentions,” answered Captain Dupin, “but as time is precious to me, and I should be sorry to lose you, I must request you to despatch orders to your managers and clerks to send off the stores while you remain on board.”

“I thought so!” exclaimed the old sea-captain, bringing his fist down on the table. “What fools we were to be so caught! May I ask you, Captain Dupin, how long you have carried the British ensign at your peak?”

“Since I came in sight of Waterford harbour,” answered Captain Dupin. “To confess the truth, I have practised a slight ruse on you; but be assured that I would not cause you or your friends, who are now so happily amusing themselves on deck, the slightest annoyance beyond the detention of a few hours—indeed, only until the stores you send for arrive.”

“Is this vessel, then, not a Jersey privateer, as we were led to suppose?” asked Mr Ferris, with some little trepidation in his voice.

“No, sir; I must own that she is the Coquille, belonging to Dunkirk, and that I am Captain Thurot, of whom you may possibly have heard,” answered the captain.

“Thurot! the most daring smuggler that ever crossed the Channel,” whispered Captain O’Brien, in a low voice, to his neighbour; “we are caught like rats in a trap. He is as cunning as he is daring, and will keep us in durance till he gets what he wants.”

Chapter Six.

Captain Thurot demands a supply of provisions—The merchants send, for them—Captain Thurot’s history—The discovery—Most of the guests allowed to take their departure—Mr Ferris, with Ellen and Captain O’Brien, remain as hostages—The Champion appears in the offing—Captain Thurot allows the hostages to go on shore in the dinghy.

The astonishment and dismay of the worthy burghers of Waterford, who had thus been so unsuspectingly entrapped on board the French privateer, can better be imagined than described. “I am surprised, Captain Thurot, that since you are disposed to act so courteously towards us, you did not when on shore mention your wish, to have the stores sent on board, when I should have had no hesitation in procuring them for you,” said Mr Ferris.

“My good sir, I would have done so, but I thought it more than probable that the stores would be stepped on their passage, and therefore, to make sure of getting them, I adopted my present plan,” replied Captain Thurot; “besides which, I have enjoyed the opportunity of returning your hospitality, though in a very inadequate manner, I must confess. I have likewise recovered one of my officers, who, as he came on board with your consent, will not break his parole by remaining. I have also to request that you will send the men captured by the Ouzel Galley in exchange for your people, who will be detained on board till their arrival.”

“But, sir,” exclaimed Captain O’Brien, who was by this time fuming with rage, “how are we to return to Waterford without hands to man our boats?”

“Most of the young gentlemen on deck can pull, as I have no doubt can some of you, my friends,” answered Captain Thurot; “and you may land at Passage, from whence you can send over to Waterford for conveyances for the ladies, as we should be sorry to detain them against their will—though we hope that they will continue on board and keep up the dance for some hours to come; it would be a pity to interfere with their amusement by telling them of the little ruse which we have been under the necessity of playing.”

Mr Ferris and the other gentlemen consulted as to what was to be done. One thing was very certain, that they could not help themselves; and they finally agreed to send off privately for the stores and provisions which had been demanded without letting those on deck know of what had occurred. Writing materials were produced; each merchant was politely requested to send for what he could supply.

“Be under no apprehension of any loss,” said Captain Thurot; “I promise to pay liberally for all the stores I may receive. Though a privateer, I am not a robber; indeed, being your countryman, and loving Ireland as the home of my ancestors, I should be sorry to treat any of you with want of courtesy.”

“A countryman of ours!” exclaimed Mr Ferris, looking up.

“Yes, sir,” answered the captain. “I took the name of Thurot from my mother; my grandfather’s name was O’Farrel—and proud I am of a name which has never been disgraced. But I must not interrupt you, gentlemen. Go on with your writing; I will by-and-by, if you wish it, entertain you with my history. I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

The merchants resumed their pens, and having consulted together, their orders were soon made out and despatched by one of the boats which had brought them on board. In the mean time the party on deck were footing it away right merrily, entirely ignorant of what had been taking place below; the officers of militia, notwithstanding their gay uniforms, finding themselves eclipsed by the superior terpsichorean attainments of the Frenchmen. Lieutenant Vinoy seemed in high spirit, and efficiently performed the office of master of the ceremonies, apparently feeling himself quite at home. Some of the merchants, having finished their despatches, were about to go on deck.

“Stay, gentlemen,” exclaimed the captain; “we will discuss a few more bottles of claret first. We will not interrupt the amusements of the young people by letting them know the character of my ship, for, depend on it, they will be treated with all due courtesy, and will not, I trust, regret having come on board.”

The claret, which had been pronounced first-rate, was a temptation not to be resisted, and the guests, who had risen, making a virtue of necessity, resumed their seats, prepared to do justice to as many bottles as might be placed before them.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Captain Thurot, “you shall, if it is your desire, hear my history; it will serve to occupy some of the time till the return of the boat.”

“By all means, captain; we shall be glad to have an account of the life of one whom none of us are likely to forget in a hurry,” said Mr Ferris. Others also expressed the same wish.

The captain laughed. “It is pleasant to feel that there is no risk of being forgotten by one’s friends,” he observed; “and you will be still less likely to do so when I have narrated a few of the incidents of my life. I may remark that some of my acts may not be looked upon by you in the same light as that in which I regard them. I must be judged by a different code to yours. I have never owed allegiance to your sovereign, and therefore you must not blame me for breaking his revenue laws in the way which I shall have to tell you I have done. However, to my history. My grandfather, Captain O’Farrel, was an officer in the army of King James the Second, and fought at the battle of the Boyne, so fatal to the royal cause. When the king was compelled to leave the country and retire to France, Captain O’Farrel was among the loyal gentlemen who followed his fortunes and accompanied him to Saint Germain. Here my grandfather, having been appointed one of the gentlemen of the king’s household, met with Mademoiselle Thurot, a beautiful and accomplished young lady of ancient lineage, whose uncle, with whom she lived, was at that time a member of the parliament of Paris. A penniless adventurer, as Captain O’Farrel was regarded, was looked upon with distrust by the young lady’s relatives, who endeavoured to keep him at a distance. Love scorns difficulties, especially when burning in the breast of an Irishman, and that Irishman a handsome, dashing officer who has seen service. The captain carried off the young lady, and she became his wife. So angry were her uncle and her other wealthy relations in Paris that they discarded her, refusing to contribute a sou to her support. My grandfather had alone the stipend he received from his royal master, and when King James died he was left to his own resources—they were small indeed. He tried by various means to make an income, but the natives had in every way the advantage of him; and at last, with his young wife, and the remnant of his property contained in a valise, he retired to Boulogne, in the hope that some of his wife’s relatives who resided in that town would have larger bowels of compassion than those he had left in the city. The once gay and high-spirited officer found himself mistaken: they could not give any encouragement to one who had set so bad an example to the younger members of their families; should they support Madame O’Farrel, their own daughters might be throwing themselves away on some of the Irish adventurers, with whom the country swarmed, and expect to be provided with houses and establishments.

“My poor grandfather, almost broken-hearted, was on the point of starvation, when he received a small pension allowed by the Queen of France to all those who had faithfully served their exiled sovereign. Hard service, wounds, and disappointment soon terminated his life; and three months after he had been laid in his grave my father was born—fatherless before he saw the light—and soon became motherless, for Madame O’Farrel survived her husband scarcely a year. The destitute condition of the orphan at length moved the compassion of some of his relatives of the Thurot family, who adopted him and brought him up under their own name. He was intended for the law, and studied for some years; but he had Irish blood coursing through his veins, and, under the expectation of obtaining a fortune with a wife, he fell in love and married. He was, however, disappointed in his hopes; but the lady soon dying, gave him an opportunity of again trying the lottery of matrimony. His second wife was Mademoiselle Picard, the daughter of a wine-merchant, or, as some people might have called him, a vintner; but if, as I hope was the case, he sold good wines, why should I be ashamed of him? My father’s second wife was my mother; but at the moment of my birth my father was deprived of her by death, and I lost the advantage of being nursed by a tender parent. My father was heartbroken, and when he looked at me, a poor frail infant, he believed that I should not survive. He had two duties to perform—to have my mother buried, and to carry me to the baptismal font. While the tears were streaming from his eyes, as he held me in his arms, a dignified and handsomely dressed lady approached, and, having inquired and heard the cause of his grief, offered herself as sponsor to the motherless child. She was Madame Tallard, a lady of high rank and fortune—it being the custom of the country for ladies of distinction to offer themselves at that period of the year as sponsors for the children of the poorer classes. Madame Tallard did more; she sent my father a present for me, and desired that should I survive till her return I might be presented to her. She was as good as her word, and not only contributed to the expenses of my education, but I received much kindness from her and her family. When I was about fifteen, a stranger called on my father, and hearing whose son he was, announced that his name was O’Farrel, and claimed relationship. He stated that he was the commander of an Irish trader, and so worked upon my father and me by the account of the success of his voyages, that he stirred up in my heart a strong desire to join him in his enterprises. As our cousin promised to introduce me to various members of the O’Farrel family, who were, he said, flourishing in Connaught, and would be certain to welcome me cordially, my father, seeing also that there was but little chance of my pushing my fortune in France, consented to my going; but as I at that time could not speak a word of English, I should have had considerable difficulty in making myself understood by my relatives or in understanding them.

“My Irish cousin having fitted me out, I set sail with him for Limerick; but I found him wonderfully addicted to the whisky bottle, and being also of a harsh and tyrannical disposition, I soon quarrelled with him. Instead of proceeding direct to Limerick, we put in to the Isle of Man, where, not wishing to remain longer with my cousin, I took the liberty of deserting the vessel, and, running away inland, I hid myself in the barn of a farmhouse till I thought she would have sailed. On coming out of my place of concealment, the first person I met was the owner of the property. He addressed me in English, of which language I could not, as I have said, then understand a word. On my telling him in French that the vessel to which I belonged had sailed away without me, he spoke to me in my native tongue, and asked if I was hungry—for I suppose I looked so. I replied that I was, and should be thankful for a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. He laughed and said that wine was not the liquor of the country, but that, if I would accompany him, he would give me some bread and cheese and beer. I did not refuse his offer—and, ma foi, very excellent I found his viands. I asked him if he had anything for me to do, as I should be glad to serve him in return for his hospitality. He laughed again, telling me that I was a sharp boy, and that, if I wished it, he would take me into his employment. He did so, when I found that he was the owner of several luggers which ran between France and the English and Irish coasts to land contraband goods. After I had remained on shore for some time, he asked me if I would like to take a trip to sea. I was perfectly ready to do as he proposed, and the next day I went on board one of his vessels. We were never idle; sometimes bringing cargoes from France to the Isle of Man, and at others running the goods across from France to Ireland. I thus gained a fair knowledge of the trade. My employer was pleased with me, and after I had served him for some time he sent me over to Carlingford, where I remained for a year managing his business, which was to dispose of the goods landed from the luggers. It was here that, by constantly associating with the people of the country, and seldom meeting Frenchmen, I learned to speak English with considerable fluency. On my return to the Isle of Man I resolved to put into execution an idea I had long entertained, of discovering my paternal relations. On telling my employer, he advised me, should I fail in my object, to come back to him without delay. Finding a vessel bound for Dublin, I took my passage on board her. Great was my disappointment on my arrival to discover that, although there was no end of O’Farrels, none of them would own me or acknowledge themselves related to the ci-devant captain of King James’s army. Still, I was not to be beaten, and with a dozen shillings in my pocket I set off for Galway, where I heard that some of my family resided. I was not disowned—for the reason that I could find no one to disown me—and with my last shilling gone, I returned, footsore and weary, to Dublin.

“Well, gentlemen, I was now in an unfortunate plight, when I had the good luck to meet with the French valet of a certain noble lord whose name I will not mention. He was pleased to fall in with a person who could speak the language of la belle France, and on hearing that I was of gentle birth, he offered to obtain for me the situation of my lord’s page. It suited my fancy, and, according to my notion, there was nothing in it derogatory; so I accepted his offer, and for two years enjoyed a pleasant and easy life—especially as her ladyship’s waiting-woman was a very amiable and agreeable person. An unfortunate circumstance brought my connection with the family to a close, and I was compelled to take service with a noble earl whose residence was on the sea-coast of Antrim. I accompanied the earl on his shooting excursions, more as a companion than as a servant; but he was frequently absent from home, and I should have found the place very triste had I not fallen in with some of my old smuggling acquaintances. With them I occasionally made trips, to keep up my knowledge of the sea, and by their means I was able to supply my friends with pieces of Indian stuff, a few yards of muslin, or tea, or any other articles in request. As many other persons wished to possess these things, and were willing to pay for them, I commenced a regular commerce, which quickly filled my pockets with gold pieces. Leaving the earl’s service, in which I could not conscientiously remain, I again took regularly to the sea, and having so many friends along the coast, I was able without difficulty to dispose of my cargoes. A lady of some consideration in the county was one of my chief purchasers. Some one giving information to the officers of excise that her house was full of smuggled goods, it was searched, and they were discovered, when I was accused of having brought them over. The officers accordingly laid their plans to entrap me. I had come across from the Isle of Man with three other boats in company; they were seized, but I managed to make my escape, and sailed over to the coast of Scotland. Here we landed our cargo, which we hid in a cave—but how to sell it now that we had got it safely on shore was the question. I proposed that three of us should assume the character of pedlars, and dispose of it piecemeal throughout the country. My plan was adopted; a pleasant time I had of it, travelling from place to place and visiting the lord’s castle and the farmer’s cottage. So successful were we that my share amounted to a hundred and fifty pounds. With this sum in my pocket I travelled across to Edinburgh, where, dressing myself as a gentleman, I took lodgings, intending after seeing the city and enjoying myself for a brief space to return to France. I happened, however, to meet a Frenchman long settled in Edinburgh, and the owner of several vessels which ran between Leith and London. Happening to require a master for one of these vessels, he asked if I would take charge of her. To this I agreed, and carried her safely into the Thames; but, unhappily, a fire breaking out in a large warehouse near which she was moored, she with several other vessels was burnt, and I with some difficulty escaped on shore with the property I possessed. Assuming my Irish name, I took lodgings in Carey Street, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, for the sake of being near a Mr Donnell, an Irish gentleman famous for his knowledge of mathematics, from whom I received instruction in navigation. Through his recommendation I obtained the command of a vessel, in which I made frequent trips backwards and forwards between the English and French coasts, greatly increasing my nautical knowledge and adding largely to my circle of friends. I conceived a warm admiration for the English, for though they have their faults, they are a brave and generous people, and my wish on all occasions has been to acknowledge their bravery and generosity. It was while I was in London that I used to visit a club held every Monday evening in the Seven Dials, and frequented almost exclusively by foreigners, mostly Frenchmen. One evening, after they had imbibed more than their usual quantity of wine, some of them began to abuse the English and Irish, speaking of them in the most contemptuous manner. I listened without uttering a word for some time, till my patience gradually evaporated, when, jumping up, I seized the two persons seated close to me by their noses, and, holding them fast, dragged them to the door, and then kicking them out, bolted it behind them. Returning to my seat, I said quietly, ‘Come, gentlemen, fill your glasses and let us change the subject.’ Not one of the rest uttered a word, or ventured again to speak ill of the nation among whom we were living.

“I shortly after this obtained the command of a vessel which ran between Dunkirk and London, occasionally putting part of our cargo on shore in any convenient spot where our agents were ready to receive it without troubling the revenue. For some years I carried on a free trade between various French ports and the English coast, my chief place of residence being London, where I had to go to settle my accounts; and then, wishing once more to see my father, I went to Boulogne, where he still lived. I was now, in consequence of my successful voyages, looked upon as the king of the smugglers. I was proud of the title—but pride is often, as you know, doomed to have a fall. I may venture to say that during that period I did not import and export less than twenty thousand pounds’ worth of goods every year. It happened, however, that the French Government did not quite approve of my proceedings, and the president of the province, who happened to be the son of my old friend, Madame Tallard, received orders to put a stop to our commerce. Monsieur Tallard had been my friend and playmate in our youth, but duty compelled him to be vigilant, and I and several of my associates were arrested. Some of them were hanged, but through his interference my life was spared, though I was thrown into prison, where I languished for many a long day. At length, however, the French Government requiring the services of persons well acquainted with the English coast, I was sent for to Paris, where I was desired to give such information as I possessed. I now expected to obtain my liberty, but, instead of that, those official gentlemen considered it prudent to keep me shut up till they wanted me. My friend Monsieur Tallard again interfered, and I was suddenly transferred from prison to the command of a fine sloop of war. It was a pleasant change, I can assure you, gentlemen; but the intention of invading England having been abandoned by the Government, I found that my ship was not likely to be employed. I accordingly obtained leave to resign my commission, and to take the command of the Coquille privateer, the ship on board which I have had the pleasure of receiving you as my guests.”

Whatever might have been the opinion held by the Irish merchants as to the career of their host, they did not think fit to express them.

“I congratulate you, Captain Thurot, on having at length attained a position suited to your courage and talents,” said Mr Ferris; “and as you have thought fit to play a trick on us, we have to thank you for the courteous way in which you have carried it out. I hope your wants will be supplied, and that we shall stand exonerated with our Government for having furnished an enemy with stores.”

“I will give you a certificate to the effect that you are under compulsion,” said the captain; “and if you in any way suffer, I will do my best to make good the loss.”

“That would be a difficult matter,” observed Captain O’Brien, “though I hope that our known loyalty will prevent our being subject to any unjust suspicions. Now, gentlemen,” he continued, turning to friends, “we should be wishing our entertainer farewell, or we shall lose the flood.”

The party rose. “I am sorry that, if you do go, you will yourselves have to pull the boats up the river, unless some of you gentlemen and Mr Ferris like to remain as hostages instead of your men,” said Captain Thurot. “Pray understand that I do not doubt the word of any one of you, but were I to allow all to return, the authorities on shore might not consider themselves bound by your promises, and might withhold the stores I require, as well as the men, I am somewhat anxious also about my first lieutenant, who remained on shore about some business of his own. I will not, however, make you answerable for him, unless he is taken prisoner, and then I shall expect you to return him safe on board; and I must have a promise from you that you will do so. Perhaps, in order to induce those same authorities, who are collectively at times somewhat stubborn, to act more promptly, it might be convenient if Mr Ferris and his daughter and you, Captain O’Brien, would consent to remain on board my ship until my people are sent back. Monsieur Vinoy came on board with your full sanction, so that I consider myself at liberty to detain him. In the case of Mr Ferris and Captain O’Brien complying with my wish, you can take your men to row the boats up the river. The plan will, I should think, greatly facilitate matters.”

“Not a bad plan,” exclaimed two or three of the other gentlemen who were to obtain their liberty. “Ferris, you will not object to remain? nor you, O’Brien? Without our men we shall be hours getting up to Waterford.”

Mr Ferris was always ready to sacrifice himself for the public good, though he would have preferred returning home.

“I must hear what my daughter says on the subject,” he answered; “I will not detain her against her wish. At the same time, having perfect confidence in the honour of Captain Thurot, I am ready to remain on board, in order, my friends, to save you and your families from inconvenience or anxiety.”

“In that case, so am I,” exclaimed Captain O’Brien. “I had my suspicions from the first that all was not right, and I deserve some punishment for allowing myself and you to be entrapped.”

“Very kind!”

“Very generous!”

“Very public-spirited!” cried the other gentlemen, who were eager to get out of the scrape as soon as possible. It became necessary at last to let the party on deck know the true state of the case, and to desire them to prepare for their departure. Some would not even now believe that they had been deceived; others were very indignant. The militia officers pulled their moustaches, swearing that they would return with their men and capture the pirate, although they could not help acknowledging that they had been politely treated by the Frenchmen. Ellen was perfectly ready to remain with her father; she had a thorough confidence in sailors of every nation, and as it now wanted but two or three hours only to daylight, she could have the enjoyment of a row up the river in the morning instead of during the night. She sent a message to Norah begging that she would not be anxious on her account.

Nothing could exceed the politeness of Captain Thurot and his officers as they handed their visitors into the boats, now manned by their proper crews, who swore that the Jersey men were broths of boys, and it was just a pity that they couldn’t speak a little better Irish. Though still able to pull, the boatmen gave undoubted proofs that they had not been stinted in their liquor.

“Now, bhoys,” cried one of the men, standing up and pulling off his hat, “three cheers for the Jerseyman, and may good luck go with her on her cruise—hip! hip! hurrah!” and their voices sounded far and wide across the waters of the harbour. The boats were soon lost to sight in the darkness. Mr Ferris and Ellen, with Captain O’Brien, having stood watching them to the last, Lieutenant Vinoy drew near and expressed a hope that Mr Ferris would not accuse him of breaking his parole. “For had I done so, I should not have been worthy of addressing you,” he remarked.

“Certainly not, my friend,” said Mr Ferris; “we brought you on board, and your captain tells me that he has detained you.”

“Ah, that is indeed a satisfaction,” exclaimed the lieutenant. “I may now give a message from the captain, who begs that you will take possession of his cabin, which is entirely at your service; you must consider it yours till the return of the boats with our men. They will soon, I hope, for your sakes, make their appearance.”

Mr Ferris felt satisfied at having sacrificed himself for the benefit of his friends. Not that he experienced the slightest apprehension of having to suffer any inconvenience. Ellen declared that she liked the fun, and only hoped that Norah would not be anxious about her. Still the time went by; the grey dawn was breaking, and no boats had appeared. Captain O’Brien, who was much more fidgety than his friend, frequently went on deck to take a look-out. Ellen, who was reclining on a sofa, had fallen asleep, while her father sat by her side. A stream of bright light coming through the cabin windows awoke her. Just then Captain O’Brien came down.

“By my faith, I believe our friend is going to carry us off to sea!” he exclaimed; “I suspected there was something in the wind, and, going aloft, I discovered a large ship in the offing; so did the Frenchmen, and they immediately commenced hauling on their spring and letting fall the canvas ready to make sail in a moment. They don’t like going without their men and the promised provisions; but they will have to do it if the boats don’t return quickly, for I’m much mistaken if the vessel I saw isn’t the Champion, which we have so long been looking for.”

Ellen, who had hitherto been asleep, started as she heard Captain O’Brien speak. “The Champion, do you say?” she asked.

“I think it more than probable that she is,” said the captain. Ellen did not reply, but the thought—and to her it was an agitating one—immediately occurred to her mind, “The Champion will surely attack the French ship.” It was confirmed by the next remark her father made.

“If so, the Frenchman will have to fight for it, for Captain Olding is not likely to let him go without questioning him,” said Mr Ferris.

“But where do you think, my friend, we shall be in that case?” asked Captain O’Brien. “Thurot will scarcely send us on shore first in one of his boats, and I see no signs of our own.”

“Could we not get him to make a signal for a boat from the shore? He surely will not detain my daughter, with the prospect of having to fight his ship,” exclaimed Mr Ferris, becoming anxious. “How mad I was to allow her to remain!”

“Do not be alarmed about me. I trust that we shall have no difficulty in getting on board the Champion should she enter the harbour,” said Ellen.

“We may be confident that Thurot will not wait for her here,” said Captain O’Brien; “but I will go on deck and get him without delay to make a signal for a boat from the shore, if ours are not in sight. If they are, he will probably wait for them.”

On going on deck Captain O’Brien found that the corvette had slipped her cable, that the topsails were set, and that the crew were aloft loosing the other sails. Still, in spite of the wide folds of canvas which were rapidly spread on the ship, the wind was so light that she made but little way. There was yet time for a boat to come off from the shore, and Captain Thurot without hesitation made a signal as he was requested, firing a gun to draw attention. No boat however, appeared.

“Captain Thurot,” exclaimed Captain O’Brien, going up to him, “I must beg that you will send Miss Ferris and her father on shore before you leave the harbour. It would be terrible to expose her to all the risks of a battle—and that you will be engaged in one with yonder ship, I have no doubt. She is a British ship of war, and is sure to attack you when she finds out your character.”

“But I intend to avoid her if I possibly can, and if compelled to fight, I will place Miss Ferris and you two gentlemen in as safe a position as we can find on board,” said Captain Thurot.

“The safest, however, would not be satisfactory under the circumstances,” replied Captain O’Brien. Captain Thurot looked greatly annoyed.

“I know that,” he said, “but it is necessary to send the boats ahead to tow. Were I to run the risk of losing the ship, the crew, and even the officers, would mutiny—these privateersmen are difficult characters to deal with; as it is, they will be discontented at not obtaining the stores and recovering their shipmates. My first lieutenant, also, is on shore. If I send you away, I have no guarantee that the stores will be delivered, or that my people will be restored to me.”

“You shall have the word of honour of two Irish gentlemen,” answered Captain O’Brien, “that should yonder vessel not prove to be the Champion, or any other man-of-war, everything shall be arranged as you wish; the stores and men shall be sent off to you, and your first lieutenant restored, if we can find him.”

Still Captain Thurot hesitated. “You believe that ship out there to be a British sloop of war?” he asked.

“I feel almost certain that she is the Champion; that she is a large vessel of your own class, and carries eighteen guns of heavy metal; and, moreover, I believe that if you venture to engage her she will take you. If you follow my advice you will do your best to escape from her.”

While this conversation was going on, the larger boats were being lowered, and were now sent ahead to tow. There was a light air from the westward; the stranger’s courses were rising above the horizon in the south-east, just clear of Hook Tower. Could the Coquille once got out to sea, she might either by running before the wind round the south-eastern point of Ireland, or by keeping close-hauled stand along the southern coast towards Cape Clear.

“I confess that I am unwilling to part with you till the last moment,” said Captain Thurot, “but my courtesy will not allow me to detain the young lady and to expose her to the risk she would have to run. I will therefore give you my small boat, if you will take charge of her and convey Miss Ferris and her father to the shore.”

“With all my heart, and I am much obliged to you,” exclaimed Captain O’Brien. “If you will order the boat to be lowered, I will get them up on deck. The sooner we are off the better; the tide is sweeping out of the harbour, and we shall have a hard pull of it, at all events.”

He hurried below, and conveyed the satisfactory intelligence to his friends. By the time that they were on deck the dinghy was alongside, the courses were hauled up, and the men ahead ordered to cease pulling. Captain O’Brien stepped into the boat; Mr and Miss Ferris descended the accommodation ladder. After a brief farewell to Captain Thurot, who with his officers bowed them politely out of the ship, the dinghy shoved off.

Chapter Seven.

Ellen and her father, with Captain O’Brien, watch the Champion and Coquille from Portala Head—The fight—The ships disappear in the distance—Return to Waterford—News of the capture of O’Harrall—Ellen’s anxieties—Gerald sent to Mrs Massey—During the widow’s absence Owen receives a visit from O’Harrall—Conceals him—The pursuers come to the cottage—The widow’s alarm—Owen enables O’Harrall to escape.

The worthy captain had not handled a pair of oars for many a year, but he seized the sculls and pulled away lustily towards the western side of the harbour. As to rowing up it against the strong tide then running out, that, he saw, was hopeless, Mr Ferris being no oarsman. The Coquille’s sails were let fall, and the men in the boats giving way, she in a short time was clear of the harbour, and was seen to stand close-hauled towards the south-west, the tide being in her favour. The stranger had by this time made her out, and was steering on the opposite tack towards the harbour’s mouth. Being far to leeward, there appeared but little chance, unless the breeze should freshen, of the two ships meeting.

“I only hope they may,” said the captain, as he tugged away at the oars. “Thurot is a fine fellow, no doubt about that; but he deserves to be punished for his impudence, and if the Champion gets alongside him, he’ll find that he’s caught a Tartar. Olding isn’t the man to part company with an enemy till she strikes, or one or the other goes to the bottom. His officers are like him, I hear, and I shouldn’t be astonished to see the Coquille brought in a prize before many hours are over.”

Ellen looked pale and anxious while the captain was speaking.

“We knew Mr Foley, the second lieutenant of the Champion, very well in Dublin, when she lay at Kingstown,” observed Mr Ferris—“a fine young fellow. I am sure also that you have described Captain Olding truly.”

The captain was all the time pulling away with might and main, now looking ahead to judge of the direction to take, and now watching the two ships.

“Thurot hasn’t calculated on getting becalmed under the land; if he does that, he’ll find the Champion soon walk up to him,” he observed. “Pulling is harder work than I thought for, or my arms have grown stiffer than they used to be. The sooner we can get on shore the better, and we can wait there till the tide turns, when perhaps we shall find some hooker running up to Waterford which will take us in tow. I’ll pull in for Portala Bay, which you see just inside Red Head.”

“As you please,” said Mr Ferris. “By climbing to the top of the Head we shall, I fancy, be able to watch the proceedings of the two ships.”

The captain pulling on, the boat soon reached a small bay just to the northward of a headland at the western side of the entrance of Waterford harbour. Ellen was eager at once to climb to the summit of the height. The captain and Mr Ferris having drawn up the boat, they set off, and were not long in gaining it. From thence they could command a view of the whole coast of Waterford as far as Youghal Bay, towards which the Coquille was standing. Her boats had been hoisted up, but she was still, even with a favourable tide, making but slow progress. The ship to the eastward had now come completely into view. The captain took a steady look at her.

“She is a sloop of war—I thought so from the first,” he exclaimed, “and from the cut of her canvas I have little doubt that she is English.”

As he spoke, the stranger’s ensign blew out from her peak.

“Yes, I knew I was right—she is the Champion, depend on it. If the breeze favours her, far as she is to leeward, she’ll be up to Captain Thurot before noon,” he continued. “If she once gets him within range of her guns, she’ll not let him go till he cries peccavi.”

Ellen was seated on a rock which formed the highest part of the headland. Even under ordinary circumstances she would have watched the two vessels with much interest, but the intensity of her feelings may be supposed, as she thought of one who was on board the British ship; for although the gallant lieutenant had not yet spoken, she fully believed that he had given her his heart, and she could not avoid confessing to herself that she had bestowed hers in return. In a few short hours he might be engaged in a deadly strife with a ship equal in size and the number of her crew to the Champion; and though she could not doubt that the British would come off victorious, yet she well knew the risk to which each of her gallant crew would be exposed. The Champion had stood within a mile of the mouth of the harbour, when she tacked and steered for the French ship. The breeze, as Captain O’Brien had foretold would be the case, gradually favouring her, enabled her to go much faster through the water than the other. The captain several times pulled his watch, resembling a big turnip in size, out of his fob.

“The tide will soon be on the turn, and if we are to get home to-night we must take advantage of it,” he observed, “though I should mightily like to see the end of this.”

“Oh, do remain, I pray you,” said Ellen; “we can have no difficulty in getting back to Waterford, for the weather promises to be so fine. Do you think it possible that Monsieur Thurot can escape?”

“The chances are against him, Miss Ellen, but it is hard to say what may happen,” answered Captain O’Brien. “Captain Olding is not the man, as I have observed before, to let an enemy slip through his fingers; in less than half an hour he will get near enough to the Frenchman to send his shot on board, and he’ll stick tightly to him, no fear of that.”

Ellen held her breath, as she at length saw the ships approaching each other. A puff of white smoke issued from the starboard bow of the Champion. The Coquille returned it from her stern-chasers, but the shot fell harmlessly into the water. Again and again the Champion fired; it was evident that she could only bring her foremost gun to bear, unless by keeping away and thereby losing ground.

“Thurot knows the coast as well as, or better than, Olding, and is unwilling to lose the advantage of being to windward,” exclaimed Captain O’Brien. “See, he keeps his luff, and the Champion is compelled to do the same; I thought it would be so. The Champion is losing the breeze, which has hitherto been in her favour, and if she doesn’t manage to wing the Frenchman, the fellow, who has evidently a fast pair of heels, will slip by between her and the land. See, she’s not going to let him do that. Hurrah! she’s kept away; there go her broadside guns. They’ll have told, I hope, with effect on the Frenchman. No, by George! every spar is standing,” exclaimed the captain, as the smoke from the Champion’s broadside cleared away. She immediately again came to the wind. The ships were still too far apart for the shot to do much damage; they both stood on for some time longer without firing, and were now so greatly increasing their distance from Red Head that the three spectators could but imperfectly discern what took place. Again wreaths of smoke circled above the side of the Champion, and flashes were seen to issue from that of the Coquille, as, imitating the English ship, she put up her helm and kept away across the bows of the latter.

“Thurot has made up his mind to run for it,” cried the captain; “he’s squaring away his yards, and Olding’s after him. The Frenchman has no stomach for a fight, that’s very certain; those privateersmen prefer plunder to glory. If Olding doesn’t ply him briskly with his guns, the chase will get away after all. I had hopes of seeing the Coquille brought in here as a prize; we could then have afforded to forgive her captain the trick he played us.”

In vain the captain and his companions waited for any event to show them which ship was likely to be the victor. They were both at length hull down, their masts and spars standing apparently uninjured. Poor Ellen had watched them with intense interest. How long it might be before her anxiety could be removed, she could not tell; that the Champion would be taken, she did not believe possible. But, alas! many of those on board might be killed or wounded; several days might pass before the Champion could come into Cork harbour. With straining eyes she gazed towards the two ships gradually become less and less distinct.

“Come, Ferris—come, Miss Ellen, my dear—we must be on our homeward voyage, or our friends will become alarmed, and it will be reported that we have been carried off by the Frenchman,” said Captain O’Brien.

Very unwillingly Ellen left the height and accompanied her father and the captain to the boat. He had still some distance to pull, though he kept a look-out for a larger boat or a sailing hooker on her way up to Waterford. At length a little high-sterned craft was seen standing out of one of the many small bays which indent the western shore of the harbour. The captain stood up, and shouted and waved, and the hooker, hauling her wind, hove to to await their coming. The skipper, knowing he should be amply recompensed, was delighted to receive them on board and to take their boat in tow; and Ellen, seated on a sail, was wafted up the river in a very different style to that of Cleopatra in her barge, as far as the mouth of the Suir; when, the wind failing, Captain O’Brien, with the assistance of one of the crew of the hooker, pulled up the remainder of the distance to Waterford in the Coquille’s dinghy.

It was late in the evening. As they approached the quay they were warmly cheered by a number of the townspeople who had heard of their adventure, information of the departure of the French privateer having already been brought up to Waterford. It was soon evident to Mr Ferris that some other event of importance had occurred.

“What has happened, my friends?” he inquired.

“Shure, yer honour, one of the French officers has been caught hiding away in your garden,” answered Dan Connor, who was one of the nearest to him among the crowd. “The thief of the world! he made a mighty fine fight of it; but we ran in on him, after he had cut down three or four of us, two being kilt entirely—but we knocked his sword out of his hand and seized him, and he’s lodged comfortably in the Ring Tower, out of which he isn’t likely to get in a hurry.”

“Of which French officer do you speak?” asked Mr Ferris; “we left our late prisoner on board the Coquille.”

“It wasn’t him, yer honour, but a big fellow with, a patch on his cheek and another over his eye,” answered Dan. “He isn’t a Frenchman at all at all, but from the oaths he swore he’s Irish all the world over—the thunderin’ big villain—no other than Brian O’Harrall, who has a price on his head. It cost us pretty dear to take him too.”

Further inquiries convinced Mr Ferris that the supposed French officer was the outlaw who had so long evaded the grasp of justice. The prisoner, he understood, was under a strong guard. Ellen being much fatigued, he accompanied her home before going to ascertain particulars. Norah, who greeted her affectionately, looked pale and agitated.

“I have had a dreadful fright,” she said. “My father had insisted on my taking a turn in the garden, and as I reached the rocky walk at the end of the terrace, out of sight of the house, who should appear before me but the first lieutenant of the privateer, who had dined with us yesterday. I had then an undefined suspicion of him, and no sooner did he speak than I was convinced that he was the very person whom we met the other evening, and who attempted to carry me off, and who, notwithstanding his disguise, was, I am sure, the man who was picked up at sea by the Ouzel Galley, and acted as second mate on board her. I knew that I had had the misfortune to excite his admiration, but I hoped when he was taken on board the privateer which captured us that I should never again see him. He, however, it appears, was well known to Captain Thurot, who had appointed him his first lieutenant. He made the most outrageous professions of affection; I, of course, would not listen to him; and dreading his violence, before he was aware of what I was about to do, I darted from him and ran, faster than I had ever run before in my life, towards the house. He pursued, entreating me to stop and hear what he had to say. Feeling that he was not to be trusted, I continued my flight, and providentially just then caught sight of Dan Connor and some of the crew of the Ouzel Galley, who had come up to see my father, and while waiting to do so had been allowed to stroll into the garden. Several of the workmen and two of the gardeners, who happened to be close at hand, joined the seamen, and the whole party rushed at the stranger, who had by this time reached the bottom of the hill and found retreat impossible. On this, I understand, he drew his sword and made a desperate defence, and though unhappily he wounded two of the men, the rest boldly threw themselves upon him, and wrenching his sword from his hand held him fast. During his violent struggles to free himself the patch over his eye fell off, as did his heavy moustache, and some of the men, as they examined his features, recognised the pirate O’Harrall, the very man of whom Mrs Massey gave you the account. I had rushed into my room, too much frightened and agitated to watch what was taking place. He was carried off to prison, and will of course be brought to trial, in which case I fear that I shall have to appear as a witness against him. I was afraid for some time to tell my father, for the same reason that I did not before inform him of the attack made on us. However, he now knows all that has happened, and he tells me that he is well acquainted with O’Harrall’s history, and believes him capable of the most desperate acts of violence.”

Ellen had forgotten her own anxiety in listening to Norah’s recital. She now described to her friend what had occurred, and the feeling which had agitated her while watching the two ships. Norah offered such comfort as one young lady under the circumstances could give another.

“I have heard my father say that ships of war often meet and fire many shot without doing each other any harm,” she remarked; “and you know, my dear Ellen, that even though some of the crew of the Champion may be killed or wounded, there is no especial reason that Lieutenant Foley should be among the sufferers; and it is the lot of naval officers to be constantly exposed to the risk of battle in war time.”

“I know it too truly,” replied Ellen; “but it was dreadful to see the ship on board which I knew him to be sailing away to attack so renowned and skilful a captain as Monsieur Thurot—then, to have to wait so long for the issue of the battle.”

“Perhaps we shall have tidings of the arrival of the Champion to-morrow,” remarked Norah; “and, from what you tell me, Monsieur Thurot was more anxious to escape than, to fight.”

“So I at first thought,” said Ellen; “but I heard Captain O’Brien tell my father that he suspected Thurot’s object was to draw the English ship away from the Irish coast, that should he come off victorious he might have the better chance of securing his prize. It was a relief to me to hear Captain O’Brien say he did not for a moment believe that the Champion would be beaten; on the contrary, that it would be much more likely that she would take the Coquille. Still, there must inevitably have been a fierce battle; and oh, Norah, if you knew how I feel for Norman Foley, you would understand my anxiety.”

“I can fully understand it,” said Norah, “and I often think how sad it must be for poor women left at home, to know that those they love are exposed to dangers and hardships of all sorts which they are utterly powerless to relieve. Such must be the lot of all sailors’ wives and those who have engaged their hearts to sailors—and yet it would be cruel to the poor men if on that account they could get no one to love them.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Ellen, sighing; “but then, remember, we can pray for them, and we can do our best to make them happy when they return home.”

Norah at length persuaded Ellen, who had had but little rest on the previous night, to lie down and try to forget her anxiety in sleep. Soon afterwards Gerald came in. He had been rather indignant at not having been taken when the party visited the supposed Jersey privateer.

“Had I seen Monsieur Thurot, I should have recognised him at once, for I marked him well when he came on board the Ouzel Galley; and I suspect, too, I should have detected his first lieutenant, in spite of his disguise,” he exclaimed. “I wonder you did not find out that he was our mate Carnegan.”

“I did more than once fancy that I knew his voice, but it seemed so improbable that he should be on board a Jersey privateer that I banished the idea,” answered Norah. “Now, Gerald, I want you to go and inquire after Mrs Massey and Owen; they may hear rumours of what has occurred, and will wish to know the truth. You will have time to go there and be back again before dark.”

Gerald, who was always good-natured and anxious to please Norah, undertook to go and deliver any message, written or oral, she might wish to send. She had already a note prepared for Owen, and with it Gerald set off. He found Owen much better, and ready, if the doctor would let him, to walk into Waterford to see Norah; but Mrs Massey was sure that he overrated his strength, and told Gerald that Norah must not expect him for some days. She was much interested at hearing the account which Gerald gave of the various occurrences of the last two days.

“And can that unhappy man have really been captured? What a sad ending to a once respected family!” she exclaimed. “He cannot expect pardon. I bear him no ill-will, though his family has been the ruin of ours; and even now, in the hope that he may have time for repentance, I would thankfully hear that he had escaped rather than suffer the death his crimes deserve.”

“I should certainly not have suspected that the Carnegan we had as second mate on board the Ouzel Galley could have been a murderer and pirate,” said Gerald. “The men, however, were inclined to believe from the way he was saved that he was in league with the Evil One, and they will now be convinced that such was the case.”

“Satan would rather have let him drown,” said Mrs Massey, “unless indeed he wished to employ him in some still more wicked deed. He undoubtedly mates use of those who willingly yield to him as his tools to work out his designs.”

While Mrs Massey had been talking to Gerald, Owen had been inditing an answer to Norah’s note, with which, rather later than he had intended, Gerald set off to return home. It was quite dark before he reached the town. He was proceeding along a narrow lane which offered a shorter cut than the high road, when he heard the footsteps of a person running at full speed, and directly afterwards a man rushed by him whose countenance he could not see; but it struck him at the time that the figure greatly resembled that of Carnegan, the second mate of the Ouzel Galley. He was doubtful for a moment whether he should follow: though brave enough under ordinary circumstances, he felt pretty certain that if such was the case O’Harrall would not scruple to knock him on the head or to blow his brains out; and so he did the next best thing which occurred to him—he ran on, intending to make his way to the Ring Tower to give information that the prisoner had escaped; though he fully expected to meet a party in hot pursuit of the fugitive.

Mrs Massey was at supper with her son, when there came a knock at the door, and a bare-headed damsel appeared.

“Mrs Massey, my mother’s taken mighty bad entirely, and will it plaze ye to come and see what ye can do for her?” she exclaimed, in a petitioning tone. Mrs Massey, who was proud of the medical knowledge she exercised for the benefit of her neighbours, immediately arose.

“Indeed, and I’ll come, Molly,” she answered. “Just wait till I put on my hood and fill my basket with such things as I may require.”

She speedily getting ready, told Owen that she would soon be back, and that Mrs Hogan would know that she could not leave him all alone for any length of time; and off she set, with Molly Hogan carrying a lantern before her.

Owen trimmed the lamp which burnt on the table, and sat down to read till his mother’s return. He had not long been thus occupied, when hearing the door open he looked up, expecting that Mrs Massey had returned for something she had omitted to take with her. Instead of his mother, he saw standing before him the second mate of the Ouzel Galley. For a moment he thought that he must be dreaming.

“You know me, Owen Massey,” exclaimed his visitor, “You saved my life once, when the devil well-nigh had me in his clutches, and I come to throw myself on your generosity—to ask you to render me a further service. Should I be recaptured, I should be doomed to the gallows, and I have no fancy for that fate. Conceal me for a few hours, and I shall be able to get off in safety; refuse to do so, and I shall fall into the hands of my pursuers.”

Owen hesitated, not because he was aware that the man before him was O’Harrall, the enemy of his family, but because he was unwilling to expose his mother to the penalty of harbouring a fugitive from justice. He rose from his seat and said, “I now know you to be Brian O’Harrall.” His visitor started, and drew back a pace, as if about to leave the cottage, believing that all hope of assistance must be abandoned. “Stay,” continued Owen, his generous feelings getting the better of him, “I do not on that account the less desire to save you if I can. Should you not have been traced here, I may yet be able to do so.”

“I am not likely to have been traced, for my flight can scarcely yet have been discovered,” answered O’Harrall. “You will run no risk, and I will be grateful if I can find an opportunity. I have proved that I am not destitute of gratitude. When on board the Ouzel Galley, I obtained better terms for you from Thurot than you would otherwise have enjoyed.”

“Follow me, then,” said Owen, “and I will conceal you till you have an opportunity of escaping; but promise me that you will not again return to this part of the country.”

“I have no hesitation in doing that, for I intend to do my best to escape from Ireland, never with my own free will to come back,” answered O’Harrall.

“That is sufficient,” said Owen; and he led the way through the cottage to an outbuilding at some short distance, over which there was a loft, long disused. Owen found a ladder, by which the fugitive mounted to it.

“You can easily leap to the ground when you think fit to continue your flight,” said Owen, who had followed him up. “I will bring you some food, to afford you support both for the present and on your journey; and if you want money, I will supply you.”

“I give you my thanks, but I have a purse full of gold. Be quick, however, with the food, or my pursuers may be here and prevent you from bringing it to me,” replied O’Harrall.

Owen on descending removed the ladder, and, hurrying into the pantry, collected such provisions as he could most easily find, and for the disappearance of which he could account the next day to his mother. He carried them to the fugitive, and then again replaced the ladder in the spot from which he had taken it. Having done this, he returned to the sitting-room and threw himself into a chair, resting his head on his hand. He had performed a generous action, but still he questioned himself whether it was a right one. He was attempting to conceal from justice an undoubted malefactor; it was an act then, as now, too common in Ireland, and was sure to meet with the sympathy of the people should it be discovered. Owen possibly might have partaken somewhat in the feeling general among all classes, that it was a right thing to protect those in distress, whatever their crimes against society. A more generous motive had influenced him, and he might have been less inclined to act as he had done should a person indifferent to him, and equally criminal in the sight of the law, have thrown himself upon his mercy. Owen did not know the full wrong O’Harrall had attempted to inflict upon him; even had he been aware of this, it might not have altered his conduct.

Some time passed before his mother returned; during it, he did his best to calm his feelings, for he had determined not to tell her what had occurred, hoping that before the next morning O’Harrall would have disappeared. Shortly after she entered the cottage the old lady urged Owen to go to bed.

“You look somewhat pale, my son,” she said, holding the light to his face, “and late hours do not suit an invalid.”

“When you set me the example, I will go and turn in,” answered Owen, laughing. As he was speaking, loud shouts were heard, and several people came running up and knocking loudly at the door.

“Who is it?” asked Mrs Massey.

“Shure, it’s Pat Magragh. Are ye safe inside, Mrs Massey, honey?” inquired one of the men from the outside.

“And where else should I be?” answered the widow, recognising the voice and going to the door. Owen felt very uncomfortable, for he fully expected that inquiries would be made for the fugitive.

“Shure, it’s no matther at all, thin,” exclaimed the man. “As we got to Molly Hogan’s, she told us that ye’d just left the cottage, and it might be the big villain we were hunting might have fallen in wid ye and done ye harm; but if ye didn’t see him, it’s all right, and we must be joining the rest of the bhoys who ran after him.”

“Whom do you mean?” asked Mrs Massey.

“Brian O’Harrall, to be shure,” was the answer; “he’s broken out of the Ring Tower, nobody knows how—except he got the help of the devil and his imps.”

“Thank Heaven I did not meet him! it would have well-nigh driven me out of my wits,” said the widow, trembling at the thoughts of the supposed danger she had escaped.

“Good night, Mrs Massey; keep your door closed, lest he should turn like a fox and bolt in,” cried Pat Magragh, as he and his companions hurried away in pursuit, as they believed, of the escaped criminal. Mrs Massey did as she was advised, and sat down, endeavouring to calm her agitation, and feeling but little inclined to go to bed.

“It is useless to sit up, mother,” observed Owen, after Mrs Massey had been talking for some time about the escape of O’Harrall. “The man, if he has got away, is certain not to return. At all events, you will be as safe in bed as anywhere else.”

After some persuasion Mrs Massey consented to retire to bed, and after listening for some time at last fell asleep. The window of Owen’s room looked directly down upon the outbuilding in which the fugitive was concealed. Owen felt much relieved, from believing that those who had gone on were not likely to think of examining the place; still, he could not go to sleep, and putting out his candle he sat down at the window to watch, hoping that O’Harrall would take the opportunity of slipping out and getting off to a distance, no watched in vain. After some hours he heard the tramp of feet along the road and the voices of men shouting to each other. They were the people who had gone in chase of O’Harrall. Could the outlaw have continued his flight and, after all, have been captured? Owen listened attentively, and felt convinced that they were returning to the city without having overtaken the fugitive, he could no longer restrain his wish to ascertain whether O’Harrall was still in the loft, and cautiously descending the stair, he lighted a lantern and went out. To place the ladder so as to reach the trap was the work of a moment. He ascended to the loft, and throwing the light towards the further end, he saw the man he came to look for sleeping soundly.

Before Owen had advanced a step O’Harrall awoke and, springing to his feet, saw who it was.

“I came to tell you,” said Owen, “that the men who had gone in pursuit of you have, to the best of my belief, returned to the city, and now would be a favourable time to make your escape.”

O’Harrall hesitated. “What o’clock is it?” he asked.

“Just past midnight,” refilled Owen.

“Are you certain that the men who are hunting for me have returned to the city?” asked O’Harrall.

“Judging from what I heard, and the direction in which their voices died away, I am confident of it,” said Owen.

“Then I will follow your advice,” answered O’Harrall. “You have increased the debt of gratitude I owe you. I have no means of showing that I am grateful; but do me one favour more—accept this ring; it belonged to your family. It has a curious device on it, which is its chief value. I wish you to believe that, reckless as I am, I still retain some of the feelings I possessed when you knew me in days gone by. Come, take it; I cannot leave this place till you have done so. There, man, take the ring; it might have been yours by right.”

Owen took the ring and placed it on his finger.

“If we ever again meet, however much changed you may be, I shall know you by that,” said O’Harrall. “Now, farewell—may a happier fate be yours than will probably be my lot!”

“Stay a moment, and I will ascertain that no one is near,” said Owen, as O’Harrall was about to descend the ladder. He hid the lantern, and went out into the open part of the garden and round to the front of the house. Clouds obscured the stars; not a sound was to be heard, except the voice of some bird of night, which came from a distance. By some it might have been thought of ill omen, but Owen was above the superstitions of the ignorant. He returned to the outhouse, and in a low voice called to O’Harrall, who immediately descended the ladder.

“I feel sure that no one is on the watch,” said Owen, “and it may be most prudent for you to get away at once.”

“You are right,” answered O’Harrall. “Again farewell, Massey; though we may never more see each other, I shall always remember that I have met with one honest and generous man.”

He did not, however, put out his hand, perhaps supposing that Massey would consider himself contaminated by touching it.

“Go into your house,” he continued, “and let me follow my own course, that you may not even know what direction I have taken.”

Owen did as he was advised, leaving O’Harrall standing beneath the shelter of the buildings. Closing the door he returned to his room, when on looking out of his window, he found that O’Harrall had disappeared. His mind felt greatly relieved at the thought that he was no longer harbouring a fugitive from justice. On going into the garden the next morning, he could perceive no traces by which it might perchance be discovered that O’Harrall had been there, and he determined that the occurrence should be known only to his mother and himself. He considered that it would be wrong to conceal it from her, and, sitting down, he told her what he had done. She did not speak for a minute or more.

“You acted rightly, my son,” she said at length. “The O’Harralls have been our bitter enemies, but our holy religion teaches us that we should not only forgive our foes, but do good to those who most cruelly ill-treat and abuse us; whatever man may say, God will approve of your act, for he knows the motive which prompted you.”

Chapter Eight.

Arrival of the Champion—Mr Ferris goes on board—Brings back Lieutenant Foley wounded—Gerald joins the Champion as midshipman—An account of his shipmates—The Champion sails—Captain Tracy and Norah at home—The Ouzel Galley preparing for sea—Return of the Champion—Sails again—Owen appointed to the command of the Ouzel Galley—Mr Ferris and Ellen go to Dublin—The Ouzel Galley sails—Norah’s life at home—Mr Ferris intends to go to Jamaica—The Ouzel Galley comes back, and Captain Tracy resolves to go round in her to Dublin.

“News, Norah! I bring you news, Miss Ellen,” cried Gerald, rushing into the drawing-room where his sister and her friend were seated. “I have just heard that a man-of-war has brought up inside the harbour, with her main-topmast gone and her sails riddled with shot. They say that she is the Champion, and that she has had a desperate action with a French ship, which she sent to the bottom, or which got away from her. Which was the case, I can’t exactly make out, but she has lost I don’t know how many officers and seamen, for there hasn’t been such a bloody fight since the war began. The wounded, I hear, are to be sent on shore, and we shall thus, I suppose, know all about the matter.”

Ellen turned pale as Gerald was speaking. “Have you heard who the killed and wounded are?” she asked, in a trembling voice.

“No; I could only learn the name of the ship, and that there has been a sharp action there can be no doubt,” answered Gerald.

“Perhaps Gerald’s account is exaggerated,” remarked Norah, observing Ellen’s agitation. “If the ship is the Champion, Mr Ferris is sure to go down and visit her; he will ascertain the truth of the report.”

“I must—I must go and tell him what has happened, in case he should not have heard it,” said Ellen, rising. She found Mr Ferris in his counting-house, on the ground-floor. He immediately ordered his boat, and telling Ellen that, should he find any wounded officers who might require to be cared for on shore, he would bring them up, he desired her to make preparations for their reception. Gerald, who was on the look-out for him, begged that he might accompany him on board. The boat, with six stout hands, rapidly made her way down the river.

Ellen and Norah, like good housewives, lost no time in seeing the spare rooms got ready for their expected guests. The occupation tended to relieve Ellen’s mind.

“Perhaps, after all, there may be no wounded officers,” said Norah. “Gerald’s account was very vague—people nearly always exaggerate disasters.”

“But I saw the beginning of the battle, and heard the dreadful guns firing—and some of those on board may have been killed,” said Ellen, scarcely able to restrain her feelings.

The young ladies had some time to wait after the rooms had been got ready. Ellen was constantly going to the window, from which she could see the river and watch for the return of the boat. Norah, like a faithful friend, did not quit her.

“There comes the boat,” exclaimed Ellen, at length. “Oh, see, Norah! there is a person wrapped up in blankets lying in the stern-sheets; my heart told me that he would be wounded.”

“It is better so than had your heart told you he would be killed, and it had proved a true prophet,” said Norah, smiling and trying to cheer up her friend. Ellen would have hurried down to the quay, but Norah persuaded her to remain at home. “He may not be Lieutenant Foley, remember,” observed Norah, quietly; “and if he is, you are more likely to agitate him than to do him any good by rushing down to the quay. Think how odd it would look were you to exhibit your feelings in public, or, still more so, should the wounded man prove to be a stranger.”

Norah’s sensible remarks prevailed in inducing Ellen to remain quiet till the arrival of the party in the boat. Mr Ferris was the first person who appeared.

“You must not be alarmed, my dear child,” he said. “There has been a fierce engagement, in which two officers and several men were killed—”

“Oh, father, who were they?” cried Ellen.

“A master’s mate and a midshipman,” answered Mr Ferris; “but I am sorry to say that Mr Foley was among the most severely wounded, and he gladly accepted my offer to take him on shore; so I brought him up here, and you and Norah will, I am sure, do your best to look after him.”

While Mr Ferris was speaking, the men bearing the wounded lieutenant arrived. Ellen, restraining her feelings, received him with becoming propriety, though his pale lips and wan cheek made her heart sink. He was forthwith conveyed to the room which, had been prepared for him. Dr Roach, who had been an army surgeon, and knew well how to treat gunshot wounds of every description, was immediately sent for, and the young officer was placed under his charge.

“We’ll pull him through, young lady,” he observed, after he had visited his patient. “You will naturally wish to know what I think of the case of this fine young officer, who has been bleeding for his country. You need be under no serious apprehensions; he will be fit for duty again shortly. You saw how quickly I doctored up Mr Massey, in whom, if I am not wrongly informed, Miss Norah here takes an interest.”

Norah looked conscious. “Young people have hearts, and small blame to them if they fall in love now and then,” remarked the doctor; “and now, my pretty maidens, good-bye to you, for I want to hear more about the battle. I could not let my patient tell me. Remember, I leave him under your charge, but I must lay an embargo on your tongues; talking, or listening to talking, isn’t good for wounded men, though you may sing him to sleep with your sweet voices.”

Owen was well enough to accompany Mrs Massey when she returned Norah’s visit, and, moreover, to stroll with her into the garden. He now first heard of O’Harrall’s conduct; his brow flushed as she told him, but he restrained his feelings, and did not let even her know that he had assisted his rival’s escape.

“Could the fellow have been aware that she was my betrothed wife, and yet, after such conduct, ventured to claim my protection? I am thankful I did not then know of his behaviour; I might have been tempted to refuse him my aid.” Such were the thoughts which passed through Owen’s mind. “However, bold as he is, he is not likely again to appear in this neighbourhood.”

Owen and Norah, having each other’s society, forgot how the time went by, till Gerald came hurrying up to call them into the house. He had just returned from his visit to the Champion; he was full of what he had heard of her engagement with the Coquille. Two officers had been killed, and two, besides Mr Foley, wounded; three men had been killed, and several wounded. The Frenchman, instead of being sent to the bottom, having knocked away the Champion’s main-topmast and cut up her rigging, had managed to get off and run out of sight before her damages could be repaired. Captain Olding had chased in the direction the Coquille had last been seen, but had failed to come up with her, and was compelled to steer for Waterford.

“And, do you know, Norah,” continued Gerald, “I’ve made up my mind to go on board a man-of-war. They all say that Captain Olding will take me, and place me on the quarter-deck, if Mr Ferris introduces me and would say a word in my favour; so if our father approves of it, I hope to go at once, instead of waiting for the Ouzel Galley.”

“If it would better promote your fortune to serve on board a man-of-war, I will not hinder you,” said Owen, as they walked towards the house.

“I would rather you should remain on board the dear old ship, to act as Owen’s mate,” observed Norah; “but if our father allows you to go on board the Champion, neither will I try to alter your determination.”

Captain Olding had come up to the house to inquire after his lieutenant. He and Captain Tracy had been shipmates in their younger days. He was well pleased, he said, to be able to forward the views of his friend’s son. It was therefore settled that Gerald should join the Champion at once, and Norah was busy from morning till night in preparing his outfit. Captain Tracy was now able to get about, and even to superintend the repairs of the Ouzel Galley. He secretly was somewhat proud of having a son belonging to the Royal Navy. It was the road to honour and fame; Gerald might some day become one of England’s admirals. Still, had the captain intended to continue at sea himself, he would have wished to keep his boy with him, and he would also gladly have had him accompany Owen Massey. Gerald himself was in high glee; he made frequent trips down to the Champion, and always came back with some fresh account of what she had done, and of what his future messmates, the midshipmen, fully expected she would do. He described them to Norah as first-rate, jolly fellows, up to all sorts of fun.

“And you may tell Miss Ferris, if you like,” he added, “that they all say there isn’t a more gallant officer in the service than Lieutenant Foley, and they hope that he’ll soon get well and rejoin the ship. They don’t speak quite so favourably of her first lieutenant, Jonah Tarwig, who seems as if he had swallowed the mizen-royal-mast as he was looking aloft one stormy night when the ship was taken aback and it was carried away. He is six feet two in height—how he manages to stow himself in his berth it is hard to say, but it is supposed that he doubles his legs back, for as to coiling away his body, that would be impossible. The master, old Billhook, is a rough diamond, but he understands navigation, and spins tough yarns by the score; I’ll tell you some of them one of these days. The purser, Simon Cheeseparings—that isn’t his real name—was a slopseller in Wapping, but outran his creditors and had to come to sea to escape from Newgate; and the doctor’s a Scotchman whose name begins with Mac, and for brevity’s sake Mac he is always called. Now you know all about the gun-room officers; but the best fellows, out and out, are in our berth. We’ve got two old mates, Beater and Crowhurst—at least, they are old compared to the rest of us, and they are always complaining that they are not port-admirals. Their characters answer to their names, for Beater is never without a cob in his hand, and he uses it pretty freely; and Crowhurst is always boasting of his own mighty deeds or those of his ancestors—and if you are to take his word for it, they (his ancestors, I mean) came over with William the Conqueror, and ought to be dukes at the least. However, putting their peculiarities aside, they’re capital fellows, and, if they have an opportunity, will show that they have the true metal in them—so my chum, Nat Kiddle, says. He doesn’t pretend to be anybody, though I can tell you he’s a broth of a boy, and it’s a pity he wasn’t an Irishman, for he’d do honour to the old country; but he happens to be the tenth son of an English farmer, whose brother was a lieutenant in the navy, and took him to sea, but his uncle having been killed at the end of the last war, Nat has to shift for himself. Though he has tumbled into a good many scrapes, he has always managed to fall on his feet. Then we’ve got a young lord, Mountstephen; he is always called Molly, but he doesn’t at all mind, and declares that he’ll some day show the Frenchmen what an English Molly can do. In reality, he is the pet of the mess—not because he’s a lord, but because he’s a very nice little fellow, who looks as if he ought to be in the nursery instead of knocking about in a sloop of war. But I don’t know, Norah, whether you’ll care to hear about the rest of us.”

“Oh yes,” answered Norah; “I am very much interested, especially in the little lord. I hope you’ll help to take care of him.”

“Yes, that you may depend on it I will,” said Gerald; “if I get into scrapes, I’ll take care he doesn’t—though I don’t intend to get into any myself, notwithstanding that they say Irishmen always do. They’ve dubbed me Paddy already, but of course I’m proud of that, and shall always stick up for old Ireland, and sing ‘Erin-go-bragh’ on all occasions. Well, I’ll tell you about the rest of our mess another day, and something about the warrant officers. We’ve three of them, the gunner, boatswain, and carpenter—and as chance will have it, the first is a Scotchman, the second an Englishman, and the third an Irishman; and though they’re mighty good friends, they are always wrangling about their respective countries, each one declaring his own to be superior to the others in every respect. Barney O’Rourke hailed me at once as a countryman, and was mighty pleased to see one young gentleman, at least, from the Emerald Isle who would stick up for our country’s honour. ‘And, by my faith, that’s what I intend to do,’ I answered—and we became sworn friends. There now, Norah, I think you know a good deal about our ship already, and when Lieutenant Foley gets about again, which I hope he’ll do in a few days, you will learn a good deal more; and when we’re away, you’ll be able to fancy me on board among my shipmates.”

Norah sighed as she thought how soon her young brother, who had never before been parted from her, would be away, with the chance of not coming back for three or four years, for the Champion had only lately been commissioned, and might before long be sent to a foreign station. At length Captain Olding, the Champion being ready for sea, ordered Gerald on board to perform, duty as a midshipman. He intended, however, to return in the course of two or three weeks, expecting by that time that his second lieutenant would be sufficiently recovered to resume his duties. Norah accompanied her father and Owen down the river to wish Gerald good-bye, and to see the ship sail. She felt rather sad as the boat shoved off, when the anchor was apeak and the white canvas let fall, and the ship began to glide majestically away through the calm waters of the harbour—for, besides that she grieved to part with her young brother, the thought occurred to her that the Ouzel Galley would be the next ship she should see taking her departure from port. Owen, who was now able to be constantly with her, offered, not unsuccessfully, all the consolation in his power. Captain Tracy, being now well enough to go about, removed with her to their own cottage, situated a short distance from Waterford, and within a mile of Mrs Massey’s abode. It was a pretty spot. The cottage, with its porch covered with clematis and eglantine, stood in a good garden in which the captain delighted to work during his leisure hours. From the windows could be seen the broad, shining river and the shipping in the distance on one side, and from the other the mountainous regions to the westward. Altogether, no young lady could have desired a more romantic bower.

The captain, by his successful voyages, had been able to save a sufficient sum to live in comfort, with a handmaiden, Biddy O’Halloran, to attend on him and his daughter, and a gessoon to look after the cows and pigs and to work in the garden. Still, notwithstanding her present happiness, it was but natural that poor Norah should reflect that in a short time Owen must sail away in command of the Ouzel Galley, and be subject to all the dangers of the sea, increased in war time by the chance of being captured by the enemy. He and her father were now absent all day long, attending to the fitting out of the ship, which was making rapid progress. Her owners had decided on sending her back to the West Indies, and Owen assured Norah that, as he should probably find a cargo waiting for him, he should not be long absent. She paid frequent visits to Ellen, who could heartily sympathise with her. Lieutenant Foley had entirely recovered from his wound, and would have to rejoin the Champion as soon as she arrived in the harbour, in which she was every day expected. Norah thought that the lieutenant deserved all the praises bestowed on him by Gerald, though of course he was not equal, in her estimation, to Owen. Still, she could not be surprised that her friend had given him her heart, especially as he had owned that he had given his to Ellen; and they were now regularly betrothed with the full approval of Mr Ferris, and were to marry as soon as Mr Foley had obtained the rank of commander.

The days and weeks went rapidly by. Mr Ferris intended, as soon as Lieutenant Foley had joined his ship, to return with his daughter to Dublin. This would be a great loss to Norah, as she was acquainted with but few other young ladies in the neighbourhood; indeed, from having been at school with Ellen, they were more like sisters than ordinary friends. Ellen had begged that she would visit her in Dublin, but she could not leave her father, and still less did she wish to quit Waterford till the Ouzel Galley had sailed; after that, she felt that she should have no spirit to enjoy the gay society of the metropolis, even should her father insist on her accepting Ellen’s invitation.

The arrival of the Champion was announced at last by Gerald, who early one morning rushed into the house.

“We came in last night, and are to sail again this evening, so I obtained leave to run up to see you,” cried Gerald. “I’ve got lots to tell you,” he continued, after he had exchanged greetings with his father and sister, and was seated at the breakfast-table. “We haven’t had any actual fight, but we’ve taken several prizes, one of them, as big as the Champion, cut out in gallant style. She was seen at anchor in Saint Martin’s Roads, and the captain determined to have her. We stood away, and the Frenchman must have supposed we had gone; but at night, when it was very dark, we stood back again. Three boats were then lowered, and I had the good luck to be sent in one of them. We at once pulled away for the roads with muffled oars. There lay the ship right ahead of us; we could just see her masts against the sky. The Frenchmen must have been all asleep, or keeping a very bad look-out, for we were alongside and our fellows almost on her deck before we were discovered. The Frenchmen, thus taken by surprise, made but a very feeble resistance, and though a few of them were knocked over, we didn’t lose a man. The cable was cut and the topsails sheeted home before the fort began to fire, and as the wind was off shore, we got out of range with very little damage. We earned our prize into Plymouth, and our captain, I believe, gained some credit for his exploit; though except that he designed it, he took no part, for old Tarwig commanded one boat, and the master, Billhook, another, and one of our mates and I went in the third. Had half of us been killed, I suppose more would have been thought of the affair. While at Plymouth we heard from the bumboat women, who have always the most correct intelligence, that we were to be sent to the West Indies, and we soon found that they were right; but the captain got leave to come in here first, to take Lieutenant Foley on board, and to obtain fresh provisions; so I shall be visiting the old scenes again, and, I hope, fall in with Owen. That will be good fun; perhaps we shall have to convoy him home, or maybe, should the Ouzel Galley fall into the hands of the enemy, retake the ship. Faith, shouldn’t I be delighted.”

“Oh, don’t talk of such a dreadful thing!” exclaimed Norah. “I hope that you may have to convoy him home, and that we may see you both back here in five or six months.”

Gerald could stay but a very short time, as he had been ordered to return on board with Lieutenant Foley. Norah and Captain Tracy accompanied him into Waterford. They found the lieutenant ready to start, and Norah remained with Ellen, who had just taken farewell of her intended husband. Owen, having joined the captain and Norah, went down to the quay to see Gerald off.

“We shall meet, I hope, soon, Owen,” said the young midshipman. “I feel half ashamed of myself for deserting you; but if you knew the life we lead on board the Champion, you wouldn’t be surprised at my preferring her to the dear old Galley.”

“The time may come when you may think differently. But good-bye, my lad; I hope you will enjoy yourself and come back safe,” answered Owen, as Gerald sprang on board.

The lieutenant gazed with eager eyes towards the windows of the large house overlooking the river, where he could see a white handkerchief waving to him. Two or three more years might pass before he could again press the hand lately clasped in his, and it was a hard matter for him just then to keep up his spirits. Soon after the boat returned on board, the anchor was hove up, and the Champion, under all sail, stood to the south-west.

In the evening Mr Ferris desired to see Owen. “My partners and I have given you charge of the Ouzel Galley, Captain Massey, and we trust that you will be as devoted to our interests as your predecessor has been,” he said, giving Owen for the first time the title of captain. “Having undergone a thorough refit, we hope that she will require no fresh repairs for some time to come. We intend to insure her among our friends in Dublin, and they, knowing her good qualities and your careful character, would be ready to underwrite her at a moderate premium considering the war risk.”

“You may rely on my taking the best care I possibly can of the ship,” answered Owen, “and, as she has (I may say it without fear) a fair pair of heels, on my keeping clear of every enemy I may sight.”

“That is what we wish, Mr Massey,” said Mr Ferris. “We don’t want men who will run their noses into danger; and true courage and seamanship will best be shown in your case by cleverly escaping from your foes. You will get the ship ready for sea as soon as possible, and take your cargo on board, and we will then send you further directions from Dublin.”

Owen took leave of his employer and returned home. The next day Mr Ferris, accompanied by Ellen, proceeded to Dublin.

Norah’s day of trial came at length. She ought not to have complained, as she had enjoyed Owen’s society for some months. The Ouzel Galley having shipped her cargo, chiefly of salt provisions, and other produce of the fertile south of Ireland, hauled out into the stream. Her old captain, with Norah and Mrs Massey, went on board to bid farewell to Owen, and proceeded down the river till she had crossed the bar, when Captain Tracy took Owen by the hand.

“Heaven speed you, my boy!” he said. “May He who guarded me through the many dangers of the ocean take care of you, and bring you back in safety to those who will ever give you a loving welcome! And now, the shorter you cut the parting with those two the better.”

Mrs Massey saw that the time had come; she threw her amis round the young captain’s neck, and asked God again and again to protect him. Then she let Norah take her place, while Captain Tracy helped her down into the boat alongside, in which Owen soon afterwards placed Norah. They had said their last words of farewell; Norah’s had been whispered, for her heart was too full to allow her to utter them aloud. Captain Tracy took his seat in the stern-sheets. “Cast off!” he cried to the bowman. The boat dropped astern; Owen was seen standing aft and looking over the taffrail; the pilot, who had still the command, ordered the courses to be let fall, and the Ouzel Galley glided onward. As long as the boat was in sight, there stood Owen gazing at Norah and his mother, as again and again they waved. More than once the old captain turned round to take another look at the ship whose keel he had seen laid, each timber and plank of which he had carefully watched as the shipwrights had fixed them in their destined positions—that ship on the deck of which he had stood when she glided into the water for the first time, and which he had since navigated with watchful care on every voyage she had made, amid rocks and shoals, and over many a league of ocean.

Mrs Massey had consented to spend a few days with Norah. Though her own heart was heavy, she knew that she could console that of the young girl, so unused to the trials of life; while the old captain himself, she saw, required cheering, and thus in benefiting others she forgot her own anxieties. The captain had out his chart: he had marked the way the wind blew, and knew to a nicety the rate at which the ship was sailing, and could thus calculate from hour to hour the exact spot on which she floated—always provided, as he observed, if the wind holds as it did when she quitted port.

At length Mrs Massey returned home, and Norah settled down to her daily occupations. Norah was not free from some anxiety on her own account, for she could not forget the attempt which had been made to carry her off, or divest herself altogether of the fear that she might be subjected to a similar outrage. She therefore never ventured abroad without her father’s escort, while he at home ever kept his firearms ready for her defence. Still, as week after week went by, her hope that O’Harrall had quitted the country, and that he would not again venture to molest her, increased. She heard occasionally from Ellen, though letters were long in coming, and more than once the mail had been stopped on the road and plundered—a too frequent occurrence to be thought much of in those days.

Norah, notwithstanding her fears, was unmolested. The captain had given out that if any one should venture to run off with his daughter he would not obtain a farthing of his property—a wise precaution, for it probably prevented any of the squireens in the neighbourhood from making the attempt—added to the fact, which was pretty generally known, that she was engaged to marry Owen Massey.

Month after month went by. Ellen at first wrote her word that she was going much into society—more, indeed, than she liked—while she had an abundance of occupation at home in attending to her father’s household. Latterly, from her letters, she appeared to be living a more quiet life than at first. She mentioned her father, who seemed to be much out of spirits, though she could not divine the cause. She again invited Norah to come up to Dublin and help to cheer him up.

“You are a great favourite of his, you know,” she wrote. “He delights in hearing you sing, and your merry laugh and conversation will do him good.”

But Norah could not be induced to leave her father; besides which, she confessed to Ellen, she was looking forward in a short time to the return of the Ouzel Galley, and she would be sorry if Owen should not find her at home on his arrival. Ellen, in reply, told her that the Ouzel Galley, after calling at Waterford, would probably have to come on to Dublin, and she continued—“And my father, finding it necessary to go out to Jamaica, intends taking a passage in her; and I have determined to obtain leave to accompany him. I fear that he will object to my doing so, on account of the danger to which I may be exposed; but, you know, as I generally manage to have my own way, I hope to overcome his objections. The ship also will form one of a large fleet of merchantmen under convoy of two or three men-of-war, and as the Ouzel Galley sails well, even should the convoy be attacked by the enemy, we shall have every chance of getting off. You must not be jealous of me, my dear Norah; indeed, I heartily wish that your father could spare you to bear me company; and I dare say that the young captain would wish the same, did he know of the proposed plan. Pray tell him of it when he comes into Waterford, and I have an idea that he will join his persuasions with mine.”

This letter made Norah’s heart beat quickly. She was much surprised, too, at hearing of the intention of Mr Ferris to go out to the West Indies; but, much as she would have liked to accompany her friend, she felt that it would be impossible to leave her father.

“I was afraid that things were not going on straight,” observed Captain Tracy, when she told him of the news she had received. “However, Mr Ferris is the man to set them to rights, and he’ll do it; but I wish that Miss Ellen, instead of going out with him, would come and stay here. She expects to meet the lieutenant, but he’ll be here, there, and everywhere, and she mayn’t see him all the time she is there.”

Norah, in reply, told Ellen what Captain Tracy had said; but Miss Ferris had made up her mind to go if she could, and was not to be deterred from her purpose. One evening Norah was seated at the open window with her work before her, while her father occupied his usual armchair, smoking his pipe, when a rapid step was heard approaching the house. Norah uttered a cry of delight, and, hurrying to the door, the next moment was in Owen Massey’s arms.

“I am glad to see you back, my lad,” cried the old captain, grasping his hand; “you’ve made a quick voyage, and a prosperous one, I hope?”

“As prosperous as I could desire,” answered Owen. “We have had two or three narrow escapes from the enemy’s cruisers, but the Ouzel Galley is in good trim, and never sailed better. I heard in Waterford that I am to proceed to Dublin,” he continued; “so I paid my mother a visit, and she bade me hurry on here. I can remain but a short time, for I must be on board again early to-morrow.”

“We’ll make the most of you, then, my lad,” said Captain Tracy, “and Norah looks as if she intended to do so.”

She was the first to tell Owen of the intention of Mr Ferris to go out in the Ouzel Galley to Jamaica, and that Ellen had made up her mind to accompany him. “She has asked me to pay her a visit before she goes,” she added, “and I should much like to do so could I leave my father, but that I cannot do.”

“Nor shall you, my girl, for I will go with you,” said the captain, who had overheard her remark. “We’ll go in the Ouzel Galley—to my mind there’s less danger at sea than from those land pirates, the highwaymen—and if you can pack up your traps in time, we’ll go aboard to-morrow morning. What say you, Owen? Will you take us as passengers?”

Owen expressed his pleasure at the proposal, and Norah had no doubt that she could pack up in time. Owen put aside all fears of capture by the enemy; indeed, the Channel was so well guarded by British ships of war that there was little danger, he thought, on that score. He had too much confidence in his own seamanship to think of shipwreck. After all arrangements had been made, he went back to spend the rest of the evening with his mother, while Norah and the captain, with Biddy’s help, prepared for their departure.

Chapter Nine.

The Ouzel Galley sails for Dublin—A strange sail to the southward—Follows the Ouzel Galley—The Champion sends Mr Foley and Gerald to press some of her men—Norah in Dublin—Mr Foley and Gerald in command of a pressgang—An adventure on the Liberties—A suspicious character captured—Pressed men carried off—Ellen and Mr Ferris sail in the Ouzel Galley—Captain Tracy and Norah return to Waterford—The Ouzel Galley with the convoy bound for the West Indies—Sharp action with French frigates—The enemy beaten off.

Norah and Captain Tracy were on board the Ouzel Galley before noon the next day, accompanied by Owen. They had gone round to bid Mrs Massey good-bye; it cost her much to part again so soon with her son, but she was proud of seeing him captain of so fine a ship, and had learnt to bear many trials with fortitude.

As the breeze blew up the harbour, the Ouzel Galley had to beat out, which, with a favourable tide, she succeeded in doing in a few tacks, after which she had a fair wind for Dublin. Dan, coming aft, hat in hand, welcomed Miss Norah, and wished she was going to sail with them the next voyage—Pompey, who presumed on long service with Captain Massey, imitating his example, and making an appropriate speech. Norah thanked them, and, it is just possible, secretly wished that she was to remain on board.

A bright look-out was kept for any sail which might heave in sight; for, though Owen believed that there was no risk of encountering an enemy, it was still possible that a French privateer might be on the watch to pick up any merchant vessel which might come within her grasp. The wind fell, and the Ouzel Galley made but little progress during the night. Whatever others might have done, Norah did not complain; she was in no hurry to have the trip over. Dawn had just broken, when, as a mist which had for some hours hung over the ocean began to clear away, a hand who had been sent aloft shouted out, “A sail to the southward!” Owen, who was on deck, at once went to the mast-head to take a look at the stranger. She was a large ship under all sail, but the mist prevented him from making out very clearly what she was.

“She is bringing up the breeze,” observed Captain Massey, when he returned on deck; “but as we shall probably get it before long, we may keep ahead of her.”

“We’ll try our best to do that same,” said the old captain; “it would be hard to be trapped just as we are going into port.”

“I should never forgive myself for having allowed you and Norah to come on board,” said Owen, feeling much more anxious than he would have done had he been alone.

“Don’t trouble yourself about that, lad,” answered the captain; “she is more likely to be a British ship than a Frenchman, and she hasn’t got up to us yet, nor will she, I trust, before we are safe in the Liffey. I shall be glad, however, when we get the breeze.”

They had not long to wait before cat’s-paws were seen playing over the surface of the ocean. The sails were trimmed, and the ship began to glide through the water; faster and faster she moved, but the stranger astern still gained on her. Norah soon followed her father on deck, and the rising sun shining on the white canvas of the ship astern revealed her more clearly to view.

“Is that ship chasing us?” she asked, with a little trepidation in her voice.

“She is following in our wake, but she may be a friend for all that,” answered Owen, anxious not to alarm Norah. “Should she prove to be a foe, we’ll do our best to keep ahead of her. Fortunately, we have a port to run for, and have every chance of gaining it before she comes up with us. See, we have the Wicklow mountains already in sight, and it will not take us many hours to reach Dublin if the wind holds as it does now.”

“I quite agree with you, Owen; we have very little cause to fear, go we’ll go below and take our breakfasts with good appetite,” said the captain, the steward having just announced that the meal was ready.

On returning on deck they could perceive no change in the relative position of the vessels; but as the day drew on the wind dropped, and the stranger appeared to gain on them. Still they made some way, and could distinguish the Round Tower and ruined house on Dalkey Island, off the Wicklow coast, when it fell perfectly calm, and though the Bay of Dublin was almost in sight, they were unable to reach it. The old captain took many a glance through his spy-glass at the ship astern.

“She looks more like an English man-of-war than a Frenchman,” he said to Owen; “see what you make of her.”

“I agree with you, sir,” said Owen. “She is standing after us simply because she is bound to the same port, and if so, we need not trouble ourselves further about her; anyway, we shall be safe at anchor before long, and an enemy would scarcely venture into the bay to cut us out.”

Still Owen, not being altogether free from anxiety, walked the deck the greater part of the night, waiting for a breeze. It came at length, towards the end of the middle watch, and as before, astern. He had lost sight of the stranger during the hours of darkness, but when dawn broke, as the Ouzel Galley was off Kingstown, he saw her coming up rapidly not a mile away. With the increasing daylight he made her out, however, to be undoubtedly a British man-of-war.

“No mistake as to that point,” observed Captain Tracy, who joined him on deck; “I thought so from the first.”

What was their astonishment, therefore, when the corvette fired a gun towards them. The Ouzel Galley still stood on, when the sound of another gun came booming over the calm sea.

“It is the signal to us to heave to. We must obey,” said Owen; “though they perhaps think that we are too strong-handed, and wish to press some of our men.”

“There’s no help for it,” observed the old captain; “better at the end of a voyage than the beginning of one, as far as the owners are concerned; but it is a cruel thing for the poor men to be carried away from their families just as they are expecting to get home.”

The yards were braced up, and the ship hove to. In a short time the corvette, getting abreast of her, lowered a boat and quickly pulled alongside, with a lieutenant and midshipman in her. As they sprang on deck, the latter came running aft.

“Don’t you know me, father?” he exclaimed, as he got up to Captain Tracy.

“What, Gerald, my boy! You’ve grown so tall and brown that, thinking you away in the West Indies, I didn’t till this moment,” answered Captain Tracy.

“But I thought it was he,” cried Norah, as Gerald bestowed on her a brotherly embrace. He then shook hands with Owen, to whom Lieutenant Foley, who was the other officer, had at first addressed himself; but, seeing Norah, he advanced and paid his respects, inquiring for her friend Miss Ferris.

“She is well, and about to sail for Jamaica on board this vessel,” answered Norah. “You will, if you land at Dublin, have an opportunity of seeing her.”

“I hope, then, that the Ouzel Galley will form one of the next fleet which we have received orders to convoy to the West Indies,” said Lieutenant Foley. “Having been sent home with despatches, we landed at Plymouth, and were on our way round here when we ran out of our course in chase of a strange sail. She, however, escaped us, and we are now bound into Dublin Bay. Are you going to remain on board?” he asked.

“I am afraid not,” said Norah; “but I am sure that it will be satisfactory to Mr Ferris to learn that your ship will convoy them. Should I see them before you do, I will tell them so.”

Thereon the lieutenant sent several messages to Ellen, which Norah promised to deliver, as duty might possibly delay him from going on shore. He then turned to Owen.

“I was sent to press some of the hands out of your ship,” he said, “but if you are about again to sail, I feel authorised to take only those who have not agreed to return with you; and I must beg you to muster your crew.”

Whatever might have been the intentions of the men, they one and all agreed to re-enter for the next voyage on board the Ouzel Galley, and Owen thus secured an experienced crew instead of the untried hands he might afterwards have picked up.

“It is fortunate that you fell in with us instead of any other man-of-war, or you would have lost your best hands,” said Gerald; “and we, I suspect, shall have to send pressgangs on shore to pick up all the fellows we can find. You had better give a hint to your men not to trust themselves out of the ship, for all would be fish who come to our net, they may depend on that.”

Gerald had to return with Lieutenant Foley to the Champion, while the Ouzel Galley, having taken a pilot on board, at once ran up the harbour, when Norah and her father proceeded to Mr Ferris’s. The arrival of the Ouzel Galley was hailed with great satisfaction by Mr Ferris; still more so was the news Norah gave Ellen, that the Champion was one of the ships of war appointed to convoy the Ouzel Galley and the other merchant vessels to the West Indies. All diligence was used in discharging her cargo and taking a fresh one on board; and in shorter time than usual, thanks to the assistance rendered by her old captain, she was ready for sea. Owen had the happiness of spending the evenings with Norah, and Ellen was the better able to dispense with her society as Lieutenant Foley managed frequently to get on shore, bringing Gerald with him. Their time, however, was not always passed so agreeably, as they had on several occasions to take charge of the pressgangs sent on shore to pick up men, and more than once they were engaged in pretty severe encounters with the unwilling seamen whom it was their duty to capture.

Mr Foley and the young midshipman were spending the evening at Mr Ferris’s, when they were summoned out.

“We must wish you good night,” said the lieutenant to Ellen, returning; “we have some duty to attend to, and shall afterwards have to go on board our ship.”

The ladies came into the hall, and were somewhat astonished at the garb which the two officers quickly assumed. Over their neat uniforms they put on large Flushing trousers, thick coats of the same material buttoned up to their throats, round which they tied large comforters, while on their heads they wore weather-beaten sou’-westers. A cutlass, buckled on by a leathern belt in which a brace of pistols were stuck, showed that they were about to proceed on an expedition in which rough play might be expected.

“Where are you going?” asked Ellen, in some trepidation.

“Only to obtain a few loyal seamen to serve his Majesty,” answered the lieutenant. “The fellows don’t know their true interests, and may perhaps offer some opposition; but don’t be alarmed—we hope to be on shore to-morrow to give a good account of ourselves.”

The lieutenant and midshipman set off under the guidance of the captain’s coxswain, a Dublin man, who had come for them. Proceeding to a public-house on one of the lower quays, they found a dozen seamen dressed and armed as they were. The lieutenant having given them directions, they followed him and his guide to that part of Dublin known as the “Liberties,” inhabited by the dregs of the population. The night was dark; no lamps illumined that part of the town. The lantern carried by Larry Flynn, the coxswain, enabled the party to thread their way through several narrow streets till they reached a house, at the door of which he stopped.

“This is it, yer honour,” said Larry; “but we must be mighty quick, or they’ll be after escaping along the tiles.”

On this he gave a gentle knock at the door. “Hist! Mother O’Flanigan, open the door, or I’ll be taken hold of by the watchmen,” he whispered through the keyhole, as he heard a step within.

“Who is it?” asked the voice.

“Shure, it’s Dennis Donovan, whom ye’ll be after knowing, I’m thinking; but quick, quick, mother dear, or it’ll be too late and I’ll be caught.”

As he spoke the bars were withdrawn, and the lock turned, and the old woman, forgetting her usual caution, slowly opened the door. On this Larry sprang in, and before she had time to shriek out thrust a woollen comforter into her mouth.

“Hold her fast, Bill!” he exclaimed to one of the men who had been directed to guard the door, while the lieutenant and Gerald, with the rest, rushed along a narrow passage, at the end of which another female, a stout, sturdy-looking Amazon, appeared with a light in one hand and a poker in the other.

“Who are ye, ye brutes?” she exclaimed, “coming to disturb a dacent household at this time of night? Shure, the childher are in bed, and ye’ll be waking them up and sending them into fits, the darlints.”

“It’s joking ye are, Misthress Milligan, for divil a child have ye got in the house, barring a score of bhoys with big whiskers on their faces,” answered Larry; “so just keep a dacent tongue in your mouth, and be quiet with that poker.”

Mrs Milligan, finding that she was known, and as it would be useless to deny that she had guests in the house, shrieked out at the top of her voice, “Run, bhoys, run—the pressgang are on ye!” at the same time attempting, with her formidable weapon, to prevent the seamen from opening the door before which she stood. Larry, however, dashing forward, wrenched it from her hand, and giving her a shove which sent her reeling into the arms of those behind him, burst open the door with his cudgel; and, the harridan having been handed along to those in the rear, the rest of the men followed him into the room. It was an apartment of some size. At one end was a table covered with mugs, a jug or two, and several bottles of large proportions, and surrounded by benches; while at the other end were four beds, each with a couple of occupants, who had endeavoured to conceal their features by the coverlets. Larry pointed to them, and he and his companions springing forward and drawing off the coverlets, brought to view eight fully clad seamen, who, offering no resistance, quietly submitted to their fate; though sundry oaths and throats of vengeance showed that they believed themselves to be the victims of treachery.

“There are more of them stowed away above,” exclaimed Larry; and, leaving the room, he sprang up a rickety stair.

“Who comes there?” cried a gruff voice from the top. The speaker had probably been aroused by the noises below. “You’ll pay dear for it, whoever you are who attempt to interfere with me.”

“Shure, Dick Rowan, your time has come at last to serve his Majesty, threaten and bluster as you like,” cried Larry, as he and the rest continued their ascent.

“Take that!” cried the previous speaker, firing a pistol, the bullet whistling near Larry’s ear, but striking in the wall behind him. Before he could draw another, Larry and the lieutenant threw themselves upon him, and in spite of his struggles dragged him downstairs. His shouts aroused several other men, who rushed out armed with bludgeons and pistols.

“Come up here at your peril,” cried one of them, who appeared at the head of the stair, flourishing his bludgeon and holding a pistol in his left hand.

“It’s not such orders from the like of you we’ve a mind to obey,” said Larry, who having handed over the men just taken prisoners, was, with the lieutenant and Gerald, about to ascend the steps. Gerald was struck by the voice, and as Larry threw the light of his lantern before him, he recognised, as he believed, the features of Carnegan, the second mate of the Ouzel Galley—or rather O’Harrall, as he has been better known to the reader.

“Seize the ruffian,” cried Gerald; “he is an escaped prisoner. I know him!” He sprang up the steps as he spoke, Mr Foley, Larry, and several of the men following.

“Take that for your knowledge, youngster,” cried the man, firing his pistol; and finding that it had missed Gerald’s head, though by a hair’s breadth alone, he lifted his cudgel and would have effectually put an end to his young assailant, had not Larry interposed his cutlass, and, before the man could again raise his weapon, inflicted so severe a wound that he was compelled to drop it. The lieutenant and more seamen coming up threw themselves on him, and in spite of several other people who had come out, he also was secured. The rest retreated into the room, but were pursued before they could make their escape from the windows, which they were attempting to do. One fellow was hauled back just as he had got outside, and in a short time every male inmate of the house was captured.

Rapid as the pressgang had been in their movements, the alarm had been given outside, and a mob was already collecting in the street, evidently with the intention of rescuing the prisoners. There was no time, therefore, to be lost. Mr Foley ordered his men to drag them out and hurry them along, each of the pressgang holding a pistol to the head of his prisoner. Larry had taken charge of the man whom Gerald supposed to be O’Harrall. The ruffian at first waited along quietly enough, but by the way he turned his head he was evidently on the watch for an opportunity of escaping.

“If ye attempt to do it, a bullet will go through yer head, as shure as ye’re a living man,” cried Larry, in a tone of voice which made the prisoner feel certain that he would be as good as his word. His escape would have been the signal for the rest to attempt breaking loose. Mr Foley and Gerald, with two of the men who had no prisoners to guard, brought up the rear, and had enough to do to keep the rapidly increasing mob at bay. It was mostly composed, however, of women and boys, who shrieked and shouted, and hurled abuse on the heads of the pressgang. By degrees, however, they were joined by several men carrying shillelaghs, but the strict enforcement of the law against the possession of firearms prevented the lower orders in the city from having them. Growing bolder as their numbers increased, and seeing that the pressgang was about to escape from their own especial domain, they made a furious attack on the rearguard, who could only keep them at bay by a free use of their cutlasses, with which several of the assailants were wounded. At length the lesson the mob received made them hold back, though they vented their rage in still louder execrations, howling as an Irish mob alone can howl.

“Not very pleasant work this, Tracy,” observed Mr Foley to the midshipman. “However, as we’ve got thus far, I hope that we may succeed in conveying our prisoners to the boats.”

“One of them, at all events, is likely to make further efforts to escape,” said Gerald. “He is the very man, if I mistake not, who got out of the King Tower at Waterford, and even if we carry him on board, he is likely to prove a troublesome customer.”

“We’ll soon bring the most troublesome down to their proper bearings,” answered the lieutenant. “If he is a good seaman, he’ll answer our purpose.”

“We haven’t got him safe on board yet, sir, and if these fellows gathering round us show any pluck, we shall have a hard matter to keep him and the rest of the captured men,” said Gerald, looking down the street, the few lights in which dimly showed a mass of people rushing forward, the shillelaghs of the men waving wildly above their heads.

“Go on ahead, Tracy, and urge Larry to move faster,” said Mr Foley. “Do you keep your eye on his prisoner and see that he doesn’t escape.”

Gerald obeyed the order, and the seamen did their best to drag forward their captives by threats of blowing out their brains if they did not keep their feet stirring. Gerald was not mistaken as to the object of the crowd, though they had apparently intended to attack the head of his party; seeing them passing, they now came rushing on at greater speed than before.

“Stand back,” cried the lieutenant, “or we’ll fire; it will be your own fault if any of you are killed.”

No regard, however, was paid to his threats. Some of the more daring of the crowd leaped forward, springing now on one side, now on the other, under the idea of escaping the bullets which might be fired at them. The lieutenant and his two men on this had begun to flourish their cutlasses, which in such an affray would be of far more use than pistols, and serve, as before, to keep their assailants from coming to close quarters; still, as they retreated the mob advanced, and every moment threatened to make a rush, when by their superior numbers they must have succeeded in overwhelming the lieutenant and his men and rescuing their prisoners. At this juncture a loud hurrah was heard, and a fresh body of seamen came hurrying along the street. The mob no sooner saw them than the greater number scampered off to a safe distance, where they gave vent to their feelings by uttering the most fearful howls and hurling maledictions on the heads of the pressgang; but the prisoners must have seen that all hope of escape was gone, for they now quietly submitted to their fate, and when they reached the quay stepped, as ordered, into the boats.

The man whom Gerald supposed to be O’Harrall was put into his boat. “We have met before,” said Gerald, after they had pulled some little way down the river; “I wonder you don’t know me.”

“It must have been a long time ago, then, sir, for I haven’t the slightest recollection of ever having set eyes on you,” answered the man.

“What, were you never on board the Ouzel Galley?” asked Gerald.

“Never heard of her till a couple of days ago, when I saw her alongside the quay,” was the reply.

“What, don’t you know the name of Carnegan?” said Gerald.

“I may know it—but it isn’t my name,” answered the man.

“Then perhaps it is O’Harrall,” said Gerald.

The man started. “How did you come to know that name?” he asked; adding quickly, “But that isn’t my name either. If you want to know it, Michael Dillon is my name; and since I am to have the ill luck to be compelled to serve his Majesty afloat, I intend to show that it’s one no man need be ashamed of.”

“It is very extraordinary,” thought Gerald. “This man’s answers are so straightforward that I suppose I must have been mistaken.” He did not further question the prisoner. The boats at length reached the ship, and the captives were sent below under a guard. Mr Foley, at Gerald’s suggestion, gave orders that Dillon especially should be strictly watched, as should any of them leap overboard, they were sure to have friends waiting in readiness to pick them up.

This was only one of several expeditions made by the pressgang on shore, though none were so successful. On each occasion they were hooted by the mob; and not without reason, when husbands were torn from their wives, fathers from their children—several of those taken being either ’long-shore men or not even sailors—but men were wanted, and Captain Olding had been directed to get as many as he could pick up, to supply the other ships expected shortly to form the convoy of the fleet of merchantmen. Two frigates arrived a few days after this, and orders were issued to the merchant vessels to rendezvous in the bay. Every effort was made to get them ready, as those not prepared would probably have to wait for many months before another convoy would sail.

Ellen, as might have been expected, had gained her object, and her father had consented to her accompanying him on board the Ouzel Galley. It is as difficult to describe as to analyse the feelings with which poor Norah parted with her. She was sorry to lose her friend; she felt a very natural jealousy of her—or, if it was not jealousy, she would thankfully have changed places. Still more gladly would she have gone with her—though not for a moment did an unworthy doubt of her friend, still less of Owen, enter into her mind. But notwithstanding this, even had the offer been made to her to go out with Ellen, she would not have deserted her father. When she and Captain Tracy stood on the deck of the Ouzel Galley, as the stout ship sailed out of harbour, she succeeded in maintaining her composure. Not, indeed, till the signal gun was fired for the fleet to get under way, and she and the captain had taken their seats in the boat to return to the shore, did she show any signs of the feelings which were agitating her.

“Cheer up, Norah,” said the old captain; “we’ll pray that they may have a prosperous voyage and speedy return, and it won’t be many months before we see the Ouzel Galley coming back trim as ever into Waterford Harbour. Owen will soon make his fortune with the favour of Mr Ferris; he is a favourite captain, that is evident, and the house can put many a chance in his way of turning an honest penny. Perhaps after next voyage the ship will be requiring another repair, and as Owen will then have to remain for some time on shore, he may think fit to make you his wife, and I’ll not object if he has your consent. I only wish Gerald were with him; the lad’s thrown a good chance away, but he was so bent on joining the Royal Navy that I hadn’t the heart to hinder him, though I might have been wiser to do so.”

Thus the old captain ran on, his remarks contributing not a little to calm his daughter’s feelings and to induce her to look forward hopefully to the future.

After spending a few days more in Dublin, the captain being employed in transacting some shipping business for the firm, he and Norah set off for Waterford, where, in spite of his apprehensions of being attacked by Rapparees, highwaymen, or abductors, they arrived in safety.

Meantime the Ouzel Galley, with about sixty other merchantmen collected from Liverpool, Glasgow, and various Irish ports, set sail down Channel, convoyed by the 32-gun frigates, Thisbe and Druid, and the Champion corvette; “Old Blowhard,” as he was called, captain of the Thisbe, acting as commodore. The Champion had a busy time of it whipping up the laggards and calling in the stragglers, who would, in spite of orders to the contrary, steer their own course. The Ouzel Galley was among the well-behaved of the fleet, always keeping her proper position; and though she could have run well ahead of most of them, Owen never failed to shorten sail when necessary, for which he was complimented by Mr Ferris. Perhaps Ellen might have preferred more frequently seeing the Champion, which she soon learned to distinguish from the rest of the fleet. The Druid was employed much as the Champion; but Old Blowhard kept his proper position in the van, making signals with his bunting or guns as occasion required.

The greater portion of the passage was accomplished without an enemy’s cruiser having been sighted; indeed, no small French squadron would have ventured to approach the formidable-looking fleet, as many of the merchantmen carried guns, and three or four of them would have been a match for any frigate, or, at all events, would not have yielded without a hard struggle.

Meantime Gerald, who was disposed under all circumstances to make himself happy, thought the Champion’s employment very good fun, notwithstanding the grumblings of old Beater and Crowhurst, who were from morning till night abusing the slow-sailing “sugar-hogsheads,” as they designated the merchant craft. He was only a little disappointed at having no opportunity of paying his friend a visit on board the Ouzel Galley—a feeling probably shared with him by the second lieutenant. The Champion had been compelled to dispose of most of the pressed men between the two frigates, retaining only a few to make up her own complement. Among them was the man captured in the Dublin lodging-house, who had entered under the name of Michael Dillon. When Gerald came to see him oftener, the supposed likeness to Carnegan wore off, though still there was a wonderful similarity in the voice and manner. Dillon soon showed himself to be a bold and active seaman, and thereby gained the good opinion of the officers, though his behaviour was generally surly, especially towards the English portion of the crew. He took pains however, to ingratiate himself with the Irishmen, by being always ready to do a good turn to any of them, very frequently even sharing his grog with them—the highest mark of regard one seaman can show to another. Gerald, who naturally observed the man, fancied that he looked at him with a suspicious eye, and was inclined to keep out of his way; but at the same time he treated him, as he did the other midshipmen, with the required amount of respect, though certainly not with a particle more.

“You see, Tracy, I told you that Dillon and the rest of the pressed men would soon be brought into order by the discipline of a man-of-war,” observed Mr Foley one day to Gerald, who was in his watch. “Blustering fellows, such as he appeared, become in a few weeks perfectly lamb-like.”

“I wouldn’t trust him overmuch, sir, nevertheless,” answered Gerald. “From a remark the carpenter made to me the other day, he has formed no favourable opinion of him. He has several times found him talking in a low voice to the men, as if he had some especial object in view, and Mr O’Rourke thinks that, if he had an opportunity of doing mischief, he would do it.”

“I am not fond of hearing unfavourable reports of the men, and I recommend you not to indulge in the habit of making them, unless officially required so to do,” said the lieutenant, rather annoyed at Gerald’s remarks.

“I had no intention of bringing them to you, sir,” answered Gerald; “but when you spoke of Dillon, I felt myself called on to say what I had heard, especially as I have had suspicions of the man from the first. I indeed believed him to be a person we had on board the Ouzel Galley, and who, it was afterwards discovered, had been guilty of an act of piracy and murder.”

“But if he is not the man you took him for, you should overcome your prejudice,” remarked the lieutenant.

“I try to do so, sir,” said Gerald, “and I should have thought no more about him if I hadn’t heard remarks which aroused my former suspicions.”

“I believe you are right, after all, Tracy,” said Mr Foley; “we’ll keep an eye on the man, and not place him in a position where he can do any harm.”

This conversation took place when the convoy was about four or five days’ sail from the West Indies.

“The commodore is signalling, sir,” cried young Lord Mountstephen, who was acting as signal midshipman, “‘A sail to the southward!—the Champion to chase and ascertain her character.’”

“Make the answering signal,” said Mr Foley. “Tracy, go and report to the captain.”

The wind was at this time about south-east. The Thisbe was in her usual station to windward of the fleet and abeam of the leading vessel, and the fleet with flowing sheets was steering to the westward. The Champion, hauling her wind, stood out from among them.

“The commodore suspects the stranger to be an enemy,” observed the commander to Mr Foley. A look-out with sharp eyes was sent aloft, to report as soon as the sail indicated by the frigate should appear in sight. She was before long seen, and was evidently a large ship standing to the north-west, a course which would bring her up to the convoy.

“We must have a nearer look at her,” said the commander; “she is more probably a friend than an enemy.”

“Two other sail,” cried the look-out from aloft, “following in the wake of the first.”

Still the corvette, according to orders, stood on. As she approached the stranger, the commander changed his opinion.

“They are Frenchmen,” he observed to his first lieutenant; “we’ll keep away and run back to the commodore. If, as I suspect, all three are frigates, or perhaps larger craft, we shall have to bring them to action and allow the convoy to escape.”

The announcement caused considerable excitement on board. “We shall probably be in action before the day is out,” cried Gerald, as he went into the midshipmen’s berth, “and have pretty hot work, too, if the Frenchmen show any pluck.”

“The best news I’ve heard for many a day,” said old Crowhurst. “Notwithstanding all I’ve done for my country, it’s the only chance I have of getting promoted.”

“I don’t see how that’s to be,” said Gerald; “mates are not often mentioned in despatches.”

“But if a happy shot were to knock either of our superiors on the head, I should obtain the rank I merit,” replied the mate. “For that matter, I’ve seen service enough and done deeds sufficient to deserve being made a commander or post-captain.”

“Long life to you, Captain Crowhurst!” exclaimed Gerald. “If I was a Lord of the Admiralty I’d promote you to-day and superannuate you to-morrow. I don’t suppose the service would be greatly the loser.”

“That youngster requires a cobbing,” said Beater, who perceived what the other did not, that Gerald was laughing at him; and he pulled out his cob, prepared to inflict condign punishment.

“Now don’t, till the action’s over,” said Gerald, getting ready to make his exit from the berth; “then, if the enemy’s shot hasn’t taken either of our heads off, you’ll be welcome to do what you like—if you can catch me—and I don’t intend that you should do that same just now;” and Gerald sprang through the doorway out of reach of the irate old mate. The other members of the berth talked over the probabilities of the expected fight. One and all were ready enough for it, especially two or three who had never yet seen a shot fired in anger; they having but little conception of what the result of a hard-fought action would be, even should they prove victorious.

As soon as the Champion got within signalling distance of the commodore, Captain Olding reported three sail of the enemy in sight.

On this the Thisbe hoisted a signal to the Druid to join her, while the merchant vessels were directed to keep together and to stand on as they were steering. The three men-of-war now hauled up a little, the sooner to meet the enemy, the Champion being to windward of the frigates.

“Old Blowhard expects that the enemy will take us for the advanced frigates of a large fleet, and will probably think it wiser to keep out of our way than to come nearer,” observed Captain Olding to his first lieutenant, “Though we should beat them, we should gain but little by an action.”

“I agree with you, sir. I never fancied fighting for barren glory, I confess,” said Mr Tarwig; “and as our first duty is to defend our convoy, I conclude that the commodore will be satisfied if we can beat off the enemy.”

“We may hope to do that, even though the Champion will be somewhat overmatched; but I can trust to the ship’s company to do their duty,” said the captain, in a firm tone. “Clear the ship for action, Mr Tarwig.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the first lieutenant, giving the necessary orders. Lieutenant Foley and the other officers set about carrying them out with alacrity. He was glad to be actively employed, for many anxious thoughts oppressed his mind. He could not conceal from himself the fearful odds to which they were exposed, and what might possibly be the issue of the approaching conflict. One of the enemy was certainly greatly superior in force to the Champion, and the other two French ships might be much larger than the Thisbe and Druid. Even should their own ships be disabled, though not captured, many of the merchant fleet might fall a prey to the Frenchmen, and the Ouzel Galley might possibly be among the number. What then would be the fate of Ellen and her father? It was of the greatest importance to Mr Ferris to reach Jamaica without delay, and instead of that he might very likely be carried to France, or detained as a prisoner in one of the French West India islands; while Ellen must be exposed to much annoyance and suffering. He himself had no coward fears for his own life; but he knew full well, should he fall, the grief and anguish it would cause her.

All such thoughts were, however, put to flight as the two squadrons approached each other, the Thisbe leading and the Champion, according to orders received from the commodore, bringing up the rear. Old Blowhard’s object was to disable one of the French frigates before he attacked the other two, so that she might become a more equal antagonist for the Champion. As the squadrons approached, it was seen that each of the French frigates carried more guns than the Thisbe and Druid, and nearly twice as many as the Champion. Old Blowhard, however, nothing daunted, stood on, firm to his purpose of attacking the enemy and leaving the convoy time to escape. The leading French frigate was a considerable way ahead of her consorts; on seeing the determined bearing of the English, she shortened sail, while they spread all the canvas they could to come up with her—the Thisbe carrying all she could set, in order to attack her before they could accomplish their object. Just as the Thisbe brought the enemy on her lee bow, the commodore threw out a signal to the Druid to keep away and to rake the French frigate, while he poured his whole broadside into her. He also ordered the Champion to imitate his example, and then to come about and fire her larboard broadside. The French captain might, of course, defeat these various manoeuvres by either keeping away or hauling his wind.

Every person on board was watching anxiously to see what he would do. No moments in a seaman’s life are so intensely exciting as those when, before a shot is fired, his ship is standing into action. The wind was moderate, the sky of a cerulean hue, and the sea tolerably calm, the rays of the sun glittering on the snowy crests of the waves. The looked-for moment at length arrived. The Thisbe’s foremost gun broke the deep silence which had hitherto reigned over the ocean. It was rapidly followed by her broadside guns, to which the Frenchman replied with spirit. The Druid, suddenly putting up her helm, fired the whole of her larboard broadside into the Frenchman’s bows, then again luffing up in time to fire her starboard guns, trained well aft, before the Champion got into a position by which she might suffer from their shot. The corvette now stood in to action, running so close to her large antagonist that their respective yardarms almost touched, most of the shot from the French frigate’s upper deck going harmlessly over her, though she suffered considerably from those of the main-deck. Her rigging, however, escaping much damage, she was able to haul her wind and come about. Notwithstanding the severe punishment she was receiving, the French frigate gave no signs of surrendering.

“We can tackle her now, I think, by ourselves,” observed Captain Olding to his first lieutenant. The commodore, however, had no intention of allowing his small consort to do that. His first broadside had cut away many of the braces of the French ship, and severely wounded her mainyard. He now, consequently, having come about, was able to range up on her starboard quarter directly after the Champion had passed on. Again pouring in his broadside, he shot away the French frigate’s mizen-mast, which came crashing down on deck. Shouts rose from the decks of the English ships as what had occurred was seen. Both the English frigates had now to engage the two Frenchmen—one following the other, they were quickly exchanging broadsides. The Thisbe then addressed herself especially to the second French frigate, while the Druid took the third in hand, the commodore ordering the Champion to continue her attack on the first till he could come to her assistance.

All three of the English ships had by this time lost a number of men, though they had inflicted still greater damage on the French frigates. Captain Olding fought the corvette bravely, manoeuvring to keep ahead of his antagonist. The great object had already been gained, the escape of the merchant fleet, the topgallantsails of the rearmost vessels of which had long since disappeared beneath the horizon. Though the Champion’s rigging remained uninjured, with the exception of a brace or two cut through, she had received some severe damages in her hull. Three men had been killed, and six, including her gunner, wounded.

“We are succeeding better than might have been expected, Tarwig,” observed Captain Olding. “If we can’t make this fellow strike, we can keep him from running away or joining his consorts. See, there goes the Druid’s mainmast, and there comes her foremast. Blowhard must take care not to have both the enemy on him at once, or he may fare no better.”

For a few minutes it was difficult to see what the four ships were about, so close were they together, and enveloped in smoke; for the fall of the English frigate’s masts had encouraged the Frenchmen (whose fire had somewhat slackened) to fresh exertions, and their fire was renewed with greater vigour than before. Lieutenant Foley turned his eye towards them, for it was very evident that the corvette, unless she could knock away another of her antagonist’s masts, was not likely to gain the victory. He anxiously looked for the commodore’s promised assistance. Presently, one of the combatants was seen issuing from the smoke, followed closely by the other, and standing towards the corvette. Unless she could make good her escape, her capture or destruction was scarcely problematical. The Thisbe was following, firing her guns as they could be brought to bear; but she could not arrive in time to save the corvette. Captain Olding had no intention of deserting his consorts; he hauled up, therefore, to the southward in order to tack and stand down towards the Druid. He now saw that the hulls of the French frigates were sorely battered. One of them threw out signals, when their leading frigate, coming round on the starboard tack, made all sail to the northward, as did both the others, apparently having had enough of fighting. The commodore now signalled to the Champion to stand after the convoy, and he himself was soon afterwards seen following, having sent a party of his hand on board the Druid to assist her in repairing damages.

Chapter Ten.

The Champion steers after the merchantmen—The merchantmen sighted—Shots heard—Two vessels seen engaged—The Champion runs alongside the Ouzel Galley—Her crew drives back the pirates—She goes in chase of the pirate—Norman and Gerald left on board the Ouzel Galley—Damages repaired—Proceed on to Jamaica—Two fresh foes sighted—The Champion engages them—The Thisbe and Druid appear—The enemy flies—The convoy enters Port Royal harbour—Gerald returns on board the Champion—His announcement disappoints Crowhurst—Lieutenant Foley at East Mount—Ellen and her father go to Bellevue.

The Champion, under all sail, ran on to overtake the convoy and announce the satisfactory intelligence that the enemy, severely shattered, had been beaten off. A look-out was kept from the mast-head, but as yet no sail were in sight, and as the sun was sinking low, there was no hope of coming up with them before dark. Still, it was possible that the corvette might do so before the next morning. By that time they would be approaching the Bahama or Windward Channel, a short way to the southward of Saint Salvador, as the Spaniards called it, or Cat Island, as it was named by the English buccaneers—the first land belonging to America discovered by Columbus on his voyage in search of the Indies.

“They are not likely to attempt running through the passage without waiting for our convoy,” observed the first lieutenant to Norman Foley. “Besides the French, the Bahamas still swarm with picarooning rascals, who are ever on the look-out for merchant craft, and would not scruple to lay aboard any they fancy they can overcome.”

“Even the most daring would scarcely venture, I hope, to attack a fleet among which are so many armed vessels, well able either to defend themselves or to retaliate on an intruder,” answered Lieutenant Foley, whose thoughts immediately flew to the Ouzel Galley.

“They would run the chance of getting off scot free in the confusion their sudden appearance would make,” said Mr Tarwig. “There is no exploit, however hazardous, they would not undertake with the chance of obtaining a good booty. I took part in the capture of several notorious pirates a few years ago. One fellow blew up his ship rather than surrender, and all died hardened villains, as they had lived.”

“The greater need for us to overtake our friends without delay,” answered the second lieutenant, who shortly afterwards went forward to take a look through his night-glass, in the hope of distinguishing some of the lights which the merchant vessels had been directed to hang over the sterns. In vain, however, he swept the horizon with his telescope; had the lights been there, he must have seen them. The commander was almost as anxious as the second lieutenant to overtake the fleet of merchantmen, though he was influenced simply by the desire to do his duty. The watch below had turned in, but most of the officers kept the deck; even old Crowhurst was continually on the forecastle in the hope of seeing the looked-for lights.

“I fancied that they would have shortened sail and waited for our coming,” said Gerald. “What can have induced them to run on?”

“The fear that the Frenchmen would thrash us and overtake them,” answered old Beater; “they judge of us by themselves.”

“There are as brave fellows in the merchant service as in the Royal Navy,” said Gerald, who was piqued at the old mate’s remark. “When I was on board the Ouzel Galley, we held out as long as any ship of war of similar force would have done. Depend on it, had the merchant vessels been allowed, they would have come to our assistance if we had wanted them.”

“A pretty pass we should have come to, to require their aid,” exclaimed Crowhurst, in a scornful tone.

“We may require it some day, and you’d be the first to shout for help,” answered Gerald. “I took a fancy to the navy, but I’m not going to stand by and hear the merchant service abused.”

“Cock-a-doodle-doo! What dunghill have you got to the top of, youngster?” cried the old mate.

“One from which I can crow as loud as you do,” said Gerald—at which a chuckle was heard from several of the men standing within earshot. Crowhurst’s anger was rising; he was considering what punishment he should inflict on the audacious youngster, when the cry was heard of “A light ahead!” and presently afterwards several others were seen. There could be little doubt, from their position, that they were shown by merchant vessels, though the darkness prevented the vessels themselves from being distinguished. A sharp look-out was kept that the corvette might not run foul of any stragglers who were neglecting to show their lights. Presently the sound of a shot was heard, followed by several others coming up faintly against the wind.

“Those sounds come from the north-west,” observed the master.

“One of the merchantmen on shore, I fear,” said the commander.

“Those guns we hear are nearer to us than any land. The leading vessels are not up to Atwood Quay yet,” answered the master. “Depend on it, some of the convoy are attacked and are defending themselves.”

“Let us hope that they may do so successfully till we can get up to assist them, and turn the tables on the Frenchmen,” answered the commander.

“Little doubt about our doing that,” said the master. “Judging by the reports, the enemy’s ship is not a heavy one—a brig or sloop at the most—or she may be one of those picarooning craft often found cruising in these seas.”

The last remark was heard by Norman Foley, who had just then joined the speakers. An indefinite apprehension seized him that the Ouzel Galley might be the vessel engaged, but from what Ellen had told him he felt sure that Captain Massey, if attacked, would not yield as long as he could keep his ship afloat. The breeze, which had fallen light at sundown, now freshened up, and the corvette made good way through the water. At length the rearmost merchantman was overtaken. Commander Olding hailed, and her master, in reply, gave her name.

“What do those guns mean?” asked Captain Olding.

“Can’t say, sir,” was the answer.

“Whereabouts in the fleet is the Ouzel Galley?” inquired Norman Foley.

“She was among the leading vessels at sundown, and to the northward of most of them,” answered the master. Before any other questions could be put or replies received, the Champion glided by the slow-sailing merchant ship. Several other vessels were passed, generally too far off for any exchange of words. Now even the flashes of the guns could be seen, and the exact position of the combatants observed. They were but a short distance from each other, one to the northward, hanging on the quarter of the other. The drum beat to quarters, and the watch below came tumbling up on deck, hurrying to the guns. It was impossible in the darkness to distinguish the nationality of the two vessels, which appeared to be about the same size. Captain Olding, addressing the crew, ordered them on no account to fire, lest they might injure a friend instead of a foe. As the Champion stood on, he kept a sharp watch through his telescope on the combatants, neither of which seemed aware of his approach. Presently the sternmost was seen to put down her helm and lay the other aboard on the lee side.

“The sternmost fellow is an enemy, we may depend on that,” observed the captain; “we can’t use our guns without the risk of injuring our friends.”

As the Champion drew near, loud shouts and cries could be heard, and the flashes of muskets and pistols seen. It was evident that a fierce combat was taking place; the boarders were called away ready for action.

“Shorten sail!” shouted the captain, “see the grappling-irons ready! up with the helm!”

The next instant the two ships came in contact. Norman Foley and Gerald were the first to spring on board; the dreadful idea had taken hold of both of them that the vessel attacked was the Ouzel Galley. Of this, the moment they reached her deck, they were convinced when they caught sight of Owen Massey’s figure, cutlass in hand, backed by Dan and Pompey, combating with an overwhelming number of enemies, who appeared already to have gained possession of the greater part of the ship. Among those who formed the boarding-party was Dillon, who showed as much alacrity as any one. He was soon in the midst of the fight, attacking the boarders of the other ship with desperate fury. The leader of the latter was dressed in a fantastic manner, to give ferocity to his appearance. He was soon crossing blades with Dillon.

“These fellows are pirates!” shouted Captain Olding. “Cut them down; give them no quarter—a reward for the man who gets hold of their leader!”

Dillon and his antagonist had made several cuts at each other, which had been parried with equal skill by both, when the pirate, hearing what Captain Olding shouted out, sprang back apparently to regain his own ship. Dillon, instead of attempting to stop him, warded off a blow aimed at him by another man, and thus enabled the pirate, with a considerable number of his followers, to leap on board his own vessel. The lashings which held her to the Ouzel Galley were at the same moment cut, and before the British seamen could follow she dropped from alongside. Her helm was then put up, and her head-sails filling, she ran off before the wind.

Gerald grasped Owen’s hand. “Faith, you’ve had a narrow escape!” he exclaimed.

“Indeed, we have,” answered Owen; “and, I fear, have lost a large number of our crew. Had you not come up, we should every one of us been killed.”

“Where are Miss Ferris and her father?” asked Norman Foley, turning round to Owen, whom he now recognised.

“They are safe, I trust, below, and will be glad to see you and hear that they have no longer cause for apprehension,” answered Owen. “I have too many duties on deck to go.”

The lieutenant sprang below, just at the moment that Captain Olding ordered the crew of the corvette to return on board and the grappling-irons to be cast loose.

“We must chase the pirate and punish him for his audacity,” he exclaimed.

It was some time, however, before the order could be obeyed and the corvette got clear of the merchantman. Gerald had remained on board. “I ought to tell Mr Foley, or he will be left with you,” he said; and he followed his lieutenant below. Before he returned on deck the ships were clear, and the corvette was making sail to go in chase of the pirate.

Owen had persuaded Mr Ferris and Ellen to go into the hold, to which they had been hurried when the first shot had been fired by the pirate. Owen had for some time before been suspicious of the strange sail, which he saw standing up on his starboard quarter, and, thinking that she was very probably an enemy’s privateer, was not taken altogether unprepared. He had ordered his powder and shot to be brought on deck, and the guns to be loaded and run out ready for action; when, therefore, a shot from the stranger came flying close to his stern, he fired in return, and at the same time making all sail, endeavoured to keep ahead of her. She now fired shot after shot from her foremost guns, and he had no longer any doubt that she was an enemy which had borne down on the fleet, hoping to pick up one or two of the merchant vessels and be off with them before morning.

“The fellow has made a mistake in attacking us,” observed Owen to his first mate. “His greediness tempted him to attack a big ship—he might have succeeded had he run alongside some of the brigs astern.”

Pompey, who had accompanied Mr Ferris and his daughter below, returned to report that he had seen them safe in the hold. “De gentlemen want to come back and fight, but de young lady no let him—she cry so, and hold his hand, and say he get kill; so at last he sit down and stay quiet,” remarked Pompey.

“I am very glad to hear it,” observed Owen; “he could be of no use in working the guns, and it would be a sad thing to have him injured.”

These remarks were made in the intervals of firing. The enemy, however, did not leave them long at rest; their shot soon began to tell with fearful effect; several of the crew fell killed or wounded, and the sails and rigging were much cut about. Still Owen’s men were staunch, and stood manfully to their guns, running them in and out so rapidly, and pointing them so well, that they inflicted as much damage as they received; and by the way he manoeuvred his ship he kept the stranger at a distance, and prevented her from running up alongside, which it was evidently her intention to do. She, however, it appeared, by possessing a numerous crew, had an immense advantage in being able to repair her damages far more rapidly than could the people of the Ouzel Galley those their ship received. At length, however, the rigging of his ship was so much cut up that Owen could no longer manoeuvre her as he had done, and the pirate, taking advantage of his condition, ran alongside him.

“The enemy are about to board us!” cried Owen; “be ready to repel him—they’ll give no quarter!”

The crew, leaving their guns, seized the boarding pikes which had been placed round the mainmast for their use, and, drawing their cutlasses, stood prepared to defend their ship against the fearful odds opposed to them. So occupied had been the combatants that neither of them had perceived the approach of another ship. Uttering wild shouts and shrieks, a number of dark forms were seen scrambling on board the Ouzel Galley. The moment they appeared they were attacked vigorously by her crew, led on by Owen and his mates, and many were hurled into the sea or driven back on board their own ship. His success encouraged him to attempt cutting his ship free from the enemy, but while he and his men were thus engaged, a loud voice from the deck of his opponent was heard shouting, “At them again, lads! We mustn’t be beaten in this way. I’ll lead you; follow me!” and the next moment, another party of boarders appearing, the crew of the Ouzel Galley were compelled again to stand on the defensive. And now, in overwhelming numbers, the enemy came leaping down on the deck, and Owen, with anguish, saw that his chance of opposing them successfully was small indeed. Still, like a brave man, he determined to fight till the last, urging his mates and crow not to yield as long as one remained alive. At this juncture a loud crashing sound was heard, and a large ship was seen gliding up on his larboard side. The hearty British cheer which greeted his ears assured him that succour had arrived, and the next instant the crew of the Champion came pouring on board. The subsequent events have already been narrated.

Norman Foley, on going below, soon made his way into the after hold, where he found Miss Ferris and her father. The crashing of the ships together, the shouts and shrieks of the combatants, had greatly alarmed them both. Mr Ferris had been desirous of going on deck to ascertain the state of affairs, and, indeed, had it not been for his daughter, he would have taken a part in the fight. He had done his utmost to calm her terror, but believed that she had too much cause for it, and had found it a difficult task. On hearing Norman Foley approach, she was seized with a not unnatural dread that some of the enemy had made their way below; but on recognising him, forgetting in her joy the reserve she generally exhibited, she sprang forward and threw herself into his arms.

“We are safe—we are safe, father!” she exclaimed; “and you, Norman, have been the means of preserving us. Oh, how we have been longing for you! We thought you were far away, and that that fearful ship would capture us.”

Norman, of course, expressed his happiness at having arrived in time to save the Ouzel Galley from the enemy, and in a few words explained what had happened.

“You may now with safety come into the cabin,” he said, “for the pirate—such I suspect she is—will not again venture to fire. I must there, however, leave you, to return to the Champion, as we shall certainly pursue the fellow and punish him for his audacity.”

“We shall be glad to get out of this dark place,” said Mr Ferris. “Do you help my daughter, and I will follow.”

Just as Norman and Ellen were about to enter the cabin, Gerald appeared to summon him on board the Champion. After a hasty farewell, he sprang on deck, just in time to see his ship separated from the Ouzel Galley and making sail in chase of the pirate. Not, however, unhappy at the occurrence, he returned to the cabin.

“I am very glad we shall have your assistance in getting the ship to rights,” said Mr Ferris, “for I fear she is sadly short-handed.”

“Tracy and I will give all the aid we can. I wish we had a few of the Champion’s hands with us,” answered the lieutenant.

“Tell me what to do and I will assist you,” said Mr Ferris.

“Oh, then I too will come on deck—though I am afraid I cannot help you much,” exclaimed Ellen.

Her father would not have prevented her, but Norman begged that he would be content to remain below.

“I regret to say that the deck of the ship presents a scene too dreadful for Miss Ferris to contemplate; and the rigging has been so much cut about that there is still danger from falling blocks or ropes—you might at any moment meet with a serious accident.”

Ellen was at length persuaded to retire to her cabin, Norman promising not to leave the ship without coming to bid her farewell. The deck of the Ouzel Galley did indeed present a fearful scene. Several of the pirates lay dead between the guns, while five of her own crew had been killed, and many more badly wounded; every plank was slippery with gore, the rigging hung in festoons, the sails were rent and full of holes. Here and there the bulwarks appeared shattered by the shot, which had also damaged the boats and caboose, the masts and spars.

As now and then other vessels of the fleet came passing by, inquiries were made as to what had occurred. “Attacked by a pirate—beaten off—Champion gone in chase,” was the only answer Owen had time to give.

“No thanks to those who, by clapping on more sail, might have come to our aid, but did not,” he could not help remarking to Mr Ferris.

The first thing to be done was to attend to the wounded, who were carried to their berths, where Mr Ferris offered to assist in binding up their hurts and watching them; the next was to heave the dead overboard. This sad office was quickly performed, as there was no time for even the pretence of a service; the dead would not be the worse for going without it, and the attention of the living was too much occupied to listen to a word spoken. Before committing the bodies of the pirates to the deep, however, they were examined by the light of a lantern, to be sure that no spark of life existed in them, and to ascertain to what country they belonged. Two were men of colour, and the others white men, rough, savage-looking fellows; but it was difficult to decide as to their nationality.

“It matters little what they were,” said the second mate, who was attending to that duty; “they were pirates, and have escaped the rope they deserved—of that there’s no doubt. Heave them overboard.”

Not a moment was to be lost in repairing damages. All hands now set to work to fish the masts and spars, and repair and splice the standing and running rigging. Scarcely had they commenced than day broke, and as the light increased the Champion could be seen in chase of their late opponent, who was running under all sail to the north-west.

“That fellow is well acquainted with these seas, or he wouldn’t be steering as he now is. Reefs and rocks abound in that direction, but he knows his way among them, and intends, if he can, to lead his pursuer into a scrape,” observed Owen.

“Our master is too wide awake to be so caught,” answered Gerald, “and the chances are that the pirate escapes. She must be a fast craft; for see, she continues well ahead of our ship, if she isn’t gaining on her.”

A look-out was now kept for the two islands which are found on either side of the Windward Passage—that known as Long Island being to the west, Crooked Island to the east, both thickly surrounded with rocks and reefs, so that it is necessary to avoid hugging the shores of either one or the other. Crooked Island was first sighted, on the larboard hand. It being some time, however, before the Ouzel Galley could again make sail, the greater part of the fleet passed by her, though no one offered to send assistance. The Champion could still be seen, hull down, but the chase was lost sight of. Norman Foley and Gerald were frequently watching their ship through the glass.

“The fellow has escaped, after all,” cried the former, as he handed the telescope to Gerald; “our ship has kept away, and is steering for the passage.”

“Can the commander suppose that we were killed, that he doesn’t come back to inquire for us?” observe Gerald.

“I conclude that such must be the case,” said the lieutenant.

“Then, sir, I suspect old Crowhurst will be bitterly disappointed when he finds that he isn’t to step into your shoes,” said Gerald; “he’ll complain that he has lost another chance of getting promoted.”

“I hope that he may obtain his promotion some other way,” answered Mr Foley, laughing. “It is so commonly the wish of old mates, that lieutenants should not find fault with them, as they don’t wish us any ill.”

“I should think, sir, that that was the worst they could wish a man,” said Gerald.

“Not at all, provided they don’t take any steps to carry out their wishes,” answered the lieutenant. “However, your messmate will not long be allowed to indulge in his dream.”

The Ouzel Galley was now one of the last of the fleet, most of the other vessels having passed her. The corvette was seen making signals to them to keep together; and now that they were so near their destination, they were all eager to hurry on, in spite of the risk of capture from any of the enemy’s men-of-war or privateers which might be lying in wait for them off the coasts of Cuba and Saint Domingo. Mr Foley had fully expected that by this time the Thisbe and Druid would have come up with them, but neither of the frigates had yet appeared. He took many an anxious glance astern; but the day drew on, and yet they were not in sight.

“I wish we could see them,” he observed to Owen; “for, though the Champion will give a good account of any ship of her own size, if more than one of the enemy’s cruisers were to get in among the fleet, some of them would be pretty sure to be carried off, as all, I fear, would not fight as well as you have done, Captain Massey.”

“We must run the chance, sir; it won’t do to be waiting for the frigates, and we may hope to get into Port Royal without another brush,” answered Owen.

By crowding on all the sail she could carry, the Ouzel Galley soon got again into the body of the fleet, which was now steering south in pretty compact order. When the next morning broke, the east end of Cuba was in sight, while the Champion was a short distance ahead, leading the fleet. A bright look-out was kept, but no strangers were seen. Some hours’ run brought the north-west end of Hispaniola in view. Ellen came on deck to enjoy her first sight of West Indian scenery. Lieutenant Foley was, as may be supposed, very happy in her society, and was in no hurry to make known his existence to his friends on board the Champion. He had as yet had no opportunity of signalling the corvette; he therefore entertained the hope that he might be able to remain on board till their arrival at Port Royal.

The fleet was about half-way across the broad bay of Gonaves, formed by two headlands which stretch out on the western side of Hispaniola, when two sail were seen standing out from the north-eastern corner. They were large ships, but whether friends or foes it was difficult to determine. Soon after they were discovered they spread more canvas. This circumstance was suspicious; signals were made by the Champion and some of the nearer ships, and she hauling her wind stood back towards the strangers. They, however, pressed on as before. Mr Foley and Gerald were now wishing that they were on board.

“If those are either French or Spaniards, the Champion will have a brush with them, sir; big as they are, she’ll beat them off too,” exclaimed Gerald. “I wish we could go and help her. What do you say, Captain Massey?”

“That, with our diminished crew, we could be of no real assistance; besides which, it is our duty to get into harbour as quickly as possible,” answered Owen. “I am sure Lieutenant Foley will agree with me.”

“There is no doubt about it,” said the lieutenant, who would have been very unwilling, on Ellen’s account, to run the ship into danger, even had he not seen the folly of so doing. The Champion having placed herself between the strangers and the fleet, again kept away. She apparently was satisfied that they were enemies, and too large to attack with any hope of success.

“Captain Olding is doing his duty, as he always does,” observed Norman Foley to Owen; “in spite of the great disparity of force, he will do his best to defend the convoy. See, he is signalling; what does he say, captain?”

Owen examined the signal-book. “‘Fleet to make all sail and steer for Jamaica’—that is what we are doing, though, and few of the vessels can carry more canvas than at present,” he answered.

Some, however, were seen setting royals and studding-sails. Every ship in the fleet pressed forward over the calm blue waters with all the sail she could carry. The sight was a beautiful one, as the canvas shone in the rays of the bright sun darting from a cloudless sky and Ellen likened them to swans of snowy plumage gliding over some inland lake. She felt less anxiety than did either Mr Foley or Owen, who saw more clearly the danger to which the Champion was exposed. Already the guns of the enemy were heard as they opened on their small antagonist, while she returned them with her stern-chasers.

“By the way the enemy are firing, their aim is to wing the Champion, and she’ll then, they hope, become an easy prey,” said the lieutenant to Owen. “They may be mistaken. Captain Olding is not the man to strike while he has a stick standing.”

Some time more passed by. The French gunnery may not have been very good. Still the Champion sailed on, not a mast nor a spar knocked away, though her canvas was riddled with shot. Should she be disabled, it was pretty evident that several of the merchantmen must be captured, and that the Ouzel Galley, crippled as she was, would be among the number. The proceedings of the Champion and the enemy were therefore watched with intense anxiety.

“There goes her main-topmast,” cried Owen, almost with a groan.

“I ought to be on board,” said Lieutenant Foley. “I must ask for one of your boats, Captain Massey.”

“You should be welcome, but not one of them can swim, nor could I spare you any of my hands; so I am afraid, sir, you must be content to remain on board the Ouzel Galley,” answered Owen. “Your presence could not change the fate of the day, and you would be made a prisoner by the French, instead of having a chance of escaping.”

The fire of the enemy now became hotter than ever, when Gerald, who had gone aloft, shouted, “Two ships in sight to the northward!”

“What are they like?” asked Owen.

“One looks to me as if one were under jury-masts; the other’s all ataunto,” answered Gerald.

“I trust so,” ejaculated Owen; “if so, they must be the Thisbe and Druid.”

Lieutenant Foley immediately joined the midshipman at the mast-head, carrying his spy-glass. “I have no doubt that they are friends,” he shouted, after inspecting them narrowly; “the enemy have made them out, and are signalling each other.”

The eyes of many on board the merchant fleet were turned in the direction of the two ships, which in a short time could be descried from the deck. Shouts arose from many a throat when the Frenchmen were seen, having hauled to the wind, standing back up the bay; while the gallant little Champion continued her course after the convoy she had so bravely defended. The frigates, instead of following her, stood into the bay in pursuit of the Frenchmen. At nightfall, however, they were again descried running out, having apparently either missed the vessels they were in chase of, or found that the latter had got into harbour for shelter. The convoy now stood on till the end of Jamaica was rounded.

The following day, as soon as the sea breeze set in, the merchantmen approached Port Royal harbour, the Ouzel Galley being among the leading vessels. Ellen stood on the deck admiring the magnificent and, to her, so novel scenery, with Norman by her side to point out its varied features. Stretching away east and west appeared lofty blue mountains rising above a stratum of clouds which rolled along their precipitous sides; in some directions the rugged hills were seen furrowed by ravines, while in others steep cliffs descended abruptly to the sea; in many places appeared the richest vegetation, covering the sides of the slopes, and here and there patches of bright emerald green, with the white residences of the managers just visible amid them. At length, right ahead could be seen the town of Port Royal, at the end of a narrow spit of land known as the Palisades, composed of sand and overgrown with mangroves, which sweeps round from the east and runs for several miles directly west, the town being at the western end. The new town has risen above the ruins of its wealthy, iniquitous predecessor, suddenly overwhelmed by an earthquake, and in a few seconds sunk many fathoms deep beneath the ocean. The spit forms a natural breakwater to the magnificent harbour of Port Royal, or Kingston, capable of containing in its spacious basin the fleets of all the world. The batteries of Port Royal completely command its entrance, aided by the guns of Fort Augusta and the Rock Fort on the opposite side. The Ouzel Galley, as she ran in, passed close under the ramparts of Fort Charles, thickly studded with heavy ordnance which would have effectually prevented the entrance of a hostile fleet. This passed, she stood on up the extensive lagoon, towards the further end of which, on the northern shore, could be seen the city of Kingston, a wide plain extending for a considerable distance inland, backed by a series of irregular mountains rising one beyond another, hills piled upon hills of various elevations, with picturesque valleys, dark chasms, and numerous trees. Far off, on the top of the declivity on which the city stands, were visible the barracks of Hope Park Camp, and nearer, on a still more conspicuous spot, the well-known Admiral’s Pen, the residence of the naval commander-in-chief on the station.

The Ouzel Galley and most of the merchantmen ran up the lagoon till they came to an anchor off Kingston. As the Champion had not yet entered the harbour, Lieutenant Foley undertook to escort Mr and Miss Ferris on shore, intending as soon as he had done so to engage a shore boat and return on board his own ship. Gerald begged to be allowed to remain on board, and his lieutenant promised to call for him on his way down the harbour. No sooner, however, had the party left the ship than, seeing a passage boat on her way down to Port Royal, Gerald hailed her and desired to be put on board the Champion, which, he calculated, would by that time have come into port. Very soon, greatly to his delight, he saw her come to an anchor, just before the boat reached Port Royal; and as he climbed up on one side, the captain in his gig shoved off on the other. As he stepped through the gangway he discovered by the countenances of those who observed him that his appearance created considerable astonishment; but, without answering any of the questions put to him, he went aft to the first lieutenant, and reported himself as come on board.

“Why, Tracy, it was supposed you were killed!” exclaimed Mr Tarwig. “Has Mr Foley escaped as well as you?”

“Yes, sir, I am happy to say so,” answered Gerald; and he briefly recounted what had happened.

“The captain will be glad to hear this,” observed Mr Tarwig, who having no time for talking, resumed the duty he was carrying on; and Gerald hurried away to try the effect the news he had brought would produce on his older messmates. He looked out for old Beater, who was not to be seen, and he observed Crowhurst on the forecastle.

“There he is, crowing as loud as ever,” thought Gerald, as he remarked the consequential air with which the old mate walked the deck and shouted to the men. The lately trim corvette was much knocked about; besides the loss of her main-topmast, many of her other spars had been wounded, her sails riddled with shot, while her bulwarks and deck had been torn open in several places, one of her guns disabled, and most of her boats damaged.

The first person he met who had time to exchange a word with him was the purser. “What, Tracy,” he exclaimed, “you still in the land of the living! I had written D at the end of your name; I shall have the trouble of crossing it out again. We were going to put up your effects for sale to-morrow.”

“Much obliged to you, sir,” answered Gerald, “and must apologise for giving you so much trouble. Were Mr Foley’s effects to be sold at the same time? I suppose Beater or Crowhurst expect to get promoted in his place.”

“Beater has got all the promotion he ever will, poor fellow,” answered Mr Cheeseparings; “he was the only officer killed in our late action, though we had six men wounded. But Crowhurst is looking forward to get his lieutenancy to a certainty.”

“I concluded that he would do so; but as Mr Foley happens to be alive, he will be rather disappointed,” said Gerald.

“Dear me! has he escaped too?” exclaimed the purser. “Well, though I haven’t to sell his effects, I really am glad; and so, I am sure, will be Billhook and Mac.”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll go and communicate the pleasing intelligence to Crowhurst, who will, I hope, rejoice as much as the gun-room officers,” said Gerald. Directly afterwards he met Nat Kiddle. “Come along,” he said, “and see me pull old Crowhurst down a peg or two.”

The two midshipmen met Crowhurst coming aft. “What, youngster, are you alive?” he exclaimed. “I shall have some work for you and Kiddle directly.”

“Yes, old fellow, I’m alive and well,” answered Gerald, “and will return to my duty as soon as the commander or one of the lieutenants orders me.”

“Let me tell you, youngster, I don’t choose to be called old fellow, and as I am acting lieutenant, you will obey my orders.”

“Certainly,” said Gerald, “till Mr Foley returns, which I expect he will do this evening.”

“What—you don’t mean to say so!—did Mr Foley escape with you?” exclaimed the old mate, his countenance falling, and his whole air changing in a moment. Gerald then, with infinite satisfaction, described the way he and the lieutenant had been left on board the Ouzel Galley. Not being required just then, he dived into the berth to recount his adventures to the rest of his messmates.

In a short time the two frigates came in, and anchored near the Champion, where already lay several other large ships of war forming the Jamaica fleet, under the command of Admiral Cotes. Gerald found his messmates not very much out of spirits at the loss of Beater. The old mate’s body lay between two guns, covered by an ensign; and it, with that of two other men who had been killed, was carried on shore and buried in the graveyard of Port Royal, where so many gallant British seamen sleep their last.

Meantime Mr Ferris and Ellen had gone on shore, escorted by Lieutenant Foley. Those were the palmy days of Kingston. Men-of-war and privateers were constantly coming in with rich prizes, whose cargoes added greatly to the wealth of the city; the streets were crowded with blacks carrying bales of all descriptions to the stores; merchants’ clerks were hurrying to the quays to superintend the unloading of vessels, and naval and military officers were moving about in all directions; the seamen on leave were rolling here and there, shouting forth their sea ditties; while black and brown women with baskets of fruit and vegetables were standing at the corners of the streets, often surrounded by a party of Jack-tars, who quickly emptied them of their contents.

A short walk soon brought the lieutenant and his friends to the counting-house of Mr Thomas Twigg, the agent of the firm, and a relative of one of the partners. They were at once shown to a large airy room over the office, looking out on the harbour, containing a table spread for luncheon, consisting of numerous West Indian delicacies. Mr Twigg, of course, pressed the lieutenant to remain.

“You don’t know whether your ship has come in, and even if she has, they’ve got on very well without you, and an hour more or less can make no difference,” he observed. Norman Foley was in no hurry to take his departure. “Mr and Miss Ferris are coming to my pen, about five miles off,” continued Mr Twigg, “and I hope you will accompany them. We shall start in about a couple of hours, when there will be more shade on the road than there is at present.”

The lieutenant, very unwillingly, was compelled to decline the invitation, but agreed to remain to see his friends off. On hearing of Gerald, Mr Twigg insisted on sending on board the Ouzel Galley to invite him, and Gerald afterwards found that in his eagerness to witness the disappointment of his messmate he had thereby lost a pleasant expedition, he having left the ship before the message arrived on board; but, soon afterwards, who should come in but Captain Olding, who was so delighted to find that his lieutenant and midshipman had escaped, that he at once gave them both leave to accept Mr Twigg’s invitation. Norman Foley had the happiness of accompanying Ellen in one carriage, while Mr Ferris and his friend, who had much to talk about, went in another. Ellen was, of course, delighted with the scenery and the tropical vegetation, so new to her, though she possibly did not examine them as minutely as she might have done under other circumstances: Norman would have to leave her in a day or two, and he might not return for a long time. She had heard her father say that he expected shortly to accompany Mr Twigg to an estate on the other side of the island, and even should Norman’s ship come into Port Royal, he might not be able to pay her a visit. Of course he promised to come if he could, even though he might be able to remain only a few hours. Bellevue was a beautiful spot about fifty miles off, on the other side of the Blue Mountains, a short distance from Saint Ann’s Bay, and Norman hoped that his ship might be cruising off the north coast, and that he would then have an opportunity of seeing her. At all events, they neither of them were more unhappy than was necessary at the thoughts of their approaching separation.

On their arrival at East Mount, Mr Twigg’s country house, Ellen was amused by the number of black slaves who rushed out to receive them, chattering and laughing, and doing their best to welcome the strangers. The house was a one-storied building, with a broad verandah round it, standing on the summit of a hill of considerable elevation overlooking the plain, with Kingston and the harbour in the distance; it was thus exposed to the sea breeze, so necessary to anything like enjoyment in the tropics. Mrs Twigg, a buxom little lady—a fitting partner to her sprightly, jovial spouse—received Ellen with a hearty welcome to Jamaica. She evidently saw how matters stood between her and the young lieutenant, and, as far as her sense of the duties of a hostess would allow her, left them together as much as they could desire, while Mr Ferris and her husband were for the greater part of the day absent at Kingston. Those two days while Norman remained at East Mount were among the brightest they had hitherto enjoyed. The place seemed a perfect Eden, with its green lawn kept ever verdant by the sparkling stream which flowed down on one side from the hill above, bordered by the graceful and variously shaped trees of the tropics—the tall maple arrow, surrounded by its flowering crown of yellow; the Spanish needle, with its dagger-like leaves; the quilled pimploe, a species of cactus; and numberless others, from the branches of which hung lilac and purple wreaths in rich festoons—while the sweet notes of the feathered songsters ever and anon burst forth, and here and there could be seen tiny humming-birds flitting from flower to flower, fluttering for a moment and then darting off with the speed of lightning, their gem-like plumage glittering in the sun.

Ellen and Norman, though they often talked of the past, spoke most of the future, when he should have gained his promotion, and, the war being over, might quit the service without dishonour and live on shore.

After arranging his affairs in Jamaica, which he believed would occupy some months, Mr Ferris proposed returning to Ireland. He intended to make the voyage in the Ouzel Galley when she could sail under safe convoy. In the mean time he expected to spend two or three months at Bellevue, and Norman hoped that they might there again meet. Happily for themselves, they were ignorant of the dark storm which was brewing over the island.

At length Norman’s leave expired, and he had to return on board the Champion. A few days afterwards Mr Ferris and Ellen, accompanied by Mr and Mrs Twigg and their family, set off across the island for Bellevue.

Chapter Eleven.

The Ouzel Galley ordered round to Montego Bay—Fresh guns and stores taken on board—A crimp brings off some men in no unusual condition—Two volunteers—Visit from Gerald—The Ouzel Galley sails—Suspicions as to one of the volunteers—Montego Bay reached—A dinner on shore—Warnings—Last sight of the Ouzel Galley from the shore—Bellevue and its inhabitants—Archie Sandys—Describes a Jumby dance—Signs of a coming storm—A hurricane—Anxiety regarding the Ouzel Galley—Effects of the hurricane.

The Ouzel Galley was soon unloaded. Some time, however, was spent in repairing the damages she had received from the pirate, after which Owen was preparing to take on board a fresh cargo, when he received orders to proceed round to Montego Bay, where a large amount of produce, which the firm had purchased from a neighbouring estate, was awaiting shipment.

“You will run but little risk, I hope, from the enemy’s cruisers, and against them we have at all events insured, though not to the full amount, for we know that we can trust to the sailing qualities of the Ouzel Galley, and to your courage, judgment, and seamanship,” wrote Mr Ferris. “If a convoy can be procured, you will of course take advantage of it; but if not, so great is the importance of getting the produce home without delay, that we leave it to your discretion to sail alone, should you judge that to be most to our interest. You are also at liberty to increase your armament by two or four guns, if you can carry them, and not only to replace the men you lost in your action with the pirate, but to add ten or a dozen more hands if you can obtain them. You will thus, we hope, be able to beat off any of the enemy’s smaller cruisers or such a piratical craft as attacked us coming out; though you will, of course, use all the means in your power to avoid a contest and to make the best of your way home.”

Owen was naturally flattered with the letter, though he considered that the dangers he would have to encounter were much greater than those he was likely to meet with in a run home under a sufficient convoy. Gerald, who had been to Kingston, was paying him a visit on board on his way down.

“I wish that I could go with you,” he exclaimed, “and so, I dare say, will our second lieutenant. It isn’t far off, I fancy, from where Mr Ferris is staying. I’ll tell Foley—though I don’t think there’s much chance of his getting leave, and we shall be sent to sea as soon as we are ready, for the admiral isn’t the man to let the grass grow on the bottom of any of his ships.”

“I wish that you could come, for I shall find it rather solitary,” said Owen. “However, I see no chance of that, and I will now go on shore to get the guns—I’ll have the four of them—to order some of the stores I require, and to do what I can to pick up men.”

“I’ll try to pay you another visit,” said Gerald, as he was about to step into the boat alongside. “If I don’t see you again, remember to give my love to my father and Norah—and may you have a prosperous trip home.”

While Gerald went down the harbour, Owen landed, taking with him Dan and Pompey. The purchase of the guns was an easy matter, as there were plenty to be had, taken out of prizes. He chose two long brass guns, 9-pounders, and two short ones of heavier calibre. The stores were quickly ordered, too; but to procure the men was more difficult. It would be hopeless to expect to get them at all, were he particular as to how he got them or what class of men he got. Still, if he could have his choice, he would take a smaller number of good men rather than his complement of inferior hands. There were, of course, crimps who would be ready to supply him, and he was compelled to apply to one of these personages, who promised to send him on board six or eight hands before next morning. In the mean time Pompey met two old shipmates, blacks like himself, for whom he could answer; and Dan fortunately found a countryman of his own, also a trusty fellow. With these three hands Owen returned to the ship, and the following day the guns and stores were received on board, the former mounted on their carriages and the latter stowed away. Sufficient hands only were wanting to enable him to sail. His friend, the crimp, was as good as his word; which was not surprising, considering that he was to be well paid for it. Towards evening a boat came alongside with the crimp and six men, two of whom only were sitting upright, while the rest were lying along the thwarts. Jonas Jobson, the crimp, a big-boned mulatto, dressed in a broad-brimmed hat, nankeen trousers, and a white jacket, dispensing with a shirt or other clothing, came up the side.

“Dere dey are, cappen,” he said, “prime seamen when dey come to demself, and only just a little drunkee now. Dese two will answer for dem. Here, you come up, Sam Tar, and you, Jack Noddin.”

The two men summoned managed to get up the side, though it was very evident that they were half-seas over. Still they answered for themselves in a tolerably satisfactory manner, and assured the captain that they knew the others, who were as good seamen as ever stepped—only, when they could get a drop of liquor, they would. “There’s no denying of it,” said Sam Tar, “and so do I—only I knows when to stop, and they don’t;” and Sam gave a lurch against Mr Jobson, which called forth an angry rebuke from that gentleman. Owen was not, as may be supposed, altogether satisfied, however. The men were hoisted on board and laid on the deck. Except for their breathing, they might have been so many corpses, so utterly helpless were they.

“You’ve brought me a pretty lot,” said Owen; “they’re not likely to come to till I get to sea, and then it’s more than probable, to my mind, that they’ll not be worth their salt. You should have brought off sober men, that I might have judged of them.”

“Ah, cappen, you berry hard on me. How could I keep the men sober? And berry likely if I did dey not come ’tall,” answered Mr Jobson, with wonderful effrontery. “You werry ’tickler; oder cappens take any dey can get—drunkee or no drunkee, dese men prime hands when dey come to demself.”

Still Owen was firm in refusing to take the drunken men, even though Tar and Noddin muttered that if their mates did not join, neither would they; whereat Mr Jobson began to fear that he should have his labour for nothing, and calling for a bucket, filled it alongside and dashed it over the inanimate forms placed on deck. At first the shower-bath produced not the slightest effect, but after several buckets had been thrown over the men, one of them began to move and to stretch out his arms as if swimming; then another grunted, and desired with sundry unsavoury epithets to be left alone; while a third actually sat upright, and looked stupidly about him. The fourth, however, remained motionless as at first, when Mr Jobson threw another bucket of water over him. At last one of the mates lifted the man’s arm; the moment he let go it fell to the deck. He then felt the hand.

“Why, Mr Jobson, you’ve brought us off a dead man!” he exclaimed. “He is as cold as ice already.”

Mr Jobson stooping down, having convinced himself of the fact, coolly observed, “Why, he alive yesterday when he come to my house.”

“Yes, and you allowed him to drink himself to death,” said Owen. “You’ll take him on shore with you, for he couldn’t have died on board this vessel.”

Mr Jobson demurred. “Why for dat?” he exclaimed. “You take him to sea and throw him oberboard; it save much trouble, and I no charge you for him.”

“I should think not,” observed Owen. “As for the other three, if Tar and Noddin are ready to answer for them, I will keep them, for they, at all events, are alive and likely to come to in a short time.”

To Mr Jobson’s disgust the corpse was lowered into the boat, when, having received the sum agreed on, he pulled on shore to give the best account of the matter he could. Owen knew that he would probably state that the man had died on board the Ouzel Galley, and he was taking him on shore to be buried; for in the West Indies in those days coroners would not be very particular in inquiring into the way seamen went out of the world. The three men who had been so unceremoniously treated, having been stripped of their clothes, were stowed away in their hammocks to recover from their drunken fit, the other two new hands being allowed also to turn in. Still, Owen would have been glad to have his full complement. He had intended to sail that night with the land wind as soon as the moon was up, and was seated in his cabin waiting for the pilot, and writing a report of his proceedings to Mr Ferris, when Dan announced that two men were in a boat alongside, who wished to see him. He went on deck and told the men to come on board. They did so; both of them were sailor-like fellows. One of them, stepping forward and doffing his hat, said, “I understand, Captain Massey, that you want some more hands. My mate and I are ready to ship for the run home at the wages you are offering. We were left behind by the Polly privateer, and as she has been taken by the French, we want to join another ship; we’ve no fancy for a man-o’-war, and have had only ill luck in privateering. My name’s John Green, and his is Thomas Routh; I’ve been to sea for pretty nearly ten years, and he’s been fifteen or more afloat—so, without boasting, I may say we’re both of us able hands.”

“You give a very satisfactory account of yourself and your mate, John Green,” observed Owen. “Have you any certificates from the last vessels you served in?”

“Unfortunately we left them on board the Polly, sir, and are not likely ever to see them again,” answered the man—“and we might enter on board a man-o’-war, as you know, sir, without any questioning; though, if you don’t take us, there are plenty of other masters who won’t be so particular. But to say the truth, sir, knowing your character, we’ve a mind to sail with you.”

“That’s a fact,” said the other man, who had not yet spoken, and who seemed to be much older than his companion, and a rough fellow—his big whiskers and shaggy locks almost concealing his features, though he might not have been ill-looking had his hair been moderately trimmed. Owen, calling his first mate, asked his opinion of the men, and they both agreed that, as their story was probable and they had the cut of seamen, they were not likely to get better men. He accordingly entered them both. John Green was a fair-haired, ordinary-looking young man, rather more fluent of speech than might have been expected from his appearance, his countenance contrasting greatly with the hirsute, sunburnt visage of his mate.

Owen had finished his letters, and got them ready to send on shore by Dan. Among those for England were one for Captain Tracy and mother for Norah, for he could not tell when he might have another opportunity of writing. Soon afterwards the pilot came on board, the sails were loosed, the anchor hove short, and as soon as the boat returned the ship was got under way, and, the moon rising, she stood down the harbour with the wind abeam. As she got off Port Royal, the ship was hailed by a man-of-war’s boat, and ordered to shorten sail; and the boat coming alongside, who should appear on deck but Gerald Tracy.

“I was sent to ascertain what ship this is, where you are bound to, and all other particulars; but as I happen to know, I needn’t waste time in asking,” said Gerald. “We’ve lost two or three hands lately, but as I know you’ve not got them, I needn’t trouble you.”

Owen felt considerable doubt whether he ought not to enlighten his careless young friend, whose duty it certainly was not to take anything for granted. However, he thought it very probable that if he did, he should lose some of his hands; they had come on board of their own accord, and he wanted them even more than did the Champion, which could easily supply their places. He therefore only replied that he was very glad Gerald had come, and as he was anxious to get to sea before the land wind failed, he should feel obliged if his young friend would make his visit as short as possible, and allow the ship to proceed.

“Yes, of course,” answered Gerald; “but if you get home before I do, tell Norah that she may look out for a long letter, which I intend to write as soon as I have anything fresh to say. We hear that, while our ship is refitting, some of us are to be turned over to the Augusta, Captain Forrest; and as we are sure to have something to do, I shall have a long yarn to spin.”

The young midshipman, who had been accompanied by Owen to the gangway, tumbled into his boat and pulled back to his ship, fully satisfied that he had done his duty. The harbour-master’s boat having also paid the usual official visit and found all right, and the pilot having taken his departure, the Ouzel Galley stood out to sea under all sail. The soft moonbeams shed a bright light on the calm waters, just rippled over by the breeze, the wavelets sparkling like frosted silver. Having gained a sufficient offing, the Ouzel Galley hauled up to the westward and stood along the coast, lofty ridges rising on her starboard hand, while the broad expanse of the Caribbean Sea stretched away on the larboard side. The watch was set in charge of the first mate, but Owen had no intention of turning in; for, although few enemies were likely to approach the coast of Jamaica, where a large fleet was known to be collected, still one might possibly run in, on the chance of finding a richly laden merchantman off her guard. It was necessary, therefore, to be on the watch. None, however, could approach them seaward without being discovered in good time; but an enemy’s vessel might lie hidden behind one of the many headlands and points, or in some of the numerous creeks on the coast, and might sally forth when least expected, and endeavour to capture them if unprepared. The land wind lasted for an hour or more past midnight, when the Ouzel Galley lay becalmed, with little prospect of making progress till the sea breeze should set in in the morning. Owen at length, leaving the deck in charge of the second mate, lay down in his cabin, desiring to be called should any strange sail appear in sight. Daylight, however, returned, and when he left his cabin he found the crew following their usual occupations of the morning—washing decks, coiling down the ropes. On looking about for the new hands, to judge of them by the way they went about their work, he observed that the two last who had joined were flemishing the ropes down man-of-war fashion, as were two of the others; but the rest, those supplied by Mr Jobson, were evidently lubberly fellows, who scarcely know the stem from the stern of the ship.

“I must practise these men at their guns, or they will be of no use if it ever comes to a pinch,” thought Owen. While he was watching the crew, the dark-whiskered man who had entered as Thomas Routh came aft, when Owen got a better look at his countenance than he had hitherto had. He started, for he fully believed that he saw before him O’Harrall, whose life he had twice been the means of saving. He looked again and again, not wishing, however, that the man should discover that he was especially noticing him; while the latter, apparently totally unconscious of being remarked, went on with his work. Still, it was not likely that O’Harrall had voluntarily come on board his ship. At last he determined to speak to the man, and to judge by his tone of voice and answers. He called him up.

“Have you ever served with me before?” he asked.

“No, sir, not that I know of, for I neither remember your features nor your name,” was the answer.

“Have you over served on board a man-of-war?” asked Owen.

“When I shipped aboard this craft I came to do duty as a seaman, not to answer questions about my previous life,” said the man, looking up boldly into Owen’s face. Owen turned away; the voice reminded him of O’Harrall as much as the countenance, and yet, from the man’s perfect coolness, he could not suppose that he could be that person. Owen had no doubt, however, that he had served on board a man-of-war, and was probably a deserter, and that, should any naval officer come on board in search of deserters, the man would probably be taken. He determined, at all events, to watch the man and see how he behaved himself towards the rest of the crew. Owen was not long left in doubt, for, though Green had at first been put forward, it was very evident that the other was the leading spirit of the two. He was observed to be associating chiefly with the new men, and talking to them when no others were present, endeavouring, not unsuccessfully, to establish an influence over them. He did not, however, neglect the old hands, and whenever he had an opportunity he took pains to win their goodwill. To the officers he was obedient and submissive enough; and when, rounding Negril Head at the west end of the island, the ship was struck by a sudden squall, he showed by his activity and courage that he was a first-rate seaman. His manners, too, were above those of an ordinary sailor, and though rough in his exterior, he was neat and clean in his person.

The ship was running in for Montego Bay. Owen and his first mate had gone down to take a hurried dinner, when Dan came in to the cabin.

“Well, Dan, how do the new hands get on?” asked Owen.

“It’s just that I want speak to you about, your honour,” answered Dan. “There’s not much to be said about most of them, except that they’re pretty hard bargains; but there’s one of them, Routh, who, if he isn’t some great lord, will try to make the people believe that he is. It’s only to be hoped that he means well, for if he takes it into his head to do any harm, he’ll do it.”

“Perhaps, after all, he may have no evil intentions. He certainly is one of our best men,” observed Mr Fisher, the first mate.

“Your honour asked me to say what I thought of the men, and I’ve said it,” answered Dan.

“We shall see how he behaves in harbour, and if there is no fault to find with him we can keep him on board,” remarked Owen.

“Your honour knows what’s best,” observed Dan, speaking with the freedom of an old follower, “but I’ll stake my davy that he’s after no good.”

“Well, Dan, Mr Fisher and I will keep an eye on him, and you can report anything further you see suspicious in his conduct,” said Owen, as he and his mate returned on deck.

An hour afterwards the Ouzel Galley was at anchor in Montego Bay. Owen was just going on shore, when Mr Twigg, who had been waiting for the ship, came off and gave him directions about receiving his cargo. Owen reported that he had fully carried out his instructions, showed the guns he had procured, and mustered his crew.

“A likely set of fellows,” observed Mr Twigg. “You’ll do your duty, my lads, and, if you have to defend the ship, you’ll fight bravely. Should you come back in her you may be sure of good wages; Ferris, Twigg, and Cash pay well when they are well served.”

The crew cheered, and Routh, who stood foremost among then, was especially vociferous, though he might have been seen winking to some of his mates when the eyes of the worthy planter and the officers were turned away.

“You’ll have the droghers alongside to-morrow morning, and you’ll not be long in hoisting the casks on board, Captain Massey,” continued Mr Twigg, as he walked the poop. “Meantime, I shall be happy to see you on shore, and should have been glad to take you to Bellevue, as Miss Ferris is anxious to send some messages to our fair friend Miss Tracy, who won all our hearts out here, as I understand she has that of another friend of ours.” Mr Twigg chuckled, and Owen looked conscious. “However, as the distance is too great, Miss Ferris has intrusted me with letters for her friend, which I can safely confide to you.”

Thus Mr Twigg talked on. “You will pass in sight of Bellevue as you run along the coast—we’ll signal you, so that you can give the last report of your friends when you reach Dublin.”

The invitation Owen had received was equivalent to a command, and, though he would have preferred remaining on board, he accompanied Mr Twigg on shore. He met at dinner several planters, agents of estates, or attorneys, as they were called; two or three brother skippers whose vessels lay in the harbour, a military officer, and a few nondescripts. The conversation was pretty general, though the subject of sugar and rum might have predominated, and Owen heard more about affairs in Jamaica than he had hitherto done. The blacks, he found, were in an unsatisfactory state; they had been discovered holding secret meetings of a suspicious character. They had more than once before revolted and committed most fearful atrocities; and one or two gentlemen expressed the fear that, unless precautions were taken in time, the black’s might play the same trick again. Those gentlemen were, however, looked upon by the rest of the company as timid alarmists.

“The cowhide is the best specific for keeping the black rascals in order,” exclaimed Mr Tony Grubbins, an attorney from a neighbouring estate, who looked as if he not unfrequently used that same weapon of offence. “We always know in good time what the negroes are about, for they haven’t the sense to keep their own secrets; if they show any obstreperousness, we shall pretty quickly put them down.”

“As there are ten blacks to one white man, if the negroes are combined we might find it not so easy a matter to put them down,” observed one of the timid gentlemen.

“Pooh-pooh, sir!—show them the muzzle of a blunderbuss and they’ll be off like a shot,” answered the other.

From the remarks made by the timid gentleman, Owen felt, however, inclined to side with his opinion.

Captain Brown, of the good ship Sarah Ann, on hearing that Owen was to sail without convoy, warned him of the danger he would run. “All very well, sir,” he observed, “when you get to the eastward of the islands, but you’ll find out that you’ll have to run the gauntlet of the enemy’s cruisers, for they’re pretty thick in these seas; and, in addition, there are not a few picarooning, piratical rascals who don’t pretend even to be privateers, and boldly hoist the black flag, and rob and murder all they can capture.”

“I hope that the Ouzel Galley can keep clear of them, as well as of the regular cruisers of the enemy,” answered Owen. “We fell in with a gentleman of the sort on our passage out, but we had fewer guns and hands than we have now, and we at first took him for one of our convoy, or we should have beaten him off without much difficulty.”

“That is more than poor Wilkins, of the Greyhound, was able to do,” remarked Captain Brown. “I was in company with him at sunset, when everything was well on board, and we were standing the same course—but next morning he was nowhere in sight, and my first mate, who had the middle watch, told me he saw two vessels astern instead of one. As no guns were heard, it’s my belief that the Greyhound was taken by surprise and carried before the crew had time to fire a shot in their defence.”

“Depend on it, we’ll keep too sharp a look-out to be surprised,” said Owen, “though I am obliged to you for the warning.”

As the party was becoming a somewhat uproarious one, Owen, who both from principle and habit was a sober man, stole off and returned on board his ship. The mate reported all well, and that none of the crew had even asked leave to go on shore. When Dan, however, made his appearance in the cabin, he looked while he moved about as if he had something to communicate.

“What’s the matter? Out with it, Dan,” said Owen.

“Your honour, I don’t want to be a talebearer,” answered Dan, “but Routh and Green and the rest of their gang have been talking together the whole of the watch, and that means mischief.”

“The more necessity for keeping a bright look-out on them,” observed the captain, “and I have no doubt that the honest men in the ship will keep them down, whatever tricks they may play.”

With a certain amount of uncomfortable feeling Owen turned in, keeping, as he always did, his pistol and sword by the side of his bed. The next day he was too busy taking in cargo to think of the matter; and now, being ready for sea, the Ouzel Galley stood out of the harbour.

According to arrangement with Mr Twigg, the Ouzel Galley kept along the coast till she came off Bellevue. As she appeared, a flag from the flagstaff on shore flew out to the breeze. Owen hoisted his colours and fired his guns, and the merchantman, looking as trim as a ship of war, sailed on her course.

“No fear about that young fellow making the voyage if any man can do it,” observed Mr Twigg to Mr Ferris.

“He has been brought up under a good captain—a better we have not in our service,” replied Mr Ferris.

Ellen watched the departing ship which was carrying her epistle to Norah. The weather was beautiful, though the heat was somewhat more oppressive than usual; a light breeze filled the sails of the Ouzel Galley, wafting her over the calm waters. It was scarcely possible to believe that she would have any dangers to encounter on that tranquil ocean.

A considerable number of persons inhabited the house of Bellevue. Besides Mr Twigg and his wife and the manager, there were six young gentlemen, book-keepers, who were so called though they had no books to keep, but were employed in superintending the various operations of the estate. Most of them were young men of respectable families, who looked forward to becoming managers or to holding other responsible offices. There were also several assistant overseers, mostly mulattoes, though some were whites—literally, slave-drivers—whose business was to keep the negroes up to their work in the fields. The book-keepers dined at table, and were treated in every respect as gentlemen, though the manager kept them under pretty strict discipline. One of them, Archie Sandys, a lively young Scotchman, was a favourite with Ellen, as he reminded her of Gerald Tracy. He was clever, too, and very well informed. That he admired her, there could be little doubt, for no one was more ready to obey her behests, though he might not have foolishly lost his heart or ventured to lift his eyes to one so much above him in fortune.

The Ouzel Galley was still in sight in the offing, when Archie, having performed his duties for the day, came in and found Ellen seated in the shade, inhaling what little air was moving. The scene was a lovely one. The house stood on a height looking over the sea; there was a lawn green as one in spring, with a shrubbery on either side of tropical trees and shrubs of varied and picturesque forms, above which towered several specimens of the graceful palm. Birds of gay plumage and butterflies of gorgeous hues were flitting about, and many magnificent flowers, such as are to be seen in hot-houses alone at home, were blooming around. Words, however, can never give an adequate description of West Indian scenery. Young Sandys made his bow to Miss Ferris, who greeted him with a smile.

“I am not intruding on you, I hope?” he said.

“Certainly not,” she answered, laughing; and seeing that he was not expected to go away, he stood leaning against one of the pillars of the verandah.

“I witnessed a curious scene yesterday, which I have not before had an opportunity of describing,” he said, after a few other remarks had passed between them. “I don’t know what Mr Ferris or our manager will say to it; I consider myself fortunate in getting away with a whole skin. You perhaps, Miss Ferris, have never heard of a Jumby dance; I had, and wished to see one. Yesterday, one of our assistant overseers, a mulatto, Bob Kerlie by name, to whom I had rendered some service, told me that he had heard one was to take place on some wild ground between this and the next estate; and I persuaded him to act as my guide to the place. He told me that I must be careful what I said or did, as the negroes were in a very curious humour and might easily be offended. We carried our cutlasses, and I stuck a brace of pistols in my belt; besides which, we were each provided with a stout walking-stick. We started at sundown, and after leaving the cultivated ground we had no little difficulty in making our way through the tangled brushwood till we reached the hut in which the Jumby dance was to be performed. It stood under a vast cotton-tree, on an open space near the bank of the river which you see running into the ocean to the westward of this. As we went along Kerlie told me that the chief performer was a big negro, Cudjoe, reputed to be a powerful Obeah man; that is, a necromancer, or what the North American Indians would call a medicine-man. He is supposed to possess wonderful mysterious powers—to be able to cause the death of any one who offends him. Bob assured me that there was no doubt about this, and those he denounces never fail to die shortly afterwards. If such is the case, Master Cudjoe probably knows how to use poison to bring about the fulfilment of his predictions, and I am thankful that he does not belong to us.

“We found upwards of a hundred negroes, mostly men, though there were some women among them, all decked out in strange and uncouth ornaments, snakes’ heads, dried frogs, various coloured beads forming necklaces round their throats; their garments were otherwise scanty in the extreme. They looked surprised and not very well pleased at seeing us, and Rob had some difficulty in persuading them that I only came for curiosity and was far too good-natured to say anything about what I might see which might get them into trouble. The assembly being pacified agreed to our remaining. I observed that there was a great deal of talking among them, but as they spoke their native African, neither Rob nor I could understand what was said. The hut was of considerable size, though low and thatched merely with palm-leaves. There were no windows, and only one door; this was now thrown open, when what looked to me like a huge skeleton appeared at the entrance, and waved its bony arms wildly about, beckoning the people to enter. They started to their feet, for they had hitherto been squatting round, and rushed eagerly to the door. Rob and I followed, when we discovered that the seeming skeleton was the Obeah man, Cudjoe, who had thus painted his black body from head to foot. The hut was lighted by some twenty small lamps, hung from the roof, and in the centre was a figure intended to represent a human being, with an enormous cock’s head. Master Cudjoe, if he was the artist, had contrived to produce as hideous-looking a monster as could well be imagined. ‘That’s the fetish,’ whispered Rob; ‘they worship it as if it were a god.’

“Cudjoe, on seeing us, asked in an angry tone what we wanted, and Rob spoke to him as he had done to the other people. ‘Den you keep quiet, buccra,’ he said, turning to me; ‘I no hab laffee or talkee.’ I assured him that I would remain as still as a mouse; and with a growl he retired again inside the hut, where he seated himself in front of a huge tom-tom, the African drum, and began slowly to beat it, chanting at the same time one of his native songs, I concluded. Gradually he beat faster and faster, accompanying the music, if such it could be called, with his voice. The spectators sat listening in rapt attention, when suddenly one of the women started up and began dancing, keeping capital time to the music. The faster Cudjoe played the faster she danced, till every limb and muscle seemed in movement. Round and round she went in front of the hideous fetish: no dervish of the East could have danced more furiously. Presently she was joined by a man, who danced in the same manner round and round her. One after the other, the whole of the women, with partners, took a part in the performance; I could scarcely follow their dark figures, except by the ornaments they wore, as they moved in eccentric courses within the hut, the tom-tom beating louder and louder, and the people moving faster. The spectators had hitherto sat quiet; they at length rose, and were, I saw, apparently about to join in the saturnalia. Just then Rob touched me on the arm and whispered, ‘Come away, sir; I heard something which told me it will not be safe to remain here longer.’ As I had no wish to be offered up as a sacrifice to the fetish I followed his advice, and as fast as we could move along we made our way back to the open. On inquiring of Rob what he had heard, he told me that the negroes were cursing the white men, and were praying to the fetish to assist them in some design or other they had on foot. Rob even thought that in their excitement they might seize us and put us to death. He was so earnest in the matter that he convinced me he did not speak without sufficient cause. I don’t wish to alarm you, Miss Ferris, but I want you to try and induce your father to take precautions against any sudden outbreak of the blacks. Our manager holds them in such supreme contempt that he wouldn’t listen to what I have to say, and would only laugh at me and call me a second-sight Scotchman. Even the hundred negroes I saw assembled might commit a great deal of mischief; and there may be many hundreds more united with them: numbers arrived while we were there, and others were coming in as we made our escape.”

“I certainly think you are right, Mr Sandys, in not despising the warning given by the overseer,” said Ellen. “I will tell my father what you have said to me, and ask him to speak to you on the subject, and he will probably examine Rob Kerlie. It will surely be wise to be on our guard, even should the negroes not really be meditating mischief. I confess that what you have told me has made me somewhat anxious; this hot evening is not calculated to rise one’s spirits. Tell me, Mr Sandys, is the air often as oppressive as it is at present?”

“No, certainly. It is very hot indeed; I suspect that we are going to have a storm,” answered Archie. “I observed this morning curiously shaped clouds high up in the sky, which suddenly dispersed from every point of the compass. I have been for some minutes, watching a bank of clouds rising above the horizon in the north-west, and it has gained a considerable height since we were speaking; it seems to have swept round the western end of the island.”

Ellen looked in the direction indicated; just then a vivid flash of lightning burst from the dark bank of clouds in the west, followed almost without interval by several others, and in a few minutes the tops of the tall palms bent before a sudden blast which came rushing from the westward. Every instant it increased in fury; the leaves torn from the trees filled the air, succeeded by branches, many of considerable size.

“I must advise you, Miss Ferris, to take shelter within the house,” said Archie, “for one of those branches might injure you severely. Even the verandah itself may be blown away. You have little conception of the power of a West Indian hurricane.”

As Ellen was hurrying into the house she met her father coming to look for her.

“I am afraid we are going to have a violent storm, of which this wind is only the precursor,” he said. “We must seek for safety in the strongest part of the house; it will not be safe to remain in the open air, or even near the window, through which a branch or any other object may be blown.”

Ellen had accompanied her father to the dining-hall, which, being in the centre of the house, was less exposed to danger than any other part of the building. So loudly did the wind roar that even there it was necessary to speak in a high tone to be heard.

“Oh, what will become of the Ouzel Galley if she is caught in this fearful gale!” exclaimed Ellen.

“She has by this time, I hope, gained a good offing; if the wind holds as it now does, she will be able to run before it till she is out of danger,” answered Mr Ferris.

As the evening was now drawing rapidly on, the manager and book-keepers came in from the works in the different parts of the estate. They all looked somewhat anxious, though no damage had yet been done, and a hope was entertained that it was not going to be anything serious after all. Their spirits revived when suddenly the wind ceased and the atmosphere became as clear as usual. Two or three of them had, however, again to go out; and on their return they reported that the sky was once more overcast, and that it was lightening in all quarters. Presently the rain came down in true tropical fashion, again to stop and again to go on with greater energy than before. Sometimes it was perfectly calm, but the lightning continued darting forth from the sky with awful grandeur; sometimes the whole upper regions of the air were illuminated by incessant flashes, but the quivering sheet of blazing fire was far surpassed in brilliancy by the electric fluid which was exploding in every direction. Ellen and her father and young Sandys were standing as near one of the windows as they could venture, when they saw a meteor of deep red hue and globular form descending perpendicularly from an enormous height. As it approached the earth its motion appeared to be accelerated, and it then became of dazzling whiteness, elongating in form till, dashing on the ground, it splashed around like molten lead or quicksilver and disappeared. The next instant the hurricane again burst forth, rushing amid the trees with the sound of a heartrending and piercing scream, so loud as entirely to drown the human voice. The whole building shook and trembled as if an earthquake was taking place and it was about to be hurled to the ground. Mr Ferris, seizing Ellen’s arm, dragged her into a doorway.

“Should the house not withstand this furious blast, we shall be safer here than anywhere else,” he said.

Young Sandys followed them. Mr Twigg, with his wife and children, was at the time in another room. Ellen naturally felt anxious for her friends, and young Sandys offered to go and ascertain how they were getting on. He quickly returned with the report that they were all safe, and that the children were clinging round their parents, overcome with terror, and shrieking piteously. No thunder was at any time heard, and all agreed that even if the whole battery of a line-of-battle ship had been going off, the sound would not have been distinguished above the horrible roar and yelling of the wind and the noise of the ocean, as its tumultuous waves dashed on the shore, threatening every instant to sweep over the land and engulf all within their reach. The wind continually shifted, now blowing from one quarter, now from another. Suddenly the deafening noise sank into a solemn murmur, and the lightning, which had hitherto played in flashes and forked darts, hovered for a few seconds between the clouds and the earth, circling round and round, causing the whole heavens to appear on fire, when a similar luminous appearance seemed to burst from the ground, and, rising, the mass rushed upwards to the sky. After a short interval, again was felt the breath of the whirlwind with even greater fury than before, and it seemed as if everything on the face of the earth would be swept away into the boiling ocean. Again the earth was shaken, and the house vibrated with a violence which threatened its instant destruction. Mr Ferris kept a firm hold of his daughter’s arm, and she, in a way which surprised him as well as herself, maintained her composure during the whole of this fearful strife of the elements. Not till daylight returned did the fury of the tempest altogether cease; sometimes it abated, again to burst forth with almost the same power as before. The house itself, having been strongly built and the roof fixed on with the greatest care, withstood the hurricane, a portion only at one end having been blown off; but the out-buildings were materially damaged. Mr Ferris and his managers waited anxiously to hear a report of the damage which had been done to the estate. Round the house many trees had been torn from their roots, others snapped short off, and all had more or less suffered. The ocean still continued to rage with unabated fury, even after the wind itself had ceased Ellen naturally looked along the horizon, but not a sail was in sight, and again and again she asked what could have become of the Ouzel Galley. Her affection for Norah made her feel as if she was herself personally interested in the fate of the brave young commander, as much as Mr Ferris was in reality in that of the ship. He could no longer conceal his anxiety about the Ouzel Galley. How she had fared was the subject of earnest discussion between him and Mr Twigg. The latter thought it just possible that she might have got beyond the influence of the hurricane before it burst with its full fury; and if not, might have weathered it out, as many a stout ship with plenty of sea room had weathered similar hurricanes before. He acknowledged, however, that she might have been caught by it, and if so, while the wind blew from the northward, might have been driven on shore. The latter point would in time be ascertained, and as soon as possible a messenger was despatched along the coast, who, though he reported several shipwrecks, had ascertained that the Ouzel Galley was not among them.

“She was well found and not overladen, and as well able to keep afloat, even in such a sea as we saw running, as any ship which ever sailed the ocean,” observed Mr Ferris. “We shall hear, I trust, in due course of her arrival.”

Dreadful as the hurricane had appeared, the damage done was not as great as might have been expected. It was the opinion of many that only the tail of the hurricane had passed over the island. It was bad enough as it was. In some places the country appeared as if scorched by fire, in others the crops were totally destroyed; numerous buildings were levelled with the ground, and the trees and shrubs uprooted; a number of people had been killed, and many more seriously injured, by being struck by shingles from the roofs or branches from the trees, and by other hard substances which went hurtling like cannon-shot through the air. So rapid, however, is vegetation in the tropics that nature herself would repair much of the damage produced, and the industry of man the remainder—although the proprietors had to suffer severely in their pockets, while there was no power to restore to life the unhappy beings who had been killed.

Chapter Twelve.

Captain Tracy and Norah at home—A letter from Gerald—His adventures—A cruise off Hispaniola—Engagement with a French squadron—The enemy put to flight—Death of a young midshipman—Return to Port Royal—A second cruise, and capture of several rich merchantmen—Gerald in command of the Flora—His steward Peter—More tidings of the pirates—The Champion sent with despatches to the Leeward Islands—Joins the Buckingham in attacking a fort at Martinico—Generous conduct of Captain Tyrrell—Peter’s narrative—His capture by pirates, and escape.

Norah and her father had for many months been living an uneventful life in their pretty little cottage near Waterford. She was his constant companion; indeed, she never ventured out without him. Things had come to a pretty pass, as he observed, when a young lady couldn’t take a walk by herself without the risk of being carried off by a party of filibustering squireens, quite as bad in their way as the picarooning rascals in the West Indies and on the Spanish Main, who had often in days of yore given him so much anxiety—not that they ever had caught him, for he was too much on his guard, though he had been chased well-nigh a score of times; and he intended to be on his guard now, and, as he hoped, with the same success.

This state of things, therefore, did not much concern him, as he was glad of Norah’s society, and was always as ready to walk with her as she was with him. Their walks, indeed, seldom extended much beyond Waterford, or the often-trod road to Widow Massey’s house. Norah never passed many days without paying her a visit. They were now looking forward to receiving news of Owen, or indeed, as they hoped, seeing him himself, as the Ouzel Galley, unless detained longer than was expected, would some time since have commenced her homeward voyage. A letter had come from Gerald saying that he had just seen her on her way round to Montego Bay, and giving an account of himself and what he had seen and done up to that time. He promised to write a longer letter when he had more to say. A couple of months or more after the arrival of Gerald’s first letter another was received from him.

“Dear sister Norah,” it ran, “I promised to spin you a long yarn, so here goes, and I hope that you’ll get it some day. I told you in my last that I had seen the Ouzel Galley under way from Montego Bay, and I suppose Owen has long before this delivered all the messages I sent by him; and if not, I dare say he will before long, if he hasn’t forgotten them. No matter; they were not very important, so you needn’t scold him for his negligence.

“I forget if I told you that, while our ship was undergoing repairs in dock at Port Royal, Lieutenant Foley, Molly—I mean Lord Mountstephen—with Nat Kiddle and me, and about twenty of our hands, were turned over to the Augusta, 60-gun ship, commanded by Captain Forrest; and immediately afterwards were ordered to proceed to sea, accompanied by two other ships under his orders, the Edinburgh, of sixty-four guns, Captain Langdon, and the Dreadnought, of sixty guns, Captain Morris Suckling. We soon found that we were to cruise off Cape François, on the north coast of Saint Domingo, to watch a French squadron under Commodore De Kearsaint, who was collecting a large number of merchantmen which he was to convoy from that port to Europe. The admiral had been informed that the French had only three line-of-battle ships, which, although somewhat larger than we were, he knew very well that we should thrash if we could come up with them. We gained intelligence, however, from a French despatch vessel which we captured, that the enemy’s squadron had lately been increased by four other ships, one of which, by-the-by, was a ship of ours—the Greenwich—of fifty guns, captured a few months ago, when commanded by Captain Roddam, off this very island. He had nothing to be ashamed of, for with his single ship he bravely faced five sail of the line and several frigates, and wasn’t taken till he had lost all chance of escaping except by going to the bottom. Thus, you see, the French had seven ships to our three, and we heard besides that they had been strongly manned by volunteers from the garrison and merchant vessels, and made sure that they should either drive us away or capture us.

“Notwithstanding the superiority of the enemy, we were not to be put to flight, but kept our ground as if no Frenchmen were in the neighbourhood. We had been for some days cruising off the cape, always near enough to keep the port in sight, so that no vessel could steal out without our knowing it, when early in the morning the Dreadnought, which was inshore of us, made the signal that the enemy was in sight, and before noon we could see the whole French squadron standing out in line towards us, the wind being about north-east—if you get the chart, father will explain matters to you. We were to windward of them, keeping close together, though not so close as the Frenchmen, who seemed very anxious to be backing up each other. Our captain now made the signal for the other two captains to come on board the Augusta. As soon as they stepped on the quarter-deck, Captain Forrest, after shaking hands, said, ‘Well, gentlemen, you see the Frenchmen are come out to engage us.’ On which Captain Suckling quickly replied, ‘I think it would be a pity to disappoint them.’ ‘And what do you say?’ asked our captain, turning to Captain Langdon. ‘I heartily agree with Captain Suckling,’ was the answer. ‘If we disable them, we shall do good service by preventing them from convoying the merchant vessels, and maybe we shall take one or two of them. Of one thing I feel very sure, that they won’t take us.’

“The three captains being agreed, the other two went back to their ships, and we hoisted the signal to make all sail and to close the enemy. The Dreadnought led in our line; the Intrepide, the French commodore’s ship, led in that of the enemy, followed by the Greenwich. The wind was light, and it seemed to me that we should never get into action. Though I’ve seen a good deal of fighting on a small scale, yet this affair was likely to prove more serious than any I had yet engaged in. I was stationed on the main-deck, and the scene was very different to what I had been accustomed to on board the Champion where we’ve no deck above us and can see everything that is going forward. Here, it was only by looking through a port that I could get a glimpse of the enemy’s ships, as they stood on in a long line, one closely following the other—so closely, indeed, that the leading ship had the jibboom end of the one next her in line almost over her taffrail. Molly, Kiddle, and I had charge of the guns manned by the Champion’s people. We reminded them that they must show what they were made of, and maintain the honour of the little ship; they one and all answered that they would; and they looked as if they intended to keep to their word, as they stood with their shirts off, handkerchiefs bound round their heads, and belts round their waists, ready to fire as soon as the order should be given. In a line behind where we stood were the powder-boys seated on their tubs, cracking jokes, and seeming altogether to forget that we should have, in a few minutes, showers of round shot rattling about our ears. Though we used to call Mountstephen Molly, he didn’t look a bit like a Molly now, for he walked the deck as calm and composed as if nothing particular was going to happen. I asked him what o’clock it was. He said, ‘Twenty minutes past three.’ Just then the Dreadnought opened her fire on the French commodore; and didn’t Captain Suckling pound him—knocking away in a few minutes several of his spars, and so wounding his rigging that he fell on board the Greenwich, which, as I said, was close astern of him. As the Dreadnought stood on, we got up, and the word to fire was passed along our decks; and you may be sure we quickly obeyed it, blazing away at the two French ships already foul of each other, when they drove down upon the third astern, and there all three lay, unable to get clear one of the other.

“The French had a 64 and a 44 gun ship, besides two 32-gun frigates, which were able to manoeuvre, and these, as you may suppose, did not remain quiet while the Augusta and Edinburgh were blazing away at the three ships, which still lay jammed together. It made the fight, however, more equal than it would otherwise have been. Their shot came on board us pretty thickly, and not a few of our men were struck down. Among them was our first lieutenant, who raised his hand for a moment, and then fell back, dead. Soon afterwards I saw poor Mountstephen fall; I ran to help him, when I found that one of his legs had been shot away and the other fearfully injured. I ordered a couple of men to carry him below; I should have liked to go with him, poor fellow, but I couldn’t leave the deck. I had returned to my station, when I found myself suddenly splashed all over with what I thought was water, though it was rather warm.

“‘What, Paddy Tracy, are you wounded?’ I heard Nat Kiddle sing out.

“‘Not that I know of,’ I answered; ‘I don’t feel like it.’ Then I saw what had happened—a man standing close to me had been cut right in two by a round shot, which came through the port, wounding a couple of men besides.

“Much as the enemy were knocked about, we were already in a pretty bad condition, having all our masts, sails, rigging, and boats considerably damaged, eight or ten men killed, and nearly thirty wounded. If it hadn’t been for the four ships of the enemy still able to manoeuvre, we should have taken or sunk the other three, for they couldn’t manage to get free of each other, while they could only now and then fire a few shot at us. At length, to our infinite satisfaction, we saw the masts of the 64 engaged with the Dreadnought go over the side, while all the line-of-battle ships were evidently tremendously knocked about both in hull and rigging. We had been engaged for upwards of two hours, when the French commodore made a signal to one of the frigates, which, coming up, took him in tow and carried him out of action; and his example was followed by the whole of the French squadron, which made sail for Cape François, then to leeward of them.

“The Edinburgh had been as much damaged in her masts, yards, and sails as we were, and Captain Langdon signalled that she had also several shot in her hull. The Dreadnought, we saw, had lost her main and mizen topmasts, while nearly all her other masts and yards were greatly injured, and she also had received many shot in her hull, besides having lost as many men as we had. This made Captain Forrest refrain from following the Frenchmen.

“I was very glad to find Mr Foley all right, for his own sake, for I like him very much—and still more for that of Miss Ferris, for it would be a terrible thing for her were he to be killed, and I hope he won’t, though we all run the risk of losing the number of our mess. As soon as I could leave my station I ran down below to see how poor Mountstephen was getting on. He was perfectly sensible, though pale as a sheet. He said he felt no pain. His first question was, ‘What are the enemy about?’

“‘They’re running,’ I replied.

“‘What, all seven of them?’ he asked.

“‘Yes, every one,’ I answered.

“‘Hurrah!’ he exclaimed, waving his hand above his head, ‘we’ve gained the victory.’

“Scarcely were the words out of his mouth than he fell back, and before the doctor could come to him he was dead.

“When I got on deck again—and I can tell you I was very glad to breathe some fresh air, after being down in that dreadful cockpit, full of poor fellows groaning with pain, some having their legs and arms cut off, others with their sides torn open or heads fearfully smashed—I found that the enemy were out of our reach, and that not one of our three ships was in a condition to follow them. This was very provoking, though we had fought a right gallant action, of that there can be no doubt. Captain Forrest seeing that, if we got to leeward, we should be unable to beat off, and very likely be driven on shore and lost, ordered a course to be steered for Jamaica, where we arrived in a couple of days. The admiral highly approved of what had been done, and Captain Forrest received orders to get his ship repaired with all despatch and return as soon as possible in search of the enemy. The hands were taken off our sloop for this purpose, and there seemed every probability of our remaining some time longer on board the Augusta. Still, things are not done so quickly out here as they are in the dockyards at home. At last we got to sea and sailed for Cape François. On looking into that port we found that the Frenchmen had put their best legs foremost, and that Monsieur De Kearsaint, having repaired his ships, had some days before sailed with the convoy for Europe, and we should have no chance of overtaking him. We had accordingly to come back, when we again sailed with the admiral, whose flag was flying on board the Marlborough, for a cruise off Cape Tibéron. I should make my letter too long if I were to describe all that took place. We had not been many days on the station before we captured two French privateers, and from their crows learned that a rich convoy was preparing at Port au Prince to sail for Europe, under the protection of two large armed private ships. The admiral on this sent in his tender to ascertain if such was the fact. Her commander, who speaks French, managed to gain all the intelligence he required; he soon returned, having ascertained that the information received was correct. The admiral accordingly directed us to proceed off the island of Golavé, to cruise there for two days, and, should we see anything of the convoy at the expiration of that time, to return and join him. Golavé, you will understand, is in the middle of the large bay which occupies nearly the whole western coast of Saint Domingo, to the northward of Cape Tibéron.

“The afternoon of the day following our arrival, we had got well up into the bay, when we caught sight of two sloops. To prevent them from taking us for what we were, we hoisted Dutch colours and stood away from them. In the evening we sighted seven more sail steering out of the bay. On this, to deceive the enemy, we hung tarpaulins over the sides of the ship, set the sails in lubberly fashion, and, hauling our wind, stood away from the strangers till dark. We then again made sail and followed them. At ten o’clock we saw two more sail, one of which fired a gun, and the other then parted company and steered for Leogane. Soon afterwards eight more sail were seen to leeward. We had not lost sight of the ship which had fired a gun; though she might have suspected our character, she did not stand away from us. We accordingly soon ran up alongside, when Captain Forrest shouted out to him in French to strike, adding, ‘If you alarm the other ships, or let them discover by any means what we are, we’ll send you forthwith to the bottom.’

“The French commander, fully believing that our captain would put his threat into execution, immediately gave in; and one of our lieutenants, with thirty-five men, went on board the prize with orders to proceed off Petit Guave, a small port to leeward, to prevent any of the other vessels from escaping into it. The vessel we had captured was the Mars, of twenty-two guns and 108 men, all of whom we had now aboard us, stowed away below lest they should be making signals to the enemy. We stood on during the remainder of the night, and at daylight found ourselves in the midst of the convoy, which, on our hoisting our colours and showing what we were about, began firing at us; but we quickly silenced them one after the other, and in the course of a few minutes the whole struck, one small vessel alone managing to get away. There were altogether eight vessels, richly laden, each carrying from eight to ten guns. We had to take out their crews and man them from our ship. The captain, sending for me, greatly to my satisfaction, ordered me to take charge of one of them, called the Flora. Tumbling into one of the boats with ten hands, I quickly pulled aboard, and found that she carried twelve guns and a crew of thirty-five men. The Frenchmen looked very glum when I told them that they were to get into the boat and go aboard our ship. I kept one of them, a black, Pierre by name, who spoke English and had been the captain’s steward. The first service he did me was to act as interpreter, and as he knew where everything was stowed, I thought he would be useful in other respects. Through him I made a polite speech to the captain, and told him that I was sorry to turn him out of his ship, but that I was obeying orders. He shrugged his shoulders, observing that it was the fortune of war, when, bowing, he followed his men over the side. I wasn’t sorry to get rid of the Frenchmen, for it would have been a hard matter to keep them in order and navigate the ship with the few hands I had.

“As soon as we had transferred the prisoners, the prizes were ordered to make sail, and together we stood out of the bay. A very pretty sight we presented as we ran on under all sail, keeping, according to orders, close to the Augusta. Our prizes were richly laden, and the admiral, as may be supposed, was highly pleased when we sighted him off Cape Tibéron and Captain Forrest told him what we had done, as his share of the prize would be something considerable. Mine, as a midshipman, would be a couple of hundred pounds; Mr Foley, as a lieutenant, will get two or three thousand; so you may fancy what the shares of the captain and admiral will be.

“Pierre was, I found, an excellent cook as well as steward. I now called him Peter, by-the-by, at his own request, for as he observed, ‘Now, massa, I come among Englishmen I take English name, please;’ and so Peter he is now always called. He was especially fond of keeping his tongue wagging; he seemed not at all sorry to have changed masters, and to have got on board a man-of-war instead of a merchantman. He said that on their voyage out, when coming through the Windward Passage, the Flora and another vessel, the Cerf, of smaller size, carrying only eight guns, had been attacked by a piratical craft. They fought for some time, when the Flora made off, leaving the Cerf to her fate—that the pirates boarded her, and that he had seen her go down—that the pirate ship then made chase after the Flora, but by carrying all sail, and night coming on, she escaped. By Peter’s account, I suspect that she must be the same craft which attacked the Ouzel Galley. Peter says she has a crew of a hundred men and carries twenty guns. She is known to have captured several merchantmen; some she sends to the bottom, and others she takes into one of the numerous keys among the Bahamas, where they are hidden away as securely as they would be among the unknown islands of the Pacific or Indian Ocean. From various things which Peter said, I had an idea that he knew more about the pirate than he had hitherto communicated, and I determined, when I had more completely gained his confidence, to try and obtain all the information he possessed.

“The weather continued fine, and our little squadron making good way, we were all soon safely at anchor in Port Royal harbour. It was a jovial sight, let me tell you, as we sailed in with English colours above the French on board the prizes, the guns firing, the flags flying, and the people on shore cheering. We at once carried the prizes up to Kingston, where they were quickly sold for good round sums, for they were all richly laden. As soon as I get my prize-money, I intend to send it home to father. Tell him to do as he thinks best with it; I don’t want to spend it here, as many of our men probably will before long. The Jamaica people seldom get so good a haul as this, though prizes are being brought in almost every week. Where the money all goes to, I don’t know; it makes somebody rich, I suppose.

“I was disappointed at not seeing Mr and Miss Ferris, and so, I have no doubt, was Mr Foley, for we thought that they would be back here by this time; but they are still away on the other side of the island. I don’t think I told you that there had been a hurricane here, while we were cruising off Cape François, before our action with the Frenchmen. It was not felt very severely at this end of the island, as they only got the whisk of its tail; but at the west end it did a great deal of damage, and a number of people were killed and wounded, though I am happy to say that our friends escaped any injury. The Ouzel Galley, I understand, had sailed, and, I hope, had got well to the eastward before it came on. I dare say that Owen Massey will have told you all about it long before you get this. The worst news I have to give you is respecting the slaves, who are in a very rebellious state. It is rumoured that in one or two places they have attacked the whites’ houses and killed several people; but this is not believed, and it is said that they know too well what a fearful punishment would overtake them were they to do anything of the sort.

“To return to my own proceedings. As soon as I had handed the Flora over to the prize agent, I had to turn again into a midshipman and to go on board our own tight little sloop, which had just come out of dock and was now all ataunto, ready for sea. I got leave to take Peter with me, as he wished to enter on board a British ship of war; he was at once appointed midshipmen’s steward, and a better one we never had.

“Mr Foley was hoping that we should be sent to cruise off the north coast of the island, but instead of that we were ordered to carry despatches to Commodore Moore, who commands on the Leeward Islands station. Having delivered them, we were on our way back, when we fell in with the Buckingham, Captain Tyrrell. While in company with her we captured a French merchantman, and her crew being brought on board our ship, Peter heard from some of them that four privateers had run in for shelter under a strong battery in Grand Anar Bay, on the island of Martinico. He having told me, I at once gave information to our commander, who forthwith went on board the Buckingham to communicate it to Captain Tyrrell, and he at once resolved to stand in and destroy the privateers and the fort. Our prisoners, who had no idea that what they had been talking about had been understood, were very much astonished at seeing us suddenly alter our course and steer in for the bay. There, sure enough, were the four privateers with springs on their cables, and their guns run out, anchored under a strong-looking fort, mounting ten guns at least. The Buckingham ran in as close as she could venture, when she dropped her anchor, and we brought up under her stern and immediately began blazing away at the vessels, which, as well as the fort, opened fire on us. Though the privateers each mounted not less than twenty guns, they could not long stand the Buckingham’s heavy shot; indeed, had we been alone we should have taken them. Still, thinking that the fort would drive us away, they held out longer than we had expected. Though we were struck several times, and a good many round shot passed between our masts, not a man on board was hit. We were wondering when they would give in, when, as a puff of air cleared the smoke off for a few seconds, we observed that one of them had a list to starboard. Her next broadside again concealed her from view, and in a couple of minutes, when the wind again blew away the smoke, all we could see were her masts as she slowly went to the bottom. I was expecting that the rest would share the same fate; one of them was to meet with a more terrible disaster—almost the next instant a thundering sound was heard, flames burst out of her deck, her masts shot upwards like sky-rockets, and the whole air seemed filled with fragments of wreck, which came hissing down into the water, several portions, whizzing through the air, reaching almost to where we lay. The other two, seeing the hopelessness of further resistance, after firing their broadsides, hauled down their colours. On this the Buckingham made a signal to us to take possession of the two vessels. ‘Out boats!’ was the order; and in another minute three of our boats, I having charge of one of them, were dashing through the calm water, while the Buckingham continued engaging the fort, which still held out. Two or three of its guns, however, had been disabled, and its fire began to slacken. We pulled away as fast as the crews could lay their backs to the oars, fearing that the Frenchmen would set fire to the ships and deprive us of our prizes. Their boats were already in the water, and the men were tumbling into them, evidently in a hurry to make their escape. ‘Look out, lads; that the rascals play no tricks, and lose no time in seeing that all’s safe below!’ sang out Mr Foley, as he dashed by in the gig towards the northernmost of the vessels. I was making for the one to the southward, the farthest from the fort. We were soon up to her, and as we scrambled up on one side we saw several of her crew toppling over on the other. Just then I caught sight of a man coming up the companion-hatchway; it struck me that he had been about some mischief, and leaping on him, I tumbled him down to the foot of the ladder. He had a slow-match in his hand, which, hissing and spluttering, set his clothes on fire.

“‘What have you been about, you rascal?’ I exclaimed, though I don’t suppose he understood the question. He pointed to the door of a cabin from which smoke was issuing. I burst it open, and found a match lighted, leading to a suspicious-looking cask in the corner. I, as you may suppose, pulled it out in pretty quick time; and, throwing it into the middle of the main cabin, sang out for buckets of water. A couple were quickly handed down, and the fire was extinguished. In another moment, however, we should all have been blown into the air. The Frenchman, who proved to be the mate of the vessel, was severely burnt, but little compassion was felt for him. We secured him, and two other men, who were caught by the legs as they were leaping overboard.

“Our men had begun to fire at the boats which had shoved off, but I ordered them to desist, as the Frenchmen had hauled down their flag, and were perfectly right in trying to make their escape.

“As soon as the garrison of the fort saw that we had possession of the vessels, they opened fire at us with one of their guns. On this, Mr Foley ordered me to cut the cable of my prize, and make sail out of harm’s way, as the wind was sufficiently off shore to enable us to do so. He at the same time, I saw, was setting the canvas of the ship he had taken.

“The Buckingham and Champion having now only the fort to attend to, poured in so hot a fire on it that the gun which was annoying us was dismounted before we had been under way more than four or five minutes. So we again brought up and turned our guns at the fort, which was gradually crumbling away before the iron shower thrown into it. As the Frenchmen still kept up a hot fire from four or five guns, which considerably annoyed the Buckingham, Captain Tyrrell ordered the boats away to storm the fort and put an end to the conflict. I immediately jumped into my boat, leaving the prize at anchor to take care of herself, and joined the others, which were pulling to the shore on that side of the fort where the chief breach had been effected, and where none of the remaining guns could reach us and out of range of musket-shot. Captain Tyrrell himself, I found, was heading the party. We mustered altogether upwards of a hundred and fifty men, about forty of whom belonged to our ship, with Mr Foley and other officers. The marines quickly formed, flanked by our blue jackets, armed with muskets, cutlasses, and pistols. The instant the last man leaped on shore, the order to advance was given, and up the hill we went at double quick march, in spite of a shower of musket balls which came whizzing about our ears. The Frenchmen endeavoured to slew round some of their guns to fire down on us, but before the muzzles were run through the embrasures, we were climbing over the parapet in a somewhat helter-skelter fashion, and, headed by the gallant captain of the Buckingham, leaping down into the fort. So rapid had been our advance that the soldiers had no time to reload their pieces, and as our cutlasses flashed in their faces, they hurled them at us and took to flight, endeavouring to make their way out at a gate on the land side, where, in their hurry, they got jammed together and stopped by part of the crews of the two privateers, who were coming in to their assistance. Fortunately for them, their commandant, after exchanging a few passes with Captain Tyrrell, had been disarmed and made prisoner; and he, seeing that if followed by our men they would be cut to pieces, shouted out to them to come back and submit as he had done. Still they pushed on, and in their struggles to get out, toppled over each other till a dozen or more lay sprawling on the ground. They would there have been destroyed had not Captain Tyrrell humanely called off his people. Of the whole of our party, not a man had been killed, and a few only were wounded. The fort exhibited a woeful picture of ruin—nearly a score of men lay dead close to the guns, while we saw other corpses scattered about in different parts of the fort. The buildings which served as habitations for the garrison were shattered to pieces, the embrasures knocked into one, the guns dismounted and their carriages broken, the flagstaff shot in two—indeed, it seemed a wonder that the Frenchmen could have held out so long.

“We could see from the ramparts a good-sized town on the banks of a river, some way from the shore, sheltered by groves of palms and other trees—a very attractive, pleasant-looking place. Finding themselves masters of the fort, our men gave three cheers; then the cry arose that they should go down and attack the town and pillage it. When the captain heard this, he shouted out to the men, ‘My fine fellows, I hear what you say, and I hope you will not longer think of doing that same. You will agree that it is beneath us to make a number of poor people miserable by destroying their houses and such comforts of life as they possess. Remember, you are Englishmen, and should scorn to injure people who, though they are called our enemies, have not lifted even a finger against us. Let them remain in quiet; they will bless you, and wish you well.’

“This considerate speech had a good effect. The men cheered, and said they had no wish to hurt the mounseers. The captain, allowing the commandant to follow his people, who had made their escape, then set us to work to demolish the fort. The guns which appeared serviceable were spiked, and then rolled down the hill into the sea, and mines were dug in different parts of the fort, in which all the powder we found in the magazine was stowed. A train was then laid to each mine, and we were ordered to march down to the boats. Captain Tyrrell, who had superintended all the operations himself, was the last to leave; he lighted the train, and then followed us. We hadn’t got many yards from the beach when a loud report was heard, and up went a part of the fort, quickly followed by the other portions, like the joints in a cracker; and when the smoke and dust cleared off, the whole spot where the fort had stood was a heap of ruins. It would take the Frenchmen a good many weeks to repair the damage, if they should ever think it worth while to make the attempt.

“The wind was so light that we were unable to get out of the bay; in the evening we saw a boat coming off to us with a flag of truce. She contained two of the principal inhabitants of the town, who brought with them a cargo of fowls, and vegetables, and fruit, which they begged the captain to accept as a mark of their gratitude for his having spared their town. They added that another would shortly follow for the corvette. Captain Tyrrell made a suitable speech, accepting their present. The other boats soon arrived with the promised supply for us, and as we took leave in the most friendly manner of the people who brought it, no one would have supposed the sort of work we had been engaged in during the morning.

“A land breeze enabled us to get to sea that evening, when soon afterwards we parted company with the Buckingham, we shaping a course back to Jamaica. We were all very jolly on board, for we had plenty of provisions, and had unexpectedly come in for a nice little lump of prize-money.

“I must tell you that Peter had become a great favourite on board, and of this he himself seemed well aware, though he wisely never presumed on it. I had, as I told you, been curious to find out how he was so well acquainted with the haunts of the pirates. At last, one day, I asked him, when I happened to be alone in the berth and he had come to get something out of a locker.

“‘Me tell you, Massa Tracy, for me now know berry well you my friend,’ he answered.

“‘You’re right, Peter,’ I replied, ‘and you may be sure that from nothing you say will you criminate yourself.’

“‘Me only tell de truth on de honour of gentleman;’ and Peter put his hand on his heart as he had seen the Frenchmen do.

“‘Heave ahead, Peter,’ I said, ‘or your yarn may be out short.’

“‘Berry well, Massa Tracy,’ said Peter. ‘It happen dis way. I was ’board a French ship, Les deux Amis, bound from Bordeaux to Port au Prince, when just as we ’bout twenty league to de eastward ob San Domingo, keeping a look-out dat no English cruiser pick us up, we see one evening, just as de sun go down, a big ship from de nor’ard standing for us. De cappen say she French—de mate say she Spanish—some ob de men say she Dutch—oders strife she English—I not know what to tink. De cappen say, “Best make all sail and stand ’way.” So we did; but de bell just strike two in de fust watch, when we see her ranging up alongside. Den de cappen order de guns to be fired; but before de matches lighted, de stranger she aboard us. In a few minutes forty savage-looking fellows came springing on to our deck, pistolling some and cutting down oders of de crew. I see at once what going to happen—if I stay on board de brig, I be killed wid de rest—so I make a leap and gain de fore-rigging ob de stranger. Running for’ard, I leap down de hatchway and stow myself away in a berth. Eben dere I hear de dreadful cries and shrieks ob de crew as dey put to death by de pirates—for such I guess be de gentry into hands whose we hab fallen. I know by de sounds I hear as I lie quaking in de berth dat dey were removing de cargo ob de prize on board dere own ship. It was nearly daylight before dey hab taken out all de cargo dey wish to secure; den dey cast off, and directly afterwards I hear several shot fired. I know dat sooner or later I must show myself, as de watch who hab been working all night would be coming below to turn in; so I creep on deck, and make my way aft to where a man I tink must be de cappen was standing. No one stop me, for dey all too busy or too sleepy to notice me. I take off my hat and make him a polite bow, and ask in English if he want a cabin-steward, as I ready to serve him. “And if you like sea-pie, cappen, I cook one such as nobody can beat, let me tell you dat,” I say. “I head cook.”’

“‘You’re an impudent rascal, whoever you are,’ he reply, ‘but perhaps, for once in a way, you speak the truth.’

“‘Do, cappen, just try me to-morrow, or next day, or when you get de materials to put in de pie,’ I say.

“‘I’ll think about that, my man,’ he answer, licking him lips. And den I know I all safe. ‘He not kill me if he tink I make good sea-pie,’ I say to myself; ‘for black fellow sometimes more cunning dan white buccra—he! he! he!’ Peter chuckled. ‘Where do you come from?’ he ask.

“‘I tell him I carried off and made to serve on board de French ship, and dat I glad to escape from her. Dis not quite true, but I guess it make him more ready to save my life.’

“‘Well,’ he say, ‘I happen to want a steward, and if you prove to be what you say you are, and can cook as well as you boast that you can, I’ll take you into my service; but if not, it will be the worse for you.’

“‘He den ask sharply, “What do you take this ship for, boy?”’

“‘Of course, sar, English man-o’-war,’ I answer—though I know berry well dat not true.

“‘You haven’t quite hit it, but you’ll be much better off than if she was,’ he say, tinking me simple lad who no do any mischief. He den shout out to de crew on deck, and tell dem not to harm me. Just den, as I look ober de side, I catch a glimpse of de brig which we were leaving settling down, and in anoder minute de water close ober de mast-heads. Den I tink I act berry wise in getting on board de pirate. De cappen den send me down into de cabin to look after de tings dere and put it in order, saying dat his oder steward been killed in an action a few days before. We were now, I found, steering to de nor’-west. Two or tree days after dis we take anoder prize, which was robbed ob eberyting ob value on board, and was den treated same as Les deux Amis had been. I was very glad to get off wid my life, but I berry much wish myself out of de ship again, and determined to make my ’scape as soon as I hab opportunity.

“‘De cappen each day ask me when I going to make de sea-pie. I always say, “When I get de fowls, and de turkeys, and de ham, and de oder tings to put in it. But I make you some lobscouse in de mean time,” I say. And so I did; and he and de mates say dey nebber taste such good lobscouse in dere lives. “Ah! not equal to de sea-pie I make some day or oder,” I answer; for I know as long as I promise de sea-pie dey not kill me. I only hope in de mean time no man-o’-war get hold ob us; if she did, I should be hung up wid de rest, and de judges not believe I come on board ’cause oderwise I drown, and stay only to make a sea-pie. We soon get near an island, which I guess was one ob de Bahamas from de way de ship was steered, now in one direction, now in anoder, between rocks and sandbanks. De cappen ask me if I know where we were. I say, “I suppose we somewhere on de Spanish Main.”’

“All right,” he answer; “maybe you’re not much of a navigator?”

“‘Poor nigger like me know berry little ’cept how to make sea-pie,’ I say. He den order me to go below, and soon afterwards I hear de roar ob de breakers, and I know we’d got near the shore. Den de ship sail on and I guess we’d got into a harbour; but she did not come to an anchor, but sail on and on. Den, looking up through the skylight, I see de boughs ob de green trees oberhead, and a high cliff which seem about to topple down on de deck ob de ship. Still we sail on and on, till at last I hear de anchor let go and de cable run out, and when I come on deck I find de ship in a wide lagoon wid several oder vessels and some large boats, and a village ob huts and sheds under de trees on de shore. I now know dat I was in one ob de old buccaneer hiding-places, and I guess dat de vessels I see were dose de pirates had capture and carry off. When the sails were furled I go up to the cappen and ask if he wish me to go on shore to buy some poultry and vegetables and oder tings I might require for de sea-pie.

“‘No, no; you stay on board,’ he answered. ‘I’ll send off for materials, and we shall then see what you can do.’

“‘I pretend to be well pleased, and tell him all de tings I want. Dat evening plenty of provisions came on board. Dere were—let me see—butter-birds and whistling ducks, snipe, red-tailed pigeons, turkeys, clucking hens, parrots, and plantation coots; dere was beef and pork and venison, and papaw fruit, squash, and plantains, calavansas, bananas, yams, Indian pepper, ginger, and all sorts ob oder tings. I pick out what I know make de best pie, putting in plenty of pepper—for dat, I guess, would suit de taste ob de genelmen—and den I cover the whole ober wid thick crust. It take de night and the next day to bake, and when it am ready de cappen and his officers, and some friends from de shore, dey all say dat dey nebber eat any pie like it; and I laugh, and say, “I make better one anoder day.” Dey all eat till dey could eat no more, and den drink to wash it down till one and all am so drunk dat dey couldn’t lift up dere heads. When I see dis, I say to myself, “Now’s the best time for me to try and be off;” and I put a piece ob de pie into a basket, and a calabash of water, and going on deck I see a small canoe made fast to de side. I drop it under de stern, and den go back into the cabin. Ebery one ob dem am still fast asleep; so I lowered de basket into de canoe from one ob de after-ports, and slip down myself widout making any noise. Cutting de painter, I let de canoe drift away before the breeze, which blew down the lagoon. I hab watch during de day one or two boats coming in, so I know the entrance, and as soon as I get to a distance from de vessels I paddle away as fast as I could. I might hab a long distance to go before daylight, but as it was only just dark dere would be plenty ob time. I expected ebery moment to be ober-hauled by de sentries on de shore, but no one was dere, or, at all events, dey not see me. On I go till I get under de cliffs which I see when de ship come in—den I know I in de right passage. Dere was a current, too, by which I judge dat de tide was ebbing. Next I find myself between low banks, for de whole country towards de sea am flat. At last I hear de waves breaking on de shore—not very loud, though; dat makes me hope dat de water smooth. I soon reach de entrance ob de creek, and safely pass de bar. I determine to paddle to de southward; I hab water and provisions to last me for a week or more, and before dat time I hope to get aboard an English or French vessel—it matter berry little to me. When morning break I look out astern, but could see no boat or vessel, and I hope I not pursued; as I was well out ob sight ob land, even if I was, de pirates would hab a difficult job to find me. De sea remain smooth, or my canoe, which was only intended for de lagoon, would hab been swamped. When my pie nearly gone and what remain was scarcely eatable, I see a vessel standing to de westward. De wind was light, and by paddling hard I might reach her. I did paddle, for I no hab a drop ob water in my calabash, and if I miss her I might die ob thirst. On she come, and de breeze freshen. I was coming from de north—she was crossing my course; I shriek and shout—already she nearly pass me; I stand up in my canoe and wave my paddle—den again I sit down and pull away like mad. Again I stand up and shout wid all my might and wave my paddle. I praise God, dey see me; de vessel round to, and in a few minutes I alongside. De cappen ask me where I come from. I tell him I escape from some pirates who would hab cut my throat if I hadn’t known how to make sea-pie, and dat I make one for him as soon as I get opportunity. He laugh, and say dat he believe my story, and dat he gib me a trial. He nebber do so, however, ’cause you capture his vessel before I get de necessary materials.—And now, Massa Tracy, you know my history.’

“From the account Peter gave me, I strongly suspected that the vessel which had captured him was the one which attacked the Ouzel Galley, and I wished that we might have an opportunity of looking for her. The captain was, Peter had told me, an Englishman, as were many of the people with him; but there were others of all nations, as well as mulattoes, Sambos, and blacks. The descendants of the buccaneers still inhabit many of the keys on the Bahama bank, and probably the white population living on shore were some of those people, who keep up the customs and habits of their ancestors. I must try and learn more from Peter on the subject, and ascertain exactly where he was picked up by the Flora. If so, calculating the distance he had come in the canoe, we might be able to discover the hiding-place of the pirates. We have been some time getting back to Port Royal, and as the Narcissus is just sailing for England, I must close this to send by her. We received some bad news on our arrival; the blacks are actually in rebellion and have committed all sorts of mischief, murdering the whites and all who oppose them in every direction. We’re ordered off to the north coast. Mr Foley was very anxious to go there, but he is now in a great state of agitation lest any harm should have befallen our friends; and well he may be—indeed, I can’t help feeling very anxious myself. Still, I don’t want you to be frightened, Norah, and I hope all will go well, and that we shall find when we get there that the blacks have not attacked Mr Twigg’s house. With best love to father, and kind regards to Mrs Massey and Owen, if he has arrived, as I make no doubt he will have long ago—

“I remain—

“Your affectionate brother—

“Gerald Tracy.”

Chapter Thirteen.

Norah’s and Captain Tracy’s anxiety at non-arrival of the Ouzel Galley—Her owners give her up as lost—The underwriters refuse payment of insurance—The matter submitted to arbitration—Captain Tracy invited to Dublin—He is still convinced that the Ouzel Galley will appear—The arbitrators meet at a dinner to discuss the subject and agree to await events—Captain Tracy returns home—Reported loss of the Champion—Captain Tracy resolves to go in search of the Ouzel Galley and Champion—Norah gets leave to go with him—The Research purchased—Captain O’Brien goes to Bristol to obtain hands—A stranger brings a message from a dying shipmate—A message from O.M.—Ferris, Twigg, and Cash supply funds—Captain O’Brien returns, and sails on board the Research.

Interesting as Gerald’s letter was to Norah and her father, it caused them the greatest possible anxiety. Owen had sailed some considerable time before it was written, and he had not yet arrived! Poor Norah scarcely dared ask herself what had happened. Had the Ouzel Galley been overtaken by the hurricane? Gerald at the same time appeared certain that she had escaped it, and if she had, by what cause was she delayed? Had she been captured by the enemy? That was too probable; but, then, Owen would surely have found means of sending a letter to England describing the event. Captain Tracy immediately wrote to the house in Dublin, but they had heard nothing of the ship.

“Oh, father!” exclaimed Norah at length, in a tone which showed her alarm, “can he have fallen into the hands of those terrible pirates of whom Gerald speaks?”

“The Ouzel Galley was too well manned, and, I may venture to say, would have been too well handled and fought, to yield to a rascally buccaneering craft,” answered Captain Tracy. “No, no, Norah, don’t let that thought trouble you; she may have been dismasted in a gale of wind—no skill can at all times prevent such an accident—or she may have met with long calms in the tropics and contrary winds afterwards. Wait a bit, cushla machree, and she’ll come in some fine morning when we least expect her.”

Still the old captain himself was sadly troubled about the matter. Norah could with difficulty keep up her spirits, though she tried to do so for her father’s sake and for that of Mrs Massey, to whom she endeavoured not to communicate her own alarm; but the poor mother had begun to feel as anxious as she was, and every time Norah went to see her, her first utterance was, “No news of Owen yet?” Then she would sigh, and the tears would trickle down her pale cheeks. The captain paid daily visits to Waterford, carefully examining the public papers to ascertain if anything had been heard of the Ouzel Galley; but week after week and month after month went by, yet nothing was heard of her. Captain Tracy again wrote to Ferris, Twigg, and Cash; in their answer they said that, having waited so long a time without hearing of her, they considered her lost, and were about to apply to the underwriters to pay over the amount of her insurance. Captain Tracy, who, though holding the firm in great respect, was nevertheless always free and outspoken, replied that he did not consider the vessel as lost, and that she might even now some day appear. He had expressed himself in a similar manner to one of the underwriters, who was then at Waterford; and when the firm applied for payment, that gentleman declined acceding to their demand till they could produce evidence of the loss of the vessel. Ferris, Twigg, and Cash became indignant, and talked of instituting law proceedings. On this, Mr Thompson, one of the underwriters, entreated them to desist, and proposed that the matter should be placed in the hands of arbitrators. Mr Twigg and Mr Cash agreed accordingly to postpone proceedings till they could hear from their principal partner, Mr Ferris, who was still in Jamaica; and finally consented, subject to his approval, to submit the matter to arbitration.

“Then let us forthwith proceed to select a dozen good men and true between us—you shall choose six and we’ll choose six, and we’ll bind ourselves to abide by the decision to which they may come,” said Mr Thompson. As it was considered in Ireland, as well as across the Channel, that a good dinner enjoyed by sensible people produces good feeling and good fellowship, it was agreed by the contending parties that they should invite the twelve arbitrators and lay the matter of the supposed loss of the Ouzel Galley before them on that occasion. As Captain Tracy was rightly considered to be able to offer an enlightened opinion on the subject, he was requested to come up to Dublin to afford them all the information he possessed. Though he hated the land journey, and looked upon it as a more dangerous adventure than he would a voyage round the world, he could not refuse to comply with their request. He therefore arranged to leave Norah with Mrs Massey, to whom, though her own heart was well-nigh broken, she could afford comfort and sympathy during his absence. Packing up his valise, girding his sword to his side, and sticking a brace of pistols in his belt under his cloak, he set off by the stage, fully expecting to have to fight his way through half a score of highwaymen and footpads at the least. Still, thinking it possible that the Ouzel Galley might arrive, he sent a boat down the harbour the evening before his departure, which returned only just as he was about to start with the information that no Ouzel Galley was in sight.

Notwithstanding his expectation of being attacked by Rapparees or other robbers, he reached Dublin in safety, and was welcomed by Mr Twigg, who took him to his own house that they might discuss together the subject in hand.

“A sad affair this, the loss of our good ship. We expected to realise a fine percentage by her cargo, and now we not only lose that, but our friends refuse to pay the insurance,” observed the merchant. “You surely, Captain Tracy, must be convinced that she went down in the hurricane, or has been captured and destroyed by the enemy.”

“I am not at all convinced of either one or the other,” answered Captain Tracy, bluntly. “She was, or, I may venture to say, she is, as stout-built a ship ever floated, and I hold to the opinion that she would not have foundered while any other craft could keep above water. I hear, indeed, that two or three vessels which were caught in that same hurricane, though severely damaged, got at last safely into port. Mr Ferris wrote word, as you are aware, sir, that, after a thorough examination of the coast, no signs were discovered of her having been driven on shore, as all the vessels wrecked were identified and she was not among them. If she had been captured by the enemy, her master, Owen Massey, would have found means to communicate with us and let us know that he and his people were prisoners. By a letter from my son, I hear that there are still some picarooning villains infesting those seas, but they generally attack smaller fry than the Ouzel Galley. She was, as you are aware, well armed and well manned, and I can answer for it that Owen Massey would not have been taken by surprise, and would have beaten off in a fair fight any such craft, as he would any privateer of equal or, I may venture to say, of considerably superior force. His orders were to avoid fighting if he could do so with due regard to his safety—and I never knew him disobey orders from the time he first came to sea with me.”

“Then, from what you say, Captain Tracy, your opinion is opposed to the interests of the firm,” observed Mr Twigg, in a tone which showed that he was somewhat annoyed.

“I express the opinion I hold, sir, and you never found Gerald Tracy say or do anything contrary to the interests of his employers,” answered the captain firmly. “What you want to obtain, sir, is a rightful decision; and my belief and hope is that, if the insurance money were paid to you, you would have to refund it.”

“You only say what is true, captain, and you will pardon me for my remark,” exclaimed the merchant, who was really an upright and generous-hearted man. “Nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to see the Ouzel Galley coming in under charge of her young master, with or without her cargo, however much thereby Ferris, Twigg, and Cash might be out of pocket. We’ll now go and join our friends—and I beg you to believe that nothing you may say will alter the respect in which I hold you.”

The matter on which the party had been assembled was soon discussed. Some were of opinion that the Ouzel Galley had been lost; others, that she had been captured; while several held with Captain Tracy that she was still afloat, perhaps dismasted or waterlogged, but that she would in time find her way home. One fact was certain, that she had not yet made her appearance, and that nothing had been heard of her since she was seen off Bellevue on the morning of the hurricane. The important point decided was that the two parties should on no account go to law, and that they should wait a further decision till efforts had been made to discover the fate of the missing ship, should she not in the mean time return to port. Mr Ferris was informed that she had not yet arrived, and was requested to take all the steps he could devise for discovering what had become of her. Among others, he was to apply to the admiral to ascertain if any British cruisers had seen or heard of such a vessel in distress, while notice was to be sent on board every merchantman begging the master to make inquiries concerning her, or to afford any information he might already have obtained.

Captain Tracy, having concluded all the business he had to transact in Dublin, went back to Waterford. What a blessed thing is hope! Poor Norah and the widow were still supported by the expectation of the Ouzel Galley’s return, even although every one else in Waterford believed that she was long since at the bottom of the ocean. Day after day and week after week went by, and still the Ouzel Galley did not appear. Norah’s cheek was becoming thinner and paler, and the widow’s heart sadder and sadder. It seemed hard indeed to lose her only child; but she trusted in God. She knew that He orders all for the best, and not once did she allow her heart to entertain rebellious thoughts against His love and mercy. Anxiously did the captain and Norah look out for letters from Jamaica; they hoped that Gerald would send them information. At all events, it would be a satisfaction to hear from him; but since his last long letter, none arrived. News was received from other sources of a fearful insurrection in the island, but Norah got no letters from Ellen, and hearing that numerous white people had fallen victims, she began seriously to fear that her friend might be among them. The captain wrote to Dublin, but the house there had not heard from Mr Ferris. At length another report came which added much to their anxiety, and if found to be true must plunge them into deep grief. It was to the effect that his Majesty’s ship Champion, having sailed from Jamaica on a cruise, had not since been heard of.

“She’ll turn up,” exclaimed the captain, when he brought home the intelligence, which it would be useless to attempt concealing from Norah. The news appeared in print in the public papers, and an opinion was expressed that she had not been captured by the enemy, it being thought more likely that she had been capsized in a squall and gone down, or run during a dark night on one of the numerous reefs in the seas she was navigating and been dashed to pieces before any of her people could escape.

“I won’t believe it, any more than I’ll believe that the Ouzel Galley is lost,” exclaimed the captain. “Don’t give way, Norah. These newspapers tell lies; they’re published for no other object. I shouldn’t be surprised if we hear that the Champion has never been missing, and that the admiral has sent her on some particular service; probably the next packet from Jamaica will give us an account of her return to Port Royal.”

Still poor Norah could not restrain her tears. “I don’t believe that she’s lost, Norah. Don’t, now!” repeated her father. The captain, indeed, did his best to comfort her, but it was a hard matter for him; especially as he himself, notwithstanding his bold assertions, knew how likely it was that the sloop of war had really been lost. His honest heart was racked with grief as he thought that the days of his gallant young son had been cut short. Fresh despatches arrived from Jamaica, detailing the capture of several of the enemy’s ships, the return to port of various British cruisers, and the arrival of merchantmen; but not a word was said about the Champion. Further despatches arrived, which appeared in the public prints. A short paragraph alone mentioned that all hope of her safety had been given up, while another spoke somewhat pityingly of the vain notion entertained by a former commander of a well-known Jamaica trader, the Ouzel Galley, that that vessel was still in existence. “Indeed,” it continued, “go certain it is that she must be lost, that the masters and pilots of the vessels trading in those seas have ceased to make inquiries about her.”

“I hold to my opinion, notwithstanding,” exclaimed the captain; “if others refuse to help in looking for the good ship, I’ll go myself. There’s an old proverb that the man who wants a thing goes for it himself, and I’ll not believe that either Owen or Gerald are lost till I’ve had a thorough hunt for them. I’ve cash enough of my own to fit out a stout vessel, and to arm and man her too. I intended it for you, Norah, and Gerald, but there’ll be sufficient left for what you may want, my poor child, even if it comes to the worst; and you must stay at home and take care of Widow Massey—you’ve need to comfort each other.”

“No, father, if you go I will go; and go I hope you will,” said Norah. “Would that you had ten times as much fortune to fit out as many vessels to search round the shores of the whole Atlantic. And, father, you’ll take me with you? I must go; I should die with anxiety were I to remain behind. In the voyage I took with you I learnt all about a sea life. I know the various dangers I may have to go through, but I don’t fear them; I am ready to endure whatever perils you may be exposed to, and I’ll not flinch from them.”

Thus Norah argued with her father.

“But Mrs Massey—what will she do without you?” he asked.

“She would not detain me. Am not I going to assist in the search for her son, as well as in that for Gerald?” answered Norah. “Were I Owen Massey’s younger brother, she would not hesitate to send me; she will not do so now. She has too long lived a life of solitude to object to being left for a few short months, especially when she can hope that Owen may be found.”

Norah had gained her point. The old captain was really thankful to have her society, and so often had he braved the dangers of the sea that he no longer feared them for his daughter. Firm as the captain was in his opinion, few others agreed with him; and when it was known that he was looking out for a ship, most of his acquaintance pitied him, and whispered that the loss of his son had turned his head. Still, nothing any one could say changed his resolution; indeed, there was something grand in his very obstinacy, and worthy of admiration. The only person who stuck to him was Captain O’Brien.

“If I were a younger man, faith, I’d be after going out as mate,” exclaimed the brave old captain. “Whether the lads are alive or dead, the point will be settled, and I am fain to believe that they are still alive. If I can’t go myself, I’ll prove my faith in the undertaking by subscribing five hundred pounds towards it. The sooner you get the ship fitted out and put to sea, the better it will be for my friend Norah—of that I’m very sure.”

Though the two old captains were thus of one mind, no one else agreed with them. The house of Ferris, Twigg, and Cash would have nothing to do with the matter; they were not inclined to send good money after bad, and unless they could gain some information, however slight, that the Ouzel Galley was really in existence, they should consider it folly to send another vessel to look for her. They would not even help in searching for a fitting vessel. Captain Tracy, however, heard of one which had been brought into Cork harbour as a prize, and, accompanied by his friend O’Brien, he went over to have a look at her. She was just the vessel they wanted; she was ship-rigged, carried twenty guns, and was quite new, having been only a few weeks out of port when she was captured. She was of great beam, and would carry four or six more guns, if necessary. The purchase was soon completed; and the two captains, having engaged a few hands to navigate her, brought her round to Waterford, where she could be fitted out under their own eyes. One of the points to be settled was her name. Captain O’Brien, bowing to Norah, proposed that she should be called Love’s Messenger; but to this Norah objected, and it was finally settled that she should be called the Research. The captain had devoted Gerald’s prize-money, and the whole sum he had at his own disposal, and the amount contributed by Captain O’Brien; but still a sum was required for ammunition, stores, and the wages of the crew. Captain Tracy was in a dilemma; he might obtain a cargo for the vessel, but then he would have to wait for a convoy, as no insurance could otherwise be effected on her, and that would cause a delay. Rather than suffer this, he resolved to sell his patrimony, though very unwilling to do so. Captain O’Brien, who had formerly traded to Bristol, had gone over to that port to look out for efficient officers and any good men he could find to form part of the crew; the remainder could be obtained at Waterford.

Captain Tracy was setting off one morning, resolved to make the final arrangements with his lawyer for the disposal of his property, when just as he left his house he was accosted by a man, whose ragged dress, shoeless feet, and thin cheeks showed that he was suffering from the extreme of poverty. Captain Tracy’s well-practised eye convinced him at once, before the man had spoken, that he was a sailor, and believing that he came to beg, he put his hand into his pocket to relieve his necessities, when the man, touching his battered hat, addressed him, “Plase, yer honour, are you Captain Tracy?”

“I am. What is it you want with me?” asked the captain.

“Shure, I’m glad to hear it, for I’ve been looking for yer honour for many a day,” answered the man, “as I’ve made a vow, if you were still in the land of the living, to give you a message from a dying shipmate, and my mind couldn’t rest aisy till I’d done it.”

“What’s the message, my friend? Is it a long or a short one?” asked the captain, eyeing the man steadily, to judge whether he was speaking with sincerity or uttering a falsehood. “What ship did you belong to, my friend?”

“The Fair Rosamond, yer honour, homeward-bound from Port Royal. We met with misfortunes from the time of sailing. We had Yellow Jack aboard us; then a course of foul wind, and when about a hundred leagues from the chops of the Channel, we were dismasted in a heavy gale; and at last, after driving about for many a day till we ran short of water and provisions, we were cast on the coast of Connemara, and only I and three others got to shore—the captain and the rest of the hands who were left alive, for Heaven hadn’t spared many of them, were washed away and drowned. I was like to have died too, but some country people took care of me, and I pulled through; and then, remembering my vow, I set off without a shiner in my pocket to give the message to yer honour.”

“Come in, my friend,” said the captain, by this time convinced that the man was speaking the truth, and becoming anxious to hear what he had got to say. The stranger looked at his ragged garments and hesitated when the captain invited him into the parlour, where Norah was seated, and bade him take a chair; however, plucking up courage, he did as he was desired. Captain Tracy having briefly told Norah what he had just heard, turned to the seaman.

“You have not yet given me your name,” he said.

“It’s Larry Cregan, yer honour. You may trust to what I say, for I wouldn’t desave yer honour, that I wouldn’t,” answered the man.

“Well, Larry, let me hear all about this message,” said the captain, “for you haven’t given me a hint yet what it is.”

“Well, thin, yer honour, it’s nothing but the truth I’ll spake,” began Larry. “We had well-nigh half our crew pressed out of the Fair Rosamond, and had to make up our number with such hands as the captain could get without being over particular. Among them was a countryman of mine—Tim Reardon, he called himself. He looked mighty sickly when he came aboard, and we hadn’t been many days at sea before he grew worse. He wasn’t fit for work; but we were short-handed, and he had to stick to his duty. And says I to myself, ‘Tim Reardon isn’t long for this life, and so I’ll do my best to help him;’ and when he was aloft or whatever he had to do, I always kept near him, and helped him many a time when he hadn’t strength to pull and haul by himself. This won his heart and made him wish, as he said, to do me a good turn; but that wasn’t ever likely to be in his power. He grew worse and worse, and at last could no longer crawl upon deck. I used to sit by him when it was my watch below, and spake such words to comfort him as I could think of. One day, howsomdever, he says to me, ‘Larry, I’ve got something on my conscience, and something else in my pocket which I want you to take charge of.’

“‘Anything to serve ye, Tim,’ says I.

“‘I’ve been an outrageous wicked fellow all my life, and have done all sorts of bad things,’ says Tim. ‘I’ve consorted with pirates, and have seen many a robbery and cruel murther committed—but I won’t talk of that now. I can’t do much good, I’m afraid, but what I can I wish to do, what I’d made up my mind some time ago, when I was well-nigh dying and should have slipped my cable if it hadn’t been for the care I received from a countryman, who took pity on me and nursed me as if I’d been his brother. As I got better he told me to cheer up, as he felt sure I should live. “Now, Tim,” says he, “if you ever get to Old Ireland, I want you to find out Captain Tracy, who lives near to Waterford, and tell him that I am alive, and, please Heaven, will one day get back to see him and his daughter. I can’t tell him whereabouts to look for me, for the best of reasons, that I don’t know where I am—nor have I any chance of making my escape; but you, Tim, may some day get free, and promise me, if you do, that you will take this message to Captain Tracy, and say that hope keeps me alive.”’

“‘But maybe Captain Tracy won’t believe me?’ says I. ‘If he doesn’t, his daughter will; and to make sure, take this bit of paper and show it them,’ he replied. He wrote two letters on it; it was but a scrap, but it was the only piece he had. I put it in my ’baccy-box to keep it safe. Not two days after that I managed to make my escape, and, getting back to Jamaica, looked out for a homeward-bound vessel. As luck would have it, I shipped aboard the Fair Rosamond; and now, as death is hauling away at the tow-line, and I have no chance of fulfilling my promise, if you wish to do me a service and keep my soul quiet, you’ll promise to take the message to Captain Tracy and the bit of paper in my ’baccy-box; I’ll leave that to you, and everything else I’ve got on board.

“I promised Tim that I’d do as he wished, and that if I failed he might haunt me, if he’d a mind to do so, till my dying day. Tim has come more than once in my dhrames to remind me, and I’ve been aiger ever since to do his bidding.”

“And where’s the bit of paper?” asked Captain Tracy eagerly.

“Here it is, yer honour,” answered the seaman, pulling a battered old tobacco-box out of his pocket, from which he produced a yellow scrap of paper, on which was written, apparently with the end of a burnt stick, the letters O.M. Norah had been too much excited even to speak. She gazed at the paper.

“Yes—these letters were, I am sure, written by Owen. I knew that he was alive; I was certain of it!” she exclaimed, her bosom palpitating as she spoke with the varied emotions which agitated her. “Oh, father, look at them! They must have been written by Owen; he had no time or means for writing more, and he was sure we should recognise them if they were ever brought to us.”

The captain took the paper and examined it. “Yes, I truly believe that these letters were inscribed by Owen Massey. Had he attempted to write more, he knew that the whole would probably be obliterated before it could reach us, so he did the wise and thoughtful thing,” he said. “I praise Heaven that he is alive. I was sure from the first that the Ouzel Galley did not go down in the hurricane, and this proves it; though what has become of her, or where Owen is imprisoned, is more than I can make out—for imprisoned I take it that he is, and strictly guarded too, or he’d have long since found his way home.”

“The more reason, then, that we should go in search for him,” exclaimed Norah. “Oh, father, let us sail as soon as possible.”

“Captain O’Brien will soon be back from Bristol, and nothing need longer delay us, except the want of funds,” said the captain, “and they must first be raised. But with the assurance that Owen is still alive—and I think the account we have heard affords that—I believe that my friends Ferris, Twigg, and Cash will no longer hesitate to advance the required amount. For, though we have no evidence that the Ouzel Galley has escaped destruction, my belief is that she is safe, as well as her master, although we are at present almost as much in the dark as ever as to where she is. Had Tim Reardon survived, we should, I have no doubt, been able to obtain much valuable information to guide us; but as he is dead, we must trust to what we can hereafter gain. We’ll hear, however, what further our friend the seaman can tell us. Perhaps, after he has had some food, he may remember more of what Tim said to him.”

“I’m mighty hungry, yer honour—it’s the truth,” said Larry, looking up; on which Norah hastened to get some cold meat and bread, not forgetting a noggin of whisky, at which Larry’s eyes glistened. The captain allowed him to eat in silence, and he proved how hungry he must have been by the quickness with which he devoured the viands placed before him. Another examination elicited little further information, however, from the seaman; his messmate had never mentioned the circumstances under which he had met the person who had given him the paper with the initials O.M. on it. He remembered only that he had once spoken of a fine ship of which O.M. had been master, and which he had not long ago seen, although he either did not know her name or was bound not to divulge it. It was evident, indeed, that the unfortunate Tim Reardon was under some fearful oath which he was afraid to break, and that he had always spoken with the greatest caution, lest he might in any way commit himself.

“Many would call yours a cock-and-bull story,” observed Captain Tracy, “but I believe you, Larry, and you may have the satisfaction of knowing that you have fulfilled your promise to your dying messmate. Though you ask for no reward, I’ll do what I can to repay you for the information you have given me; and now you’ve had some rest and food, if you’ll come in with me to Waterford, I’ll give you a fresh rig out, and you can cast away the rags you’ve got on your back.”

“Faith, yer honour, I’m in luck thin. I’m ready to walk a dozen miles or more,” exclaimed Larry, jumping up; and, giving a bow with his battered hat and a scrape of the foot, he added, “The top of the morning to you, young lady, and a thousand thanks. It’s put fresh life into my heart. Shure, I hope the gentleman you’ve been inquiring after will come back alive some bright day.”

Followed by Larry, the captain hurried into Waterford, where, having got the seaman rigged out from top to toe in a new suit of clothing, he repaired to Ferris, Twigg, and Cash’s office. He there wrote a letter to the firm in Dublin, giving an account of the information he had just received, and urging them to advance the sum required to enable the Research to proceed on her voyage. Soon after he had despatched the letter, Captain O’Brien arrived, bringing with him two mates and eight good men.

“And now, old friend,” he said, “as I’ve neither wife nor daughter at home to pipe their eyes at the thoughts of my going, and old Molly, my housekeeper, however unhappy she may be at first, will soon be reconciled to my absence, I’ve made up my mind to offer myself as a passenger, to help look after Mistress Norah, in case anything should happen to you. Will you take me?”

“With all my heart,” answered Captain Tracy. “I shall be glad of your society on my own account, and still more for Norah’s sake; for, though I feel as strong and hearty as I did a dozen years ago, yet it may be Heaven’s will to call me, and it would be a comfort to my heart to think that Norah was left with a friend to protect her till Owen Massey should appear to claim her as his own.”

“That matter is settled then, and I’ll just have my traps packed up and give directions to old Molly to take care of the house till my return,” said Captain O’Brien. “Having done that, I’ll be quickly aboard to take charge till you appear, as I’ve already sent the mates and the men I brought over on board to keep them out of harm’s way. I’ve also given notice that a few prime hands are wanted, and I hope to pick up two or three old shipmates in whom I can place perfect confidence.”

As the two old captains left the office they met Larry Cregan, looking a very different being to what he had done a few hours before.

“Plase, yer honour,” he said, touching his hat, “I’ve been told that a few hands are wanted for the Research, and though I’m not worth much at present, after I’ve put some good beef and pork on my bones I shall turn out as good a hand as any of them.”

“I’ll take you at your word, Larry,” said Captain Tracy, “and you may go aboard as soon as you like.”

“Shure, it’s the safest place for me, yer honour,” said Larry, “and maybe I’d otherwise be taking in too much of the potheen, just for joy with thinking that I’d delivered my message and was free of my oath.”

Captain Tracy accordingly gave Larry an order to be received on board as one of the crew, while he himself returned homeward, to make further arrangements and to wait for a reply to the letter he had despatched to Ferris, Twigg, and Cash. He and Norah paid Mrs Massey a farewell visit. Norah had already carefully told her the information which had been so curiously gained.

“I cannot help you to search for my son,” said the widow, “but, though unable to leave my home, I can pray unceasingly that Heaven will protect you in your mission, and reward you for your love and devotion.”

Captain Tracy had expressed his earnest desire to sail without delay, and greatly to his satisfaction, much sooner than he expected, he received a letter, sent by a special messenger, from his friends, agreeing to his request and placing the required funds at his disposal. They also consented to ship a certain amount of goods on board the Research, and no sooner was this known than several other merchants in Waterford agreed to add to her cargo. When it was known that Captain Tracy was going out in command of the Research, and that Captain O’Brien was to accompany him, as many good men as were required offered to ship on board her, and her crew was thus speedily completed. Great interest was excited when the object of the voyage became generally known, and multitudes collected on the quays, cheering right heartily as, her warps being cast off, sail was made and the Research glided away down the river. The two captains agreed that no ship they had ever commanded was better found, better armed, or better manned than she was. A fine northerly breeze earned her out of the harbour, and, all sail being made, she took her departure from the land, and steered a course for the West Indies.

Chapter Fourteen.

The scenery of Jamaica—Proceedings at Bellevue—A description of the slaves on the estate—An expedition proposed—Arrival of Major Malcolm and Lieutenant Belt—A morning ride—A picnic—Visit to a remarkable cavern—Curious objects within—The guide’s terror at seeing shadows in the distance—Archie’s narrow escape—Warnings—Return homewards—Meet Martin bringing alarming intelligence.

Among the numberless lovely islands which dot the ocean, few surpass Jamaica in beauty and magnificence of scenery, or are adorned with a richer vegetation. Grand as are the views the island presents to the voyager who approaches it on the southern shore, they are fully equalled by those of its northern coast. At a short distance from the beach the island rises into hills of gentle ascent, generally separated from each other by wide valleys, amid which numerous streams find their way to the ocean. The hills, mostly rounded, are covered with groves of beautiful trees, many of them loaded with rich fruits and flowers scented with the most delicious odours. Here is seen the pimento, remarkable for its beauty and fragrance, the dark green of its foliage finely contrasting with the bright tints of the grass beneath; while in every direction are fruit trees of various hues, the orange, pineapple, or tamarind, many bearing at the same time blossoms, unripe fruit, and others fit for plucking. In the lower grounds are fertile and level savannahs, plains waving with cane-fields, displaying a luxuriance of vegetation, the verdure of spring blended with the mellow exuberance of autumn. In the distance, running down the centre of the island, rise the Blue Mountains, their tops dimly seen through the fleecy clouds, the greater portion of the range being covered with impenetrable forests, their sides often broken into inaccessible cliffs and abrupt precipices. These forests and cliffs have afforded for several centuries an asylum and fortress to fugitive blacks, who have there set pursuit at defiance, the game and wild fruits the woods supply enabling them to find subsistence without the necessity of descending into the lower regions to obtain food. Rocks and mountains, woodlands and plains, everywhere beautifully blending, form conspicuous features in the landscape of Jamaica. Dotted over the country are the pens, or farms, of the planters—their residences extensive, though not often more than one story in height, with gardens surrounding them, the works, boiling-houses, and other buildings generally concealed from view by thick woods; while beyond are the cane-fields and the dark, low huts of the negroes, standing together in the form of a village, far more picturesque at a distance than when closely approached. But the woods are the pride and beauty of the country; there the palm, the cocoa-nut, the mountain cabbage, and the plantain are often associated with the tamarind and orange, the oleander and African rose growing in rich luxuriance, the scarlet cordium of a glowing red, the jasmine and grenadilla vine forming verdant bowers, the lilac with tufted plumes, the portlandia with white and silky leaves, together with an infinite variety of flower and fruit bearing shrubs.

Such was the scenery surrounding Bellevue House, at which Ellen Ferris and her father had now spent some weeks with the worthy attorney, Mr Twigg, and his wife and family. Although there were rumours that the blacks in distant districts were disaffected, it was difficult to trace whence the reports originated, and it was generally believed that they were without foundation. The Jumby dance which Archie Sandys had witnessed some time before was considered a suspicious circumstance by Mr Ferris; but the overseer assured him that the blacks on the estate were all peaceably disposed, and that the assembly at the hut under the cotton-tree was merely for the performance of some rite of their barbarous religion, and should not cause the slightest uneasiness.

“I will keep an eye on what goes forward, and if I hear of any more meetings of the sort, I will take good care to learn their object,” said the overseer. “You must let the blacks amuse themselves in their own way, provided it does not interfere with work.”

To Ellen, the blacks appeared happy and contented. She had no opportunity, indeed, of looking very deeply into the state of the matter. If the lash was used, she did not hear the cries of the victims, nor see the marks on their backs. She heard that if they were sick they were taken care of in an hospital, or rather in some huts appropriated to that object, and that they were attended by the medical man who had charge of that and two or three neighbouring estates. He occasionally visited at the house, and appeared to be a good-natured, merry individual, who told amusing stories about the negroes and their wonderful ignorance. The negroes of whom she saw most were the domestic slaves, who seemed attached to their masters, and were always willing and obedient, and, being well fed, looked sleek and contented. The most interesting was Martha, the black nurse of Mrs Twigg’s children. Her devoted affection for her charges was remarkable; she seemed to have no care or thought for anything besides them, and though she occasionally joined in the village festivities among her own people, she invariably came back full of anxiety lest any harm should have happened to them during her absence. She was treated by her mistress with great kindness and consideration, and perfect confidence was placed in her. The old grey-headed butler, Martin, was also on a more familiar footing with his master than any white servant of the same position in an English household would have been; while all the other domestic slaves, or boys as they were generally called, were merry fellows, always laughing and joking, though holding old Martin in great respect—their garments consisting of a checked shirt, white trousers, and white jacket, though their feet were shoeless, and they generally dispensed with hats. They looked neat and clean, and had no reason to complain of want of physical comfort. Probably, in other cases where the master was ill-tempered, they would have been liable to punishment, deserved or undeserved.

“But what about the agricultural labourers?” asked Ellen Sandys, who was ever, when he could be so with propriety, by her side—she looking upon him as a well-mannered, intelligent schoolboy; so that Lieutenant Foley would have experienced no jealous feelings had he seen them together.

“Well, they, I suppose, are in their way as happy and contented as they need be,” answered Archie. “The field slaves, as we call them, who live out in the huts there, are divided into gangs. The first is composed of the stronger men and women, who work together, the women being able to do almost as much as the men. Their business is to clear the land, dig and plant the cane-fields, and in crop-time cut the canes and attend to the mill-house, where the canes are crushed and the sugar and molasses manufactured. The second gang is composed chiefly of the bigger boys and girls and more weakly women, who are unable to do the harder work, and the older men who have lost their strength. They have to weed the canes and attend to other lighter duties. The third gang consists of the young children, who are employed chiefly in weeding the gardens, collecting fodder or food for the pigs, and similar easy tasks. The men drivers are employed in looking after the first two gangs, and are allowed to carry whips to hold over them in terror, even if not often used. The gang of children is confided to the charge of an old woman, who carries a long switch; and with her it is no mere emblem of authority, for she employs it pretty frequently on the backs of the urchins. You have seen Mammy Quasheba, and I dare say she appears to you to be a very amiable old dame, for she takes care only to tickle her little charges when you or Mrs Twigg are in sight.”

“But do the drivers often make use of those dreadful whips?” asked Ellen.

“On our estate they certainly do not; but on others, seldom or never visited by the proprietors, the only notion they have of maintaining order is the lash,” answered Archie. “The unfortunate black is unmercifully flogged for the slightest offence, or for apparent idleness. You ask how many hours they work. Generally before daybreak they are aroused by the head driver, who comes into the village blowing a horn, and if they fail to turn out immediately, they become intimately acquainted with his whip. They work for three hours, and are then allowed half an hour for breakfast, during which they manage to stow way an enormous quantity of vegetable food. They then labour on till noon, when they have two whole hours, either to take their dinner, to sleep, or to work in their own provision grounds and attend to their pigs and poultry. From two till dark they resume their labours, when they generally knock off and return home, except in crop-time, when it is important to get the canes cut and carried as rapidly as possible, and the boiling-house requires a number of hands. However, they become fat and sleek during that period, as they may suck as much of the cane as they like, and do not look upon the task as especially laborious. As a number of artisans are required on the estate, such as carpenters, blacksmiths, masons, and coopers, the more intelligent lads are selected and sent as apprentices to learn those trades; though they get pretty hardly treated at times, they afterwards possess considerable advantages over the untrained blacks, and often contrive to save enough money to buy their freedom. Altogether, I don’t think the negroes of Jamaica can be said to be much worse off than the peasantry in many parts of the old country; they may in some respects be even better off than the Irish peasantry.”

“But yet the poorest Irishman would not readily change places with them,” remarked Ellen, “and I am afraid, from what I hear, that they are totally neglected as to their religious and moral condition.”

“As to that, their mental powers are too low to receive religious instruction, and their habits too confirmed to be improved; and so, provided they can be maintained in health and perform the required amount of labour, few proprietors or overseers trouble themselves much about anything else,” answered Archie. “Some, however, have tried to improve them, and have supported ministers and missionaries among them; but I don’t know with what success.”

“Oh, I wish that something could be done for the blacks on this estate!” said Ellen. “It is dreadful to think that they should be allowed by their so-called Christian masters to remain on in their heathen darkness.”

“It is very kind in you to interest yourself in the poor blacks, and I am afraid not many white people trouble their heads about them,” said Archie. “But I came, Miss Ferris, to propose an excursion to an interesting place in this neighbourhood which you should see before you go away—and I fear that your stay is not likely to be prolonged;” and Archie looked unutterable things, and heaved a sigh which Ellen did not observe.

“What are its peculiarities, and where is it?” she asked. “I should certainly like to visit any place worth seeing.”

“It is a wonderful cave, about twelve or fifteen miles to the eastward of this,” answered Archie. “I have never been there myself, as I have not had a whole holiday to enable me to make the trip, nor companions with whom I could enjoy it; but if you could persuade Mr Ferris and Mr and Mrs Twigg to go, I am sure they will be repaid for the fatigue of the journey. By starting early in the morning we can return by nightfall, as there is a carriage road all the way, or what is called one in Jamaica; but perhaps you are a horsewoman, and if so, the whole distance might be performed before the sun has attained an overpowering heat.”

Ellen was delighted; her only regret was that, the Champion not having appeared, Lieutenant Foley could not be of the party. Mr Ferris, when she told him of the proposal, expressed his readiness to go; and Mr and Mrs Twigg, though they had lived so long in the island, never having seen the cavern, were also willing to join the expedition.

“We must let the Pembertons know,” said Mrs Twigg. “The other day Fanny Pemberton told me that she was especially wishing to visit the cave. She and her brother are sure to come.”

“Pray ask them,” exclaimed Ellen. “She is a dear, nice girl; and if she is fond of riding, she will be ready to accompany me.”

“The sooner, then, we start the better,” said Mr Ferris, “or business of some sort may prevent us, and we must not prolong our stay here.”

“Then I propose we start to-morrow morning,” said Mr Twigg. “There’s nothing like fixing an early day, as an ardent lover would say, and we couldn’t well choose an earlier. We’ll order the buggies and horses to be at the door on the first sound of the slave-driver’s born, so that we may enjoy the full freshness of the morning.”

Mrs Twigg forthwith despatched a messenger with a note to Walton Hall, Mr Pemberton’s estate, which was situated about four miles inland from Bellevue, asking Miss Pemberton and her brother to come over at once, that they might be ready to start at daybreak.

The proposed expedition formed the subject of conversation for the rest of the evening, Archie Sandys being especially pleased that his suggestion had been so readily adopted. He and two other young book-keepers were to form members of the party. The family had collected for an early supper, when horses’ hoofs were heard approaching the house; and it being announced that several gentlemen were coming, Mr Twigg, followed by half a dozen blacks, hurried out to meet them. He speedily returned, accompanied by two strangers in military uniforms, whom he introduced as Major Malcolm and Lieutenant Belt. The officers bowed to the ladies and shook hands with the gentlemen, and at once felt themselves at home.

“Supper will be ready in about ten minutes; in the mean time, will you go to your rooms and make yourselves comfortable after your ride,” said Mr Twigg.

“What, did you expect us?” exclaimed the major.

“We always expect guests,” answered Mr Twigg, laughing—“at all events, we are always ready for them. Let me show you the way, gentlemen; your valises are already there.”

On their return, Major Malcolm, a fine, soldierly looking man who had apparently seen much service, explained that he and Lieutenant Belt were on their way to Montego Bay, having to inspect several small fortresses along the coast. “We pushed on, however,” he continued, “rather faster than was prudent, and knocked up our horses so that they require a day’s rest before proceeding further; and we must therefore impose ourselves on you as guests, unless you turn us out.”

“My dear sir, you and your men and horses are perfectly welcome to remain as long as you please,” answered Mr Twigg; “and so you would be if you’d brought your whole regiment, though we might, in that case, have found some difficulty in housing you.”

Of course Major Malcolm and the lieutenant heard of the proposed expedition. Mr Ferris suggested that it could be put off, but the major begged that that should on no account be done, and that if steeds could be found for him and Lieutenant Belt, they might accompany the party.

“With great pleasure, my dear sir; we can mount you without difficulty,” said Mr Twigg; and turning round, he gave the order to old Martin, who was standing behind his chair. Supper was still proceeding when Miss Pemberton and her brother Jack arrived and were heartily welcomed. She was a Creole, but with far more life and animation than the generality of her fair countrywomen; still, her cheek, pure as alabaster, was colourless; but her figure was good, and her features remarkably handsome. Altogether, she fully merited the encomiums Ellen had passed on her. She had been sent to school in England, and was thoroughly well educated and accomplished. Her brother Jack had had the same advantage, though he spoke, unless when excited, with the usual Creole drawl. From the few remarks he made—for he was not much addicted to talking—he was, however, not destitute of spirit; and, among his other good qualities, he evidently looked upon his lovely sister with the most devoted admiration. The two young people promised to be a pleasant addition to the party.

The family retired earlier than usual, that they might be ready to start at the hour fixed on. The gallant major and the young subaltern were escorted to their room by Mr Twigg.

“I little expected to find two such houris in this out-of-the-way spot,” observed the major, as he was throwing off his uniform.

“Nor did I,” exclaimed the lieutenant. “It is difficult to decide which of the two is the most charming, but I am most inclined to lose my heart to the young lady with the roses in her cheeks. She hasn’t been long in this burning clime, I suspect, or they would have faded ere this.”

“We shall not be rivals, then,” observed the major, standing up in his shirt and trousers, and striking out with his doubled fists, as was his wont before turning in. “I prefer the last arrival, with the classical features and cheeks as pure as the lily—a fit model for Juno. If I were to be long in her society, I should fall desperately in love with her; but I am not likely to commit such a folly, and take care that you don’t, Belt. We shall know more about them to-morrow, and perchance we shall discover that their charms are not so overpowering as we fancy. I have often found it to be the case on a second interview.”

“I expect to be more enthralled than ever,” remarked the lieutenant. “However, I have seldom found it difficult to break my fetters; so, major, you needn’t trouble yourself on my account.”

“We shall see by to-morrow evening,” said the major. After a few more remarks in a similar strain, the two officers, both old campaigners, threw themselves on their beds, and were soon fast asleep.

They were aroused by a black servant, who, bringing in some large ewers of cold water, lighted their lamps and announced that the horses would soon be at the door. On descending to the hall they found the two young ladies in their riding-habits, whip in hand, ready to mount. Mrs Twigg and her husband and the other gentlemen soon made their appearance, and the servants brought round trays with cups of hot chocolate and bottles of liqueur.

“You must fortify yourselves, gentlemen,” said Mr Twigg. “Let me recommend this curaçoa; it is a good preventive against any ill effects from the morning air.”

While the major was engaged in sipping his chocolate, the young ladies had gone out, and the two officers, greatly to their vexation, found that Archie Sandys had performed the office they had expected to have undertaken, and had assisted Ellen and Fanny to mount. The horses provided for the officers were next brought forward.

“Here is your horse, major,” said Mr Twigg, pointing to a fine-looking animal; “and, Lieutenant Belt, I hope you will not find yours inferior.”

The two officers mounted, and had every reason to be satisfied with their steeds. Archie Sandys assumed the leadership of the party, and as they moved forward he managed to place himself by the side of Ellen. The carriages started almost immediately afterwards. Major Malcolm very quickly found an opportunity of riding up to Miss Pemberton, a position he seemed in no way disposed to abdicate. The young lieutenant in vain attempted to gain an equally favourable place by the side of Ellen, for Archie kept his post pertinaciously, determined not to be out-manoeuvred, and the road was not of a width to allow of three abreast. The rest of the gentlemen followed, talking and joking merrily.

The road led between hedges of prickly-pear, eight or ten feet in height, and often of considerable width, the broad leaves so closely overlapping each other that they formed a dense mass through which the light failed to penetrate, bright scarlet flowers and purple fruit ornamenting the massive wall. Here and there cocoa-nut trees sprang up from the inner side like oaks or elms in an English hedgerow, most of them loaded with fruit; while occasionally a cabbage palm or the palmetto royal towered above them, surpassing its neighbours in graceful beauty, its straight trunk rising without a branch to the height of a hundred feet or more, crowned by a waving plume, in the centre of which appeared a tender green shoot. Through the openings to the right appeared plantations of sugar-cane, and occasionally fields of Indian corn—the magnificent yellow cobs, with long, wavy beards, hanging from their vigorous stalks.

“Did you taste the cabbage palm the other day at dinner?” asked Archie.

“Yes, I thought it very nice,” answered the young lady, rather surprised at the question.

“Do you know where it came from?” asked Archie.

“From a cabbage garden, I suppose,” answered Ellen, laughing.

“No, from the top of one of those lofty trees,” answered Archie. “That is to say, it was at the top, but to obtain it the tree had to be cut down.”

“What a cruel sacrifice! I should not have eaten it with any satisfaction had I known that,” exclaimed Ellen.

“We soon get indifferent to such matters in this country,” said Archie. “See how many of them there are in all directions.”

“I am afraid that you will become indifferent in other matters,” observed Ellen—“to those slave-whips, for instance, though you say they are only used in cases of necessity. When the drivers are judges as to whether that necessity is lawful, the poor slaves are likely to feel the lash very frequently, I suspect.”

“It is found from experience that they cannot otherwise be kept in order,” answered Archie. “I confess that at first I shuddered as I saw the whip used.”

“Do the blacks never rebel against such treatment?” asked Ellen.

“They have at times,” replied Archie. “In the year ’37 there was an outbreak, and there have been others at different periods; but they were put down in so rigorous a fashion that the negroes are not likely again, I fancy, to make the attempt.”

“I trust not,” said Ellen, “for it would be a fearful thing were these tens of thousands of blacks, discovering their strength, to rise on their masters and attempt to revenge the wrongs they have suffered.”

The conversation between Ellen and her devoted attendant was, it must be confessed, of a very unsentimental character; indeed, she would very quickly have put a stop to anything that had been otherwise, although the romantic scenery through which they were passing might, under other circumstances, have exercised its influence over her. Not a breath of wind as yet disturbed the calm, pure atmosphere; the ocean appeared like a sheet of glass; the blue sky overhead was undimmed by a cloud; the mountain-tops seen to the right rose above the mass of green, their outline distinctly marked, though at a considerable distance. The only sounds which reached them were the lowing of cattle and the signal horns of the drivers summoning the negroes to their work. In a short time the light increased, the sun rose above the ocean, and a gentle breeze waved the topmost boughs of the trees, breaking the sea below on the left into tiny wavelets. Now the road led round a hill, with a steep precipice on the left reaching down to the water, and high cliffs to the right covered with shrubs and creepers of every hue. As it was seen ahead, it appeared as if there was barely room for more than one horse to pass, and that no carriage could possibly get along without risk of falling over the precipice; but as they proceeded it widened out, and Archie, notwithstanding Ellen’s cautions, insisted on still keeping his place, riding between her and the edge of the precipice.

“Pray keep behind me, or ride on in front, Mr Sandys,” she exclaimed. “You would horrify me exceedingly were you to fall over the edge; and to save you from running the risk, I am compelled, you see, to ride so close to the cliff that I run the chance of having my hat torn off by the boughs above, or getting my shoulder struck by a projecting rock.”

Still Archie begged to ride on as he was doing. “Were your horse to shy, Miss Ferris,” he remarked, “I might be the means of saving you, and I would run every risk for the sake of doing that.”

Ellen laughed. “I am very ungrateful,” she said, “but I cannot allow you to be placed in any danger on my account: you make me feel uncomfortable, if not nervous, and I am almost inclined to be angry with you for your disobedience.”

Archie at length rode on, though very unwillingly, and the hill being passed the road now struck more inland, sometimes leading over slight elevations, and at others along the levels for some distance, when the steeds, trained to a Spanish amble suitable for a tropical climate, got quickly over the ground. The groves of tall trees threw a shade across the road which prevented the heat from being overpowering. Before the sun had attained its full strength a rocky hill rose before them with a wood at its base; here they found a tent already pitched, and a fire at a little distance from it. A number of black servants, who, it appeared, had been sent on before, were busily engaged in cooking breakfast.

“De tent for de missee,” said a black, Quambo by name, who acted as under-butler to old Martin, coming forward. “Dey rest dere till de carriages come if dey like.”

The gentlemen threw themselves from their horses, eager to assist Ellen and Miss Pemberton to dismount, the lieutenant rushing forward and offering his hand to the former, who accepted it with a smile which sent a pang of jealousy through poor Archie’s breast, the gallant major helping Fanny from her horse. While the young ladies took advantage of the tent to rest—for the ride had been much longer than they had been accustomed to take, and they felt somewhat tired—the gentlemen, lighting their cigars, strolled through the thick wood towards the entrance of the cavern. On their way they passed a large lagoon of stagnant water, surrounded by trees, every branch and leaf reflected on its mirror-like surface with a peculiar clearness. They could discover only two holes, which looked like the upper parts of arched doorways. Between them, in the face of the rock, was a niche in which a statue might have been placed, while just below it was a basin or hollow in the rock, which appeared to have been formed by art for the purpose of holding water.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if the Spaniards had made a sort of chapel here when they had possession of the country,” observed Lieutenant Belt. “See, that niche looks as if a figure of the Virgin Mary, for instance, had been placed there. This basin was evidently made to hold what they call holy water. They had probably made an attempt to convert the Indians by introducing their worship, but finding them obdurate and unable to comprehend its mysteries, put them to death as a punishment. From an account I read the other day, the island, when first discovered by Columbus, was thickly populated; but in the course of a few years, after the Spaniards took possession, the greater number of the natives had been murdered or expended in some other way.”

The rest of the party agreed with him. As they were all getting hungry, they returned to the camp, where, in a space which had been cleared by the servants, a tablecloth had been spread, and was already covered with viands, cushions and mats being placed around on which the ladies could recline. The carriage party soon arrived, and Mr Twigg, in his cheery voice, summoned his guests to breakfast, which consisted of numberless West Indian delicacies. In spite of the good appetites their ride had given them, most of the party were too eager to explore the cavern to pay them that attention they undoubtedly deserved. After the gentlemen had smoked their cigars, and the ladies had put on costumes more suitable for the object in view than their riding-habits, headed by Mr Twigg the party set forth, Major Malcolm escorting Miss Pemberton, and Ellen being attended by Archie and Lieutenant Belt, who was determined no longer to be cut out. Mr Ferris had taken charge of Mrs Twigg, who confessed that had not the girls required her as a chaperone, she would rather have remained at home.

“Martha, indeed, particularly wanted me not to come,” she remarked. “She seemed unusually put out about something or other. Whether she fancied that the children were not as well as usual, or for some other cause, I could not guess; but they appeared to me to be so perfectly happy that I did not think it necessary to listen to her. She urged, however, that we should come back before dark, and Mr Twigg agreed that it would be important to get by the cliffs before sunset; after that, the ride is so easy, and we know it so well that there can be no danger.”

This was said as they were proceeding through the wood. Mr Ferris agreed that it would certainly be advisable not to delay their departure after they had explored the cavern and taken luncheon, and that it would be better to endure the heat of the afternoon than to run the risk of travelling in the dark. An experienced guide and a supply of torches, consisting of bundles of candlewood split into small strips, had been provided. The party stood before the face of the rock.

“What, are we to go in there?” asked Miss Pemberton, in a tone of dismay.

“I am afraid that we shall discover no other mode of ingress,” said Mr Twigg, as the guide, with the torches under his arm, crept through the larger of the two openings. “Come, Archie, do you and the rest of you go next,” he said, turning to the two book-keepers, “and hail when the torches are lighted. You will assist to sweep the passage.”

Archie, not very well pleased, obeyed his superior, and in a short time the voices of the young gentlemen from within were heard shouting, “All right!” The gallant lieutenant next went down on his hands and knees, his long legs disappearing through the entrance. The major stood bowing to Mrs Twigg, who seemed to consider that it was her duty to go next, that she might be ready to receive her charges; they, laughing, quickly followed her, the major and the other gentlemen bringing up the rear. They found themselves in a circular vestibule about twenty feet in diameter and fourteen in height, with an irregular concave ceiling covered, as were the sides, with innumerable glittering stalactites, reflecting on their polished surfaces the light of the torches held by the guide and the young book-keepers, who stood round in a circle, flourishing them over their heads. Several columns of stalactite forming arches overhead gave the cavern, the appearance of a Gothic chapel, while between the pillars various openings led into avenues which diverged in different directions, apparently running far away into the interior of the mountain.

“See, there sits the presiding genius of the cavern,” said Mr Twigg, taking a torch and advancing a few steps towards an object which had a wonderful resemblance to a statue carved by the sculptor’s hand. It was that of a venerable hermit, sitting in profound meditation, wrapped in a flowing robe, his arms folded and his beard descending to his waist. His head was bald, his forehead wrinkled with age, while his features were well defined, the eyes, nose, and mouth being perfect. The graceful, easy folds of the drapery and the wavy flow of his beard were especially remarkable. Mr Twigg did not say that he had gone in shortly before with the guide and artistically touched up the features by the liberal use of charcoal.

“Shouldn’t wonder if the old fellow was a god of the original inhabitants of the island,” said Lieutenant Belt. “Never saw anything so natural in my life.”

Expressions of delighted surprise escaped from the young ladies, and even Mrs Twigg was very glad that she had come.

“But we have only seen the commencement of this magic cavern; it has more wonders to reveal to us,” remarked her husband, desiring the black guide to lead on. He accordingly proceeded through one of the widest passages in front of them, holding his torch high above his head to show its height, which appeared to be from twelve to fifteen feet. Each of the young men also carried a torch, which illumined the otherwise total darkness of the cavern, bringing out the numberless objects hanging from the roof or appearing on either side—canopies studded with bright gems, festoons of sparkling icicles, rostrums and thrones, busts of warriors and poets. Here were skulls grinning from the wall; columns of every order of architecture; fonts and basins, some holding water; and a thousand other representations of works of art. Here and there other passages struck off to the right or left, adorned in the same curious fashion. Most of the arches and columns appeared to consist of a greyish marble, and were wild and curious in the extreme. Some of the pillars were perfect, sustaining apparently the massive superstructure; others were only half formed; and many were but just commenced by the dripping of water from above. Several of the apartments were cellular; others spacious and airy, having eyelet holes through the roof, which allowed the escape of noxious vapours, and assisted greatly to ventilate the cavern. The ground beneath their feet was of a soft nature, deep and yielding, and had a peculiar smell. As they advanced, thousands of bats flew out from among the crevices of the rock, disturbed by the light of the torches and the voices of the visitors, which echoed through the passages and vaulted roof. They had not gone far when the guide stopped short, and an exclamation of alarm escaped him.

“What is dem? Did you see dem, massa?” he asked of Archie, who was by his side. The rest of the party, who were close at his heels, saw numerous dark forms flitting by at the further end of a passage directly in front of them, while unearthly sounding voices reached their ears.

“Those must be shadows cast by the light of our torches,” observed the major; “the sounds are merely echoes.”

“No, no, massa, dey duppies,” cried the guide; “de echo nebber take so long to come back to us.”

Still the major was not convinced, although Mr Twigg suspected that they had disturbed an assembly of negroes, who, not expecting that the cavern was about to be visited by strangers, had met there for some purpose or other. It was some time before the guide recovered his courage.

“Come along,” said Archie; “if they were duppies they will be afraid of interfering with white people, and if black fellows, they are still less likely to trouble us.”

The other young men, who were always ready to follow Archie, insisted on the guide going on; but he let them proceed in advance, directing them which way to take. They had gone some distance further, passing the entrances of several more passages, when the guide cried out, “Stop, atop, massa; we got furder dan I tink.” Scarcely were the words out of his mouth than Archie and his torch disappeared, and before they could stop themselves, two of his companions fell over. The ladies shrieked, supposing that the young men had fallen down some frightful hollow; but the shouts of laughter which followed soon reassured them, as did the assertions of the guide, that there was no harm done. It was found that they had merely gone done a descent of four or five feet, and had quickly again picked themselves up. The guide followed them, and the ladies, assisted by the gentlemen, easily leaped down to a lower level of the cavern. They continued their walk without further interruption, till daylight streamed down upon them from above, and they found themselves in an open area, with steep rocks covered with trees surrounding them on all sides. This area, as nearly as they could conjecture, lay about a quarter of a mile from the entrance of the grotto. From it numerous other passages branched off, into one of which the guide led them. They shortly came to a magnificent circular chamber with a vaulted ceiling eighteen feet or more in height. The most curious feature was the straight taproot of a tree which descended from above, about the size of a cable, uniform in shape from the top to the bottom. It had apparently made its way through a cleft in the rock, and penetrated downwards till it reached the floor of the apartment. On one side was an opening into a narrow passage, which the guide endeavoured to dissuade the gentlemen from entering. Archie, however, who had become excited, and considered himself the leader of the party, insisted on going forward.

“Don’t go, massa, don’t go; you’ll fall down deep well and nebber come up again,” shrieked the guide. Archie and his companions, notwithstanding this warning, pushed forward, holding their torches well before them. The passage became more and more contracted, till they reached an upright ledge of rock rising like a parapet wall almost breast high. They climbed up it, but on the other side it sloped rapidly down, and Archie, bold as he had become, thought it prudent to draw back; but instead of doing so he found himself slipping forward, and would have been unable to stop had not one of the other book-keepers caught hold of his coat and assisted him to scramble up again. Just then the guide came up. “Massa, you not know what you escape,” he exclaimed. “See.” And he threw a stone, which, after descending for some seconds of time, was heard to plunge into water, the noise echoing backwards and forwards amid the rocks which formed the side of the chasm. Archie shuddered as he thought of his merciful escape. Other stones of larger size being thrown in produced a loud, hoarse sound which reached to a considerable distance.

“What a fearful uproar you would have made, Archie, if you’d taken a leap into the chasm!” said one of his companions.

“Don’t talk of it, man; it is a lesson to me for the future to look before I leap,” was the answer.

“No, massa, as I say, you nebber come up again, unless you pop up in de sea,” observed the guide. “Dat hole full ob salt water and full ob big fish; but I nebber gone down, and nebber intend to go—he, he, he!”

Further exploration in that direction having been cut short, the party turned back, slowly to retrace their steps, occasionally entering for a short distance some of the numerous avenues which they discovered as they proceeded; but they were all apparently much like those they had already visited. The ceilings were incrusted with stalactites, between which in several places the fibrous roots of trees and plants forced their way downwards through the interstices; in many places honeycombed rocks formed the roof-work of the grotto; and in others, where openings appeared towards the sky, the ground was strewed with various seeds and roots, that of the bread-nut especially being in great abundance. Reptiles, too, of curious shape were seen scuttling away, disturbed by the intruders—toad, snake, and lizard forms, all curiously covered with incrustations. The parts of the cavern open to the air were delightfully cool, and Lieutenant Belt proposed that they should send for their provisions and lunch in one of the larger apartments. His motion, however, was overruled, the ladies especially objecting to sit down with the bats flying overhead, and the creatures they had seen crawling about round them. Still, they all lingered to examine more particularly the numberless curious formations, unwilling to bid farewell to the grotto, which few of them were likely again to visit. Perhaps, too, they hesitated to commence the undignified exit which they would have to make. The torches being nearly exhausted, Mr Twigg, looking at his watch, announced that it was time for luncheon.

“After which we must not delay in commencing our homeward journey,” observed Mr Ferris, who had remembered Mrs Twigg’s warnings.

With much laughter, Major Malcolm on this occasion leading the way, the whole party crept in succession through the opening of the cavern, and stood at length in the free air, their sensations reminding them of the feeling experienced on entering a hot-house. Major Malcolm had scarcely for a moment left Fanny Pemberton’s side; he now escorted her back to the camp. His first inquiry of the servants was whether they had seen any strange negroes in the wood. The blacks all declared that they had not; but his own man, who had made an excursion by himself to the side of the lagoon, stated that while he was looking towards the rock he saw some dozen or twenty black fellows steal out of a small opening and run off in an opposite direction, evidently, as he supposed, endeavouring to keep themselves concealed.

“Were they armed?” asked the major.

“Yes, sir; each man had a weapon of some sort—a spear or bow—in his hands, and two or three had firelocks,” was the answer.

“That looks suspicious,” thought the major; and he mentioned what his man had told him to Mr Ferris, who became very grave.

“Fortunately the fellows don’t consider us enemies, or they might have shot us down with impunity,” he observed. “There is something going forward among the blacks, I fear; and at all events the sooner we are on our return home the better.”

An ample luncheon of fish, flesh, and fowl, vegetables, and fruit of every description had been prepared. It was hurried over somewhat rapidly; the servants were directed to pack up and proceed on their way homeward; and as soon as the tent was struck, the steeds, which had been tethered in the shade with their heads in nose-bags, were bridled and saddled.

“To horse! to horse! ladies and gentlemen,” shouted Mr Twigg. “We must brave the heat and dust, instead of riding home by moonlight as we proposed; we shall enjoy the cool evening all the more on our arrival.”

The younger members of the party, who had heard nothing of the cause which had created anxiety in the minds of Major Malcolm and Mr Ferris, were somewhat surprised at the summons, but quickly prepared to start.

“Let me assist you to mount, Miss Pemberton,” said Major Malcolm. Leading forward her horse, and placing his hand a little above the ground, he dexterously lifted her into her saddle. Lieutenant Belt, imitating his example, brought forward Ellen’s steed, and was delighted to find that she accepted his services, poor Archie being compelled to fall into the rear. The party on horseback led the way, the carriages rattling after them. Major Malcolm, who once having gone a road never forgot it, rode on with Miss Pemberton, Ellen and her cavalier following close behind them. They had just passed the cliff, when, the road being broad and level, Fanny proposed a canter. They had ridden on about a mile further, when they saw, beneath the shade of the tall trees directly ahead, a horseman galloping at full speed towards them. As he approached he was seen to be a white-headed negro, his hat, which just then blew off, exposing his hoary locks.

“He is old Martin, Mr Twigg’s butler,” exclaimed Fanny. “What could have made him come out to meet us in so great a hurry?”

“Where Massa Twigg?” exclaimed the old man. “I tank Heaven I meet you so soon.”

“He is close behind,” answered Major Malcolm. “I trust that you are not the bearer of bad news?”

“Yes, sar, I bring berry bad news: we all hab our troats cut and be murdered and burnt before dis night,” answered old Martin, who had fastened a huge silver spur to one of his heels, and had caught up a slave-driver’s whip. Without waiting for further questions he galloped forward, leaving Major Malcolm and Miss Pemberton as ignorant as at first of what had occurred.

Chapter Fifteen.

Mr Twigg rides forward to prepare for the defence of the house—The rest of the party follow—Encounter a party of blacks—Prove to be friends—The overseers incredulity—Preparations for defending the house—Doubts as to the truth of the reports—A fresh arrival brings alarming news—Mr Hayward’s account of his escape—Scouts sent out—All hands labour at the fortifications—Major Malcolm and a party set off for Walton Hall—The insurgents appear and attack the house—Driven back—The siege—Provisions and water become scarce—A sortie to obtain water—The insurgents attempt to burn the stockades—Driven back by Belt and Archie—Another sortie to dig yams—Archie captured by the rebels.

Mr Ferris was acting as charioteer to Mrs Twigg, and took the lead of the carriages.

“What’s the matter?” she cried out, as she caught sight of old Martin galloping up, dreadful surmises, however, entering her mind.

“Oh, Missee Twigg, don’t stop, and I tell you as you go along,” answered the old butler, who having seen his master following behind, turned his horse round.

“Are the children all safe?” was the next question the anxious mother put.

“Yes, dey all berry well; but Martha tell me if I lub dere lives and yours to jump on horseback and come and tell you to make haste home. She say, and I know she speak de truth, dat de black fellows who run away to de mountains, and many oders, tousands and tousands from all de estates, hab got hold of firelocks and ’munition, and intend to murder all de whites in de island, from one end to de oder, and before night dey come and burn down Bellevue and cut de troats of us all. She say our only hope am to get aboard ship or make de house so strong dat we able to drive dem away when day come.”

“How did Martha know this?” asked Mrs Twigg anxiously.

“Dat more nor I can tell,” answered Martin. “All I know am dat she speak de truth.”

“Then tell your master, and we will drive on as fast as we can,” said Mrs Twigg. “Say Mr Ferris and I are considering what it will be best to do.”

Martin, allowing Mr Twigg to come up with him, gave him the same account. Mr Twigg received the information with more composure than his wife had done. “Desert the house I will not,” he answered. “We will fortify it, and defend ourselves like men. It is providential these two officers arrived with their troopers, as they will be of the greatest assistance; and if all the boys prove true, we shall have no difficulty in holding out against any attack, should one be made on us. Go back, Martin; send at once to find Mr Thompson. Say that I have reason fully to believe the information Martha has given; beg him to collect all the white men and trustworthy overseers, with their arms and ammunition. And also we must not forget our neighbours. Despatch a messenger—Jericho, Sambo, or any other fellow—to Mr Pemberton, and advise him either to join us with all his family, or to fortify his house as we intend doing ours. But stay, Martin. It may be safer, to prevent mistakes, if I go myself; a gallop, though the sun is hot, won’t kill me. I’ll take your horse, and you shall drive the buggy.”

The exchange was soon made, and Mr Twigg galloped forward, telling his wife as he passed what he proposed doing, and quickly dashing by Ellen and Fanny.

“Don’t be alarmed, ladies,” he cried out; “but the truth is we expect an attack from some blacks, who have broken out into rebellion, and we are going on to see what can be done to give them a warm reception.”

“Surely, in that case, Major Malcolm, we ought not to detain you, as you will wish to assist in preparing for the defence of the house—for I conclude that is what Mr Twigg means,” said Fanny in a calm tone.

“But we cannot leave you unprotected, Miss Pemberton,” answered Major Malcolm. “Should the negroes really have risen, you might encounter some on the road, who would, seeing you alone, try to make you prisoners for the sake of holding you as hostages. I positively cannot leave you.”

“Then we will gallop on together,” said Miss Pemberton. “Miss Ferris’s horse and mine are firm-footed, and I am sure that she will be ready to do as I propose.”

She turned round to Ellen, who was perfectly willing to go on, and pressing their horses with their whips in a way which astonished the animals, they galloped forward. The road was dry and dusty, and in some places, where unsheltered by the trees, the sun beat down with intense heat; but in their anxiety they cared not for the inconvenience. On looking back they saw Mr Ferris and the other carriages coming along at almost as fast a rate as they were going. Gradually they were distancing them. Ellen was unwilling to leave her father behind.

“I am afraid that they are pursued by the blacks,” she exclaimed. “Oh, should they be overtaken!”

“In that case Mr Ferris would far rather that you should escape,” urged the lieutenant. “Let me entreat you not to stop; supposing the rebels are pursuing us, we could do nothing.”

Still Ellen checked her horse till Mr Ferris again came in sight, when she heard him shouting, “Go on! go on!” and at the same time making signals with his whip as he lashed his horse. Poor Mrs Twigg was holding on to the carriage, expecting every moment to be thrown out; but Mr Ferris, an experienced driver, kept a tight hand on the rein. Old Martin came dashing after him, standing up lashing his horse, and shrieking out at the top of his voice, “On! on! old nagger; no tumble down on oo knees!” while still farther off Jack Pemberton, Archie, and the other horsemen were seen acting as a rearguard, they, even if so inclined, not considering it respectful to pass the carriages. Ellen, on hearing her father’s shouts, again applied her whip to her horse’s flanks and galloped forward, much to the lieutenant’s satisfaction. The major and Fanny could only dimly be seen amid the cloud of dust in the road, here darkened by overhanging trees.

“We cannot be very far, I trust, from Bellevue,” said Ellen; “my horse appears to be flagging.”

“The animal is but little accustomed to move at this rate with any one on its back. Be ready to check it should it stumble,” answered the lieutenant; “but with your light weight there is very little chance of that. We have, I believe, but two miles to go, and we shall soon cover that ground. Don’t spare the whip, Miss Ferris; you must think of your own safety more than the feelings of your steed.”

Following Lieutenant Belt’s advice, Ellen made her horse spring forward, and they at length again overtook Major Malcolm and Fanny. Just then a party of blacks were seen ahead, coming along the road towards them. Fanny was about to check her horse, fearing that they had evil intentions.

“If they are rebels we must dash by them—it is our best chance of escape,” cried the major, drawing his sword. “I will defend you with my life, Miss Pemberton. Only keep up your courage and ride straight forward; they’ll not dare to come within arm’s length of us.” Lieutenant Belt imitated the major’s example, and said something of the same tenour to Ellen.

“But my father—they will attack him and Mrs Twigg!” she exclaimed.

“He has pistols in the carriage, and a shot or two will soon send the black fellows to the right-about,” answered the major. They galloped forward, and their anxiety was quickly relieved on discovering that the blacks were headed by one of the book-keepers, who had been met by Mr Twigg and despatched along the road to render any assistance which might be required.

“All’s safe at the house, sir, and it’s my belief that the blacks on the estate will prove loyal, whatever may be the case elsewhere,” observed the book-keeper.

“Go forward and obey your orders, sir,” said the major; “we will ride on more leisurely to the house.”

Fanny drew a deep breath. “I feel inexpressibly relieved,” she said, “though I was sure, Major Malcolm, that you would have protected me; but I am more anxious about my father and mother and the rest of the family at Walton. It is more exposed even than Bellevue, and, though perhaps our own slaves may prove faithful, there are other estates on either side where the blacks are said to be harshly treated; and they may take the opportunity of revenging themselves on all the white people within their reach. I would rather go home at once to share their fate.”

“I am very sure, Miss Pemberton, that should your family be in danger, they would not desire that you should be exposed to it,” answered the major. “You yourself require rest—and, indeed, your steed would not carry you much further. I trust that the report which has alarmed us may prove to be without much foundation, and I will get Mr Twigg to send over at once to Walton and ascertain the state of affairs—or, if I find that Bellevue is safe, I will ride over myself to offer my services.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” exclaimed Fanny; “I shall indeed be grateful.”

Riding somewhat more leisurely than at first, though still keeping up a smart canter, they soon reached Bellevue, where they found that Mr Twigg had sent out to collect the book-keepers and drivers, white and brown, to assemble at the house for its protection. Major Malcolm’s first inquiry was as to his means of defence.

“I have firearms, which I have kept ready in case of any outbreak such as that of ’37, and all the white men on the estate have their fowling-pieces and pistols,” he answered. “We fortunately procured a couple of casks of powder not long ago.”

“Very good; but have you a supply of bullets?” asked the major.

“No—dear me, I am afraid not,” said Mr Twigg.

“But you have moulds, surely, for casting them?” continued Major Malcolm.

“Yes; some are stored with the arms, I believe,” was the answer.

“And what about lead?” asked the major. The worthy planter looked perplexed. “You must surely have some leaden pipes or cisterns, or lead in some form or other. Pray search in every direction, and I will set my two fellows to work at once to cast bullets, while we go round and consider the best means for fortifying the house. It is as well to be prepared, although I believe that, after all, it will prove a false alarm.”

The ladies were more tired and overcome with the heat than they had expected while the excitement of riding lasted, and had to retire to their rooms. Mr Ferris soon arrived with Mrs Twigg, when she and her husband immediately sent for the black nurse, Martha, that they might ascertain from her whence she had obtained the alarming intelligence she had sent them. She would only reply, “I tell you, massa, what is de truth. I lub de children better than life; but I know when de black fellows find out dat I tell you, dey kill me. De Obeah man do it. Even though he not find me, I die—I know it; but if I save you and de children, I not care.”

Nothing else could be elicited from Martha, but she persisted in declaring that they would find ere long that she had given no false alarm. Both Mr and Mrs Twigg, indeed, were convinced that she spoke the truth; and Mr Twigg went on with the preparations for the defence of the house. In a short time Mr Thompson, who had been at the further end of the estate, and several book-keepers came in.

“What has happened, Mr Twigg?” he exclaimed. “Sambo brought me a cock-and-bull story about a number of blacks being in arms, and coming down to burn and sack the house and murder us all. I don’t believe it, sir. Our people, at all events, are kept in too good order to do anything of the sort; and I should have heard of any ill-feeling existing among the slaves in any of the neighbouring estates. I beg your pardon, sir—but it seems to me ridiculous to suppose that they would again attempt to rebel; they cannot have forgotten how they were treated the last time they ventured to rise in arms. Of course, gentlemen from England and military officers could not be expected to know anything about the matter, and they are therefore ready to believe the absurd reports.”

“But I also, Mr Thompson, am inclined to believe that there is more in it than you suppose,” answered the planter, “old Martin is evidently alarmed—and he is as sensible as he is faithful.”

Still the overseer was incredulous. “I’ll obey your orders, however, sir,” he said, “and do anything you or the military officers think necessary to put the house in a state of defence.”

“Very well, Mr Thompson; collect all the trustworthy people, and direct them to bring their arms and ammunition, and as large a stock of provisions as they have ready,” replied Mr Twigg, “and we will follow out any plan Major Malcolm may suggest. He will, of course, take the command, and for our own sakes we shall be wise to obey his orders.”

The overseer laughed. “Well, sir, we shall take a great deal of trouble for nothing,” he said; “and should the military gentlemen order us to level the out-buildings, and to cut down the trees surrounding the house, we shall do more damage than can be easily repaired.”

Several of the young men agreed with Mr Thompson, but Archie Sandys and Jack Pemberton sided with the other gentlemen. Martha remained as firm as at first in her belief that if they did not make haste and get ready to defend themselves, they would all be destroyed. The major’s first care had been to see that the arms and ammunition were in a serviceable state. The former evidently required cleaning; with the powder he was satisfied. Though no leaden pipes were procurable, as bamboo canes serve every purpose for which the former are used in other countries, a leaden cistern and some pigs of lead which had been sent with the muskets were found, and the three troopers who had accompanied the major and his companion were set to work to cast bullets and clean up the arms; while the major, after twice making the circuit of the house, advised that it should be surrounded in the first place with a chevaux-de-frise of timber and stout bamboos sharpened at the ends, and that, if time would allow, inside that a palisade should be erected with loopholes for musketry and of a height sufficient to protect the garrison.

“At all events,” he observed, “no harm can be done by collecting the materials for the purpose, and we can then proceed according to the information we receive.”

This plan seemed so sensible that even Mr Thompson did not object to it, and all the available hands were divided into two parties—some sent to the nearest cane-brake to cut the canes, and others to fell trees. Night was approaching, and after the first few loads had been brought in, Mr Thompson suggested that they should wait till the following morning. Martha, who was eagerly watching all the proceedings, went to her master and, with tears in her eyes, entreated that there might be no delay.

“I know what will happen dis berry night,” she said; “if any one shut his eyes, perhaps no wake in de morning.”

As the moon was nearly half full, there would be light. For some hours Mr Twigg accordingly directed that the people should continue their work. Most of the slaves seemed to labour willingly; but the drivers who were superintending them observed that they went lazily about their work, and did as little as they possibly could. Mr Thompson, on being told of this, remarked that it was no wonder, as they had been toiling all day, and it was not his custom to work the slaves after sundown, as was done on some ill-managed estates. As soon as the logs of wood and the canes were brought in, Major Malcolm and the lieutenant, with their men, having provided themselves with axes, threw off their coats and commenced cutting the logs and canes into proper lengths and showing how they were to be fixed in the ground. Between the canes which formed the chevaux-de-frise were planted large masses of prickly-pear, through which no ill-clad black, nor indeed any human being, could force his way. It was considered that this would stop the enemy even more effectually than the palisades. It was no easy task, however, to cut the sword-like leaves and place the plants in their required positions. The young Englishmen not otherwise employed offered their assistance, as did old Martin and the other black servants, in forming both the works, the latter managing to handle the prickly-pears far more dexterously without hurting themselves than their masters.

“We shall do no material harm to your lawn, Mrs Twigg,” observed Major Malcolm, “and for your sake I trust that it may not become the scene of a conflict. By-the-by, Mr Twigg, if there is a serious chance of it we must barricade the doors and windows, and it will be prudent to have the materials ready for the purpose. If you have no spare planking, I have no doubt that one of the out-buildings will supply what we require.”

Mr Twigg of course agreed to this, and, lantern in hand, led the way to a building at a little distance from the house.

“I advise you to have this pulled down at once; but if you are unwilling to do that, you can give directions to one of the young men, who will superintend the work should it become necessary,” said the major.

Mr Twigg, having sent for Archie Sandys, told him what might be required, and he, of course, undertook to carry out his orders. Some time went by. The ladies having rested and partly recovered from their fatigue, assembled in the supper-room, in which a handsome repast was spread. Here they were joined by the gentlemen, who, having worked hard, had good appetites. No one would have supposed as they were seated round the table that they were apprehensive of the danger threatening them.

“It seems very ridiculous to be taking all this trouble and expending our strength on account of a vague report of which really nobody seems to know the origin,” observed Lieutenant Belt to Ellen. “The major of course thinks there is something in it; but, for my part, I believe we shall find that we have all been frightened out of our wits for nothing.”

“I wish that I could agree with you,” answered Ellen. “There have been terrible outbreaks before in this island, and rumours have been for some time going about that the slaves are in a discontented state.”

“I had expected, from the way our friends galloped after us this afternoon, that a body of savage rebels were at their heels,” said the lieutenant, “and I confess that when we reached the house I fancied that we should have had to stand to our arms, and defend ourselves as best we could. I was very glad to see our hostess and Mr Ferris and the rest of the party arrive safely, and was somewhat surprised when no enemy followed them. We shall find, I suspect, that the foe did not come because no foe is in existence.”

Ellen, however, could not agree with the young lieutenant.

Miss Pemberton’s anxieties had been somewhat quieted. Mr Twigg assured her that he had sent a messenger to warn her father, who would of course make preparations to defend his house; she might soon therefore expect an answer saying that they were all safe. The party at length became more cheerful, and Mr Ferris expressed his belief that they might all go to sleep without fear of becoming dead men before the morning.

“Belt and I ought to be on our road at an early hour,” remarked Major Malcolm; “but I wish before we go to see your fortifications in a forward state, and I shall then feel it my duty to ride round to Walton to render Mr Pemberton any assistance he may require.”

Fanny was on the point of asking him to escort her, but a very natural feeling made her hesitate, and she resolved to remain with her friends. The conversation had become more lively than at first, and jokes and laughter were even being indulged in, when the sound of horses’ hoofs was heard coming along the road from the east at a rapid rate. Mr Twigg hurried to the door, followed by Mr Ferris.

“Who is it?” asked the former.

“Hayward,” answered a voice. “Thank Heaven I find you safe! I’ve had a narrow escape of my life, and I was afraid that you might be placed in equal danger; indeed, had it not been for my faithful fellow Tom Yam here, I should to a certainty have been killed.”

“Come up, then, and tell us all about it,” exclaimed Mr Twigg, who the next instant was shaking hands with the stranger, while Martin took charge of Tom Yam. Mr Twigg introduced the new arrival. Mr Hayward, sitting down, tossed off a glass or two of Madeira, for he required some stimulant before he could speak.

“I bring you dreadful news,” he said. “I would thankfully not have to alarm you, ladies, but it may be better to know the worst at once. I had come over to Stillwater, having providentially left my family at Kingston, when, as I was resting after my journey, Tom Yam, who had been sent with a message to Fort Maria to ask Captain Torrens, commanding there, to come over and dine with me, rushed into my room panting for breath with the fearful news that the entire garrison and a number of white people from different places assembled there at dinner had suddenly been surprised by a whole host of blacks. The villains had been lying in ambush near at hand, and rushing upon them without warning, had put nearly every human being of the party to death. Among the few survivors was a black servant of one of the officers, who had given him the information. He himself had got near enough to see the blacks in possession of the fort, some engaged in burning down the buildings, and others carrying off the arms and ammunition. The boy told him that the white men were at the supper-table, and that all had there been butchered without being able to reach their arms or strike a blow for their defence. He hurried back, and as he came along he heard the negroes close at his heels, shouting and shrieking over their victory, and threatening to attack Stillwater House. Scarcely had he uttered the words than the cries of the barbarians reached my ears. Not a moment was to be lost; I hastily threw on my clothes and followed Tom, who entreated me to run for the stable, where we could get our horses and gallop off as the best prospect of saving our lives, for if we attempted to hide ourselves the rebels were nearly sure to find us—many, indeed, of my own slaves having, as Tom assured me, joined them. So close were they by this time that I was afraid they would see us as we made our way to the stable. We reached it just as they broke into the grounds on the opposite side. Some time was lost in saddling the horses; as I led mine out, I saw several black faces peering out of the windows above us. I threw myself on the animal’s back, Tom having mounted his horse inside the stable; a shower of bullets, happily ill aimed, came whizzing about our ears—two, indeed, passed through my jacket. Away I galloped, followed by Tom; though several more shots were fired at us, we escaped them all. Fortunately, there were no other horses in the stable or we should probably have been followed. As I looked over my shoulder I saw smoke ascending from the roof of the house, and ere I had got much further flames burst out from every part. At first I proposed pushing for Kingston, but Tom expressed his belief that we should find bands of rebels on the road, and I determined therefore to come on in this direction, and to warn any friends on the way. How our horses have done so much seems surprising, for you may be sure we took but a short time to rest. We passed on the way, I should say, several parties of blacks, but as they had no firearms, we dashed by them uninjured, although some made an attempt to stop us.”

“Did you say, sir, that all the officers and men were massacred at Fort Maria?” asked Major Malcolm, in an agitated tone.

“I have too little doubt about it, sir,” answered Mr Hayward. “I can trust Tom’s word, and Captain Torrens’s servant assured him that he saw his master and Ensign Duck murdered with the other white gentlemen.”

“Only two days ago we dined with him, little thinking what was soon to occur!” said the major, with a sigh. “Poor fellow! poor fellow! how full of life and spirits he seemed! Such may be the fate of any one of us!”

Miss Pemberton looked sad as he spoke.

“You are now convinced, Mr Thompson, that there is something in the report we heard,” observed Mr Ferris to the overseer, “and that we were not foolishly alarmed?”

“How soon do you think that the band of rebel blacks can reach Bellevue, should they come in this direction?” asked the major of Mr Hayward.

“They might be here in a day—and my belief is that there are several bands much nearer at hand, and that it would be wise to prepare for an attack without a moment’s delay,” answered Mr Hayward.

“Preparations have already been commenced,” observed the major; “but I would urge our friend here to follow your advice.”

“I am glad to hear it,” replied Mr Hayward. “From the way the rebels made their attack on the fort, and the rapidity and order with which they retreated, it is evident that they are no contemptible foes, besides which, they have obtained a considerable store of arms. I will remain to assist you, for my horses could not proceed a mile further; and I should wish indeed, before I go on, to ascertain the state of the country to the westward. I fear from the report Tom gave that the slaves in the whole island are in a state of revolt.”

“In that case our only wise course will be to barricade the house and throw up such other fortifications as time will allow,” said Major Malcolm. “Mr Twigg, will you give the order to your people to bring in sufficient planking to close up all doors and windows, and we will then form a stockade round the house. Rouse up all the hands you can muster; they must work during the night, by the light of lanterns or torches or fires, if necessary. I will answer for your safety if the work is completed in time.”

The worthy planter showed that he was a man of spirit—he immediately issued the necessary orders, and the overseer, now convinced that the report of the insurrection was founded on truth, ably seconded him. Coats were thrown aside, and the carpenter’s tools in the house being collected, each person took such as he could best use, and, as soon as the wood was brought in, began sawing and nailing away with might and main. Others went on with the chevaux-de-frise, while a third party dug a trench and began erecting a palisade between it and the house. Major Malcolm and Lieutenant Belt were everywhere, showing the people how to put up the palisade and lending a hand to the work. Archie Sandys was especially active; the planter and Mr Ferris laboured away with hammer and nails in barricading the windows; while the three troopers who had accompanied the officers, having cast a sufficient store of bullets, came out and gave their valuable assistance. Major Malcolm was too good a soldier to forget the importance of having timely notice of the approach of a foe, and had directed the overseer to select four trustworthy negroes, who were sent out to do duty as scouts, with orders to make their way back the moment they discovered the enemy.

“Can you entirely trust those fellows?” asked the major, after the men had been despatched.

“As to that, sir, I can’t be answerable for their not running away, though I believe that they’ll not willingly join the rebels,” answered the overseer.

“Then we must not depend implicitly on them,” said the major. “I must ask some of the young gentlemen to undertake the duty; Lieutenant Belt and one of my men will accompany them.”

Archie Sandys, on hearing this, immediately volunteered, as did two other of the book-keepers. The party made their way for some distance in the direction it was expected that the rebels would appear; and, leaving Archie in a sheltered spot, the lieutenant conducted the others round, posting first one and then the other in positions in which they could command a view of the different approaches, so that on whatever side the enemy might come, time would be given to the garrison to prepare for their reception. All the men who had been collected continued diligently engaged in erecting the fortifications, and were thus employed when daylight returned. The works were by this time in a tolerably forward state, and were of a character well calculated to resist an attack by an undisciplined and ill-armed force, though they would have been useless against artillery or well-trained troops. No one proposed stopping for breakfast, for all saw the importance of getting the works completed before the arrival of the foe. The house standing high, and a good view over the country round being obtained from it, there was no necessity to keep the sentries at their posts during the daytime. The lieutenant accordingly went out to call them in. They had seen nothing of the black scouts—as the overseer had thought probable, they had run away and hidden themselves. They, however, came back during the morning, each one bringing the same account—“All right, massa, no enemy come yet.”

“You hid yourselves, you rascals,” said Mr Twigg.

“Ki Massa Twigg, de ossifer tell hide selves,” answered one of the scouts.

“But you went to sleep, Quasho, into the bargain, I suspect,” observed the planter.

“If ever shut eyes, hear all de same, massa,” replied Quasho, with perfect coolness.

It was not a time to inflict punishment if it could be avoided, and the negroes were ordered to assist at the work going forward.

It was past noon before the fortifications were completed. They were in such a form that the enemy attacking any portion would be exposed either to a flanking or a cross fire. The major surveyed them with evident satisfaction.

“Provided our ammunition does not run short, we shall be able to hold out for a siege of any length against such enemies as are likely to attack us,” he observed to Mr Twigg; “although, as the rebels have not appeared, I think it possible they may not come at all.”

“I trust not, major; but we shall be deeply indebted to you notwithstanding,” answered the planter. “Now, after your labours, come in and have some breakfast.”

The major willingly accepted the invitation, and found to his satisfaction the ladies ready to receive him. Miss Pemberton gave him a grateful smile, but he thought she still looked anxious. She confessed that she was so on account of her family. Would she wish to send assistance to them? he asked.

“Indeed, I would,” she answered; “for, though our house can be more easily fortified and defended than this can, there are fewer trustworthy people to form its garrison.”

“Would you wish me to go, Miss Pemberton?” asked the major. “I would,” he added, speaking very low, “run every risk for your sake. I, of course, would not offer to quit Bellevue unless I considered that it already possessed a sufficiently strong garrison; indeed, I think it probable that it will not be attacked, or if it is, that the insurgents will very quickly retire when they see the preparations we have made for their reception.”

“Oh, it will indeed greatly relieve my mind if assistance could be carried to Walton!” exclaimed Fanny.

“Then I will go, and will leave Belt here with two of our men. Your brother will, I conclude, wish to accompany me,” said the major.

“So will I,” said Mr Hayward, “with my man Tom. We shall not too greatly weaken the garrison of this place, and we may render essential assistance to the Pembertons.”

Mr Twigg, though he possibly might rather have kept his friends, could not object to this proposal, and Major Malcolm immediately desired that the horses might be got ready. Several white men and mulattoes had come in from two small plantations in the neighbourhood on hearing of the rebellion, knowing that it would be hopeless to attempt the defence of their homes; and three of these, who were well mounted and armed, volunteered to accompany Major Malcolm and Mr Hayward. Fanny thanked the major more by her looks than in words, as she bade him farewell. The party, throwing themselves into their saddles, rode off, setting the heat at defiance. They had been gone scarcely half an hour when Archie Sandys, who was doing duty as sentry, and had posted himself on a height from whence he could command a view of most of the approaches to the house on the and south, came hurrying in with the information that he had seen a large body of blacks moving along from the latter direction. “They looked exactly like a swarm of ants as they came over the hill,” he observed. “Hark! you can already hear the shrill notes of their horns.”

“Then to arms, my friends!” cried the lieutenant. “We must man our lines, but don’t let a shot be fired till I give the order.”

All arrangements had previously been made; each gentleman having a certain number of men placed under him, while the two orderlies were to act as the lieutenant’s aides-de-camp. To each party was assigned the defence of a certain portion of the lines, so that the moment the order was issued the entire garrison knew where they were to go. Notwithstanding the absence of Major Malcolm and those who had accompanied him, they felt secure in their numbers and fortifications.

The shouts and shrieks of the rebels and the sound of their horns were now distinctly heard as they hurried on to attack the house, fully expecting to surround it, and in a few minutes to massacre the inhabitants, as they had done those of several other pens they had already attacked, little dreaming of finding it so strongly garrisoned and fortified.

“Keep under cover, my men,” cried the lieutenant, as the enemy were seen marching from the wood and running forward without order into the open; “our fire will stagger them, and probably make them scamper off, if we reserve it till they come sufficiently near for each man to take a good aim. Don’t throw a bullet away. Aim low, remember—aim low!”

As the rebel blacks advanced, they discovered that there was something unusual about the house, and at length began to suspect that it was fortified in a way to which they were unaccustomed. They accordingly halted, and were seen talking eagerly to each other, while they held their muskets pointing towards the building.

Their leader, whom Archie recognised as the ugly negro he had seen at the Jumby dance, went among them vociferating loudly, and endeavouring to induce them to advance. Thus encouraged, they rushed forward, firing their muskets; many of them, who had put the butts against their eyes, being knocked over by the recoil as they did so. Some fired at one moment, some at another, with the greatest possible irregularity, many of the bullets flying over the house, others striking the roof.

“Let them expend their ammunition as fast as they like in that style,” cried the lieutenant, laughing; “they will not do us much harm. It is not worth replying to such a salute.”

The lieutenant’s remarks greatly encouraged his men, who waited patiently to fire in return.

“Now give it them, my lads!” he at length cried out, when the blacks had got within fifty yards of the palisade. The order was obeyed, and as the smoke cleared away the rebels were seen running off at full speed, leaving five of their number on the field; and from the way others retreated, leaning on their companions, it was evident that several more were wounded. They, however, halted immediately they got beyond gunshot, having no intention, apparently, of retreating altogether. They were now seen assembled as before, a vast amount of talking taking place among them, while their leaders rushed hither and thither urging them to renew the attack. But this it at first seemed they were little inclined to do; most of them, indeed, sat down on the ground as if determined not to advance.

“I believe if we were to sally out and charge them we might put them all to flight,” exclaimed Archie Sandys, who, his Highland blood being up, was full of fight.

“Don’t attempt anything of the sort,” said Lieutenant Belt, who showed that he possessed the qualities so important for a soldier of coolness as well as of courage. “We might drive those immediately in our front before us, but we should have their companions on our flanks and be to a certainty cut off, or have to fight our way back again. As long as they keep where they are they can do us no harm.”

It was especially trying to the garrison to see their enemies sitting down quietly just out of the reach of their bullets, without permission to attack them. The day was waning, and in all probability the blacks would make another attack at night, when they would have a better chance of getting near without being discovered. All the time their cries and shrieks, and the blowing of their horns, were heard from all sides; then came the sound of other horns in the distance, which were answered with loud blasts from the rebels surrounding the house.

“I am afraid that the rascals have been reinforced,” observed Mr Twigg. “As they increase in numbers they will grow bolder, and we shall have harder work to drive them off.”

“Don’t be anxious about that,” answered the lieutenant; “as long as our men prove true we shall have no difficulty in keeping them at bay, and we may hope in time that troops will be sent to assist us, as well as others who may be attacked. I hope that many planters will have wisely taken the precautions you have done, and fortified their houses.”

“My belief is that Mr Pemberton will have done so,” answered Mr Ferris; “if not, I fear that Major Malcolm will be unable to render him much assistance.”

Weary from hard work as all the garrison were, they could not venture to take any rest, except such as they could obtain by sitting with their backs to the palisades or the wall of the house, with their muskets by their sides, ready for instant service. Lieutenant Belt, who felt the responsibility resting on his shoulders, divided the other gentlemen into two watches, so that one party might be continually going round to see that the sentries were on the alert. As it was fully expected that the rebels would make a sudden attack during the dark hours of night, he himself felt that he must dispense with sleep.

“I quite envy you,” said Archie, who accompanied him. “I wish that I had been a soldier; this work just suits me.”

“You might soon get tired of it. If it were to become the sole occupation of your life, you would begin to sigh for rest and long for a quiet life, I can tell you,” was the answer.

None of the men appeared inclined to sleep at their posts, for they all well knew that their lives depended on their vigilance.

After some time had elapsed, several dusky forms could be seen creeping up towards the house, as if to ascertain what the garrison were about.

“Keep silence,” whispered the lieutenant to the men, as he went his rounds; “when they get near enough we will show them that we are wide awake. The blacks can then be picked off by any good marksmen among you.” As he spoke, the lieutenant’s voice may have been heard, or the negroes may have observed the heads of the sentries above the palisades, for they suddenly disappeared under cover.

Towards the morning the darkness increased, and the garrison redoubled their vigilance, every moment expecting an attack, for the rebels might have got close up to the house without being discovered.

The ladies, meantime, with the nurses and children, had been placed in one of the lower rooms, into which it was believed no shot could penetrate. Mr Ferris had urged them, in case of an attack, to lie down, so that, should any balls make their way through the planking, they might pass over their heads.

“But surely we can help in some way or other,” exclaimed Fanny. “We might load the muskets, even if we do not fire them; and if any of our defenders are wounded, we will come out and take their places with the rest.”

“I will do my best, but I do not feel that I could try to kill the poor blacks,” answered Ellen.

“They deserve to be killed,” exclaimed Miss Pemberton, “for daring to rebel against their masters.” She spoke as a planter’s daughter.

“Perhaps we might better employ ourselves in attending to any of our defenders who are unfortunately wounded,” observed Mrs Twigg, who knew Ellen’s sentiments, and did not wish to enter into any discussion on the subject.

“I trust that, now they have seen the preparations made for their reception, the rebels will not attempt to attack the house,” said Mr Ferris. “All I beg you to do is to remain quiet, and to keep up your spirits. Perhaps in the morning we shall find the blacks have retreated, and gone off to attack some more defenceless houses. However, if any of the people are wounded, we will place them under your care. In the mean time, let me entreat you to lie down and get some rest.”

Somewhat reassured by his remarks, the ladies followed his advice; and, except the sentries and the officers on guard, the greater number of the inmates of the house might have been found fast asleep. Not a sound was heard throughout the building, nor was a light shown which might attract the notice of the rebels. Occasionally their voices and the shrill blasts of their horns could be heard rising out of the valley, but even the keenest pair of eyes among the garrison failed to detect a single object moving in any direction.

Day at length broke, and it was hoped that the enemy might have disappeared; but as the light increased, the blacks were seen amid the openings of the trees, collected in still greater numbers than on the previous evening, while in the far distance parties were observed moving across the country, some approaching the house, others going in the direction of Walton.

“I fear that the major and his companions have had some difficulty in reaching Mr Pemberton’s house,” observed Lieutenant Belt to Archie Sandys. “If he could not get in, he will have gone on to Montego, or some place to the westward where he might hope to obtain troops to relieve us.”

“But suppose that he has encountered some such large gang of armed blacks as those we see out yonder; he and his companions must have been shot down, for what could so small a party do against a whole host of enemies?” answered Archie.

“That depends upon how his followers behave. If they prove staunch and obey his orders, they may put any number of armed undisciplined blacks to fight,” said the lieutenant. “Still I own that I shall be glad to have tidings of him. What the fellows round this house intend doing, I cannot make out; but I conclude that they prefer fighting in daylight rather than in the dark, and that we must expect to be attacked before long. In the mean time, I shall be glad to have some breakfast and a few minutes’ sleep. Do you take my place, and let me be called if you detect the slightest movement among the blacks.” Saying this, the lieutenant went into the house, through the only door which had been left open. Preparations had also been made for barricading that, should it become necessary.

The house, it must be understood, was to form the citadel, should the outer defences be forced or should there be a prospect of their being so. With this object in view, loopholes had been formed in all the doors and windows, from whence a warm fire could be poured down upon the assailants. Still the rebels did not venture to approach nearer. Archie and the others began heartily to wish that the blacks would attack them, not doubting for a moment what would be the result. Hour after hour went by, but no movement was perceived. Still it could scarcely be hoped that the rebels had given up all intention of assaulting the house.

A stock of provisions had been collected, but there were many mouths to consume them, and no one had expected that the siege would last beyond a day or two, as all supposed that, after being defeated in the first attack, the blacks would take to flight. The consumption of water was also considerable, and it was found that nearly all had been used up. The well which supplied it was at some little distance from the house. Water, however, must be obtained at all hazards. Archie undertook to lead a party with buckets to get what was wanted: it would be more easy to do that at night than in the daytime. But thirst can be ill endured in that burning climate; Archie therefore cried out for a dozen volunteers, six to carry the buckets, and six, fully armed, to defend them should they be attacked. The well was little more than a hundred yards off, while the nearest blacks who could be seen were at the distance of four hundred yards off at least, but others might be concealed nearer at hand.

Six white men, book-keepers and others, volunteered to accompany Archie; the remainder, who were to carry the buckets, were blacks. They crept along till they got directly opposite the path which led to the well; headed by Archie, they at once rushed down towards it. The rebels at first made no movement, apparently not understanding what they were about; then some of those in front began to retreat, thinking that they were to be attacked, and evidently not prepared for this. They soon, however, discovered the object of the garrison; it showed them also, what they might not before have been aware of, that there was a scanty supply of water in the house. Summoned by their leaders, they began to advance, and as they did so fired at Archie and his companions. In the mean time, the bucket-bearers had obtained the water, and were retreating up the hill.

“Don’t fire,” cried Archie, “till their bullets come whizzing about our ears. Steady now!” And his men retreated towards the house, looking over their shoulders to see how far off the enemy still were. As soon as the slaves had carried the water safely inside, the armed men turned round and fired a volley which stopped the advance of the rebels. Then, making a rush, Archie and his companions leaped over the palisades, the whole garrison at the same moment opening fire on the advancing enemy, who, having failed in their object of cutting off the watering party, took to their heels.

None of the rebel blacks were killed, though some apparently were hit, but not one of the garrison was hurt. This was the chief event of the day. Enough water to last them four and twenty hours at least was obtained, and Archie proposed getting some more at night, when it could be done with less risk. Food, however, began to grow scarce; the fresh meat and fowls had become uneatable, and much anxiety was felt as to the means of obtaining more provisions. The kitchen garden and the yam grounds, being at the foot of the hill, were in possession of the rebels. Of course the garrison was put on an allowance both of food and water, the ladies setting the example to the rest. They now began to look out anxiously for relief. The news of the insurrection must have reached Kingston and the other large towns where soldiers were quartered; and of course troops, with the militia and even the maroons, who it was hoped would prove loyal, would at once be despatched to disperse the rebels. Should Major Malcolm not have reached Walton, but have made his way to Montego, he would there, it was supposed, take command of some of the garrison of the fort and the militia, who mustered in pretty strong numbers, and would quickly return.

The day was drawing towards its close. The blacks had made no movement, nor could any friends be seen approaching from the west. The planter and his overseer and Archie made frequent visits to the roof of the house, whence they could obtain the most extensive view, and Archie, who was the last to go up, watched the sun sinking into the west and darkness come on without having any satisfactory intelligence to give on his return, he felt more out of spirits than he had ever before done in his life. Not on his own account, however, for he wished that the blacks would attack the house, as he was ready to fight to the death, and felt confident that they would be driven off. He was sincerely attached to Mr Twigg’s family, and he thought of the two young ladies—especially of Ellen, to whom he had lost his heart—and dreaded the hardships to which they all might be exposed; indeed, he could not conceal from himself that they might be in still more terrible danger than at present. Lieutenant Belt, who had wisely taken some hours’ sleep, rose refreshed and ready for the work before him. He forthwith went round among the men, urging them to be on the alert, and telling them that he fully believed the blacks would make an attack before long.

“Don’t be daunted by their shrieks and cries, my men,” he said. “Depend upon it, they will not stand before a few well-aimed volleys from your muskets. Don’t fire till you get them well in view, and then aim at their bodies. ‘Let every bullet have its billet,’ and I will answer for it we shall beat them off.”

The men answered with a cheerful “Ay, sir.”

Still the rebels hung back. Perhaps they guessed that the garrison were in want of provisions, and had wisely determined to starve them out. Their proceedings were evidently conducted by chiefs who well understood the art of savage warfare. Midnight arrived; the faint moon, though it had lasted longer than on the previous night, had disappeared. Archie proposed again leading out a party to obtain water, and he was on the point of starting, when one of the sentries cried out, “The enemy are coming!” The warning was repeated by others, and a black mass could be seen stealing up the hill, the men bending low in the hope of escaping discovery till they had got close up to the fortifications.

“Don’t let them know that we see them,” whispered the lieutenant, as he went round to the men; “the effect will be the greater when they receive our fire.”

The little garrison stood to their arms.

Onward marched the insurgents, moving up the hill like a dark wave rolling slowly forward. They could be clearly distinguished, all bending low to the ground, as they crossed the more open places exposed to the bright moonlight. On and on they came, but still not a sign was shown by the garrison that they were perceived. They must have known, however, that they could not get close up to the fortifications without being discovered. Suddenly, at a signal from their leaders, up they rose to a man, uttering the most terrific shrieks and howls, and, rushing forward, fired their muskets. Thick as hail the bullets came rattling against the palisades and the upper portions of the house, some chipping off splinters from the tops of the timbers, others sticking in the wood, others penetrating through the interstices. None of the garrison, however, were killed, but several were slightly wounded, though not in a way to compel them to leave their posts.

“Now, give it the rascals!” cried the lieutenant, as the blacks were within a dozen yards of the palisades. Every man fired, and many of the blacks were seen struggling back or falling to the ground. Their companions, excited to fury by the rum they had obtained from some of the plundered estates, sprang forward without noticing them, shouting and shrieking and throwing themselves desperately against the chevaux-de-frise, forgetting the hedge of prickly-pear which had been entwined amidst it. With cries of dismay as the sharp points pierced their legs and wounded their hands, they fell back in spite of the efforts of their chiefs to urge them on, thus giving the garrison time to reload.

“Now fire at them, my lads, and the day is ours,” cried the lieutenant. His men obeyed the order, and once more the negroes rushed away helter-skelter, nor would listen to the entreaties of their leaders to stop till they reached the bottom of the hill. “I think we have done for them this time,” exclaimed Lieutenant Belt, in a tone of exultation. The same opinion was expressed by most of the garrison.

“There are some desperate fellows among them, or they would not have come on in the way they have already done,” observed the overseer.

Many of the slaves had lately been imported from Africa, and were likely to pursue their native mode of fighting, which, it was too probable, would enable them to obtain that success which they had hitherto failed to gain. A short time passed away, during which the blacks maintained a perfect silence. It was hoped by many within the house that they were about to retreat, when lights were seen suddenly to burst forth along the whole line, and gradually to approach. It appeared at first as if a dark wall was rising out of the valley, but this shortly resolved itself into huge faggots carried at the end of poles. Between every two or three of the faggots was seen a torch, too evidently for the purpose of kindling the wood.

“Good heavens! they are going to try and set our fortifications on fire, and the house also, I fear, if they can,” exclaimed Mr Twigg.

“And they will succeed too, I am afraid,” said the overseer gloomily. “I was sure they had some accursed trick in contemplation.”

“What do you advise, Lieutenant Belt?” asked Mr Ferris, who remained more collected than any one else.

“We must make a sortie and drive them back before they reach our lines,” answered the lieutenant. “I will lead it myself, and I am sure I shall not want followers.”

Archie was the first volunteer, and nearly a dozen more white men immediately sprang forward. Not a moment was to be lost.

“Come on, my lads,” cried the lieutenant. “We must make our sortie by the outlet leading to the well. We will then get round and attack them on the flank; and, remember, the remainder of the garrison must keep up a hot fire as they come on at the rest of the line, aiming at the black fellows’ bodies, not at their faggots, which they will hold before them as shields.”

Saying this, he led out his brave band of followers, Archie keeping close to him. They had got within sixty yards or so from the blacks before they were perceived, when, firing their muskets—the garrison, meantime, not neglecting their duty, but blazing rapidly away—they drew their cutlasses and threw themselves fiercely on the enemy. So little did the negroes appear to expect the attack that they threw down their bundles of wood, to which their torches, let drop at the same time, set fire, and retreated in confusion. As they ran off, they encountered another well-armed party of their friends, who were coming up the hill, either to support them or to attempt carrying the fortification by assault during the confusion they expected the blazing stockades would produce. On seeing the white men before them, they fired a volley. Instead of running away, however, they still advanced boldly up the hill.

“Load, my lads, and meet them bravely,” cried the lieutenant—“you have time for it—but do not retreat, or we are lost.” As he spoke, Archie, who was near him, heard the thud of a bullet, and had just time to catch the brave young officer in his arms before he fell.

“We must not let these savages get hold of him,” exclaimed Archie to his companions, taking the lieutenant up on his back. “You keep the enemy in check, and I will carry him to the house.”

He instantly did as he proposed, the blacks shouting and shrieking after him as he ran, but not daring to advance farther, while the rest of the party, loading and firing as they retreated—the garrison at the same time redoubling their fire—kept the enemy in check, and Archie succeeded in bringing in the wounded officer. The intention of the blacks was thus frustrated; for, though most of the faggots were blazing away, they were at a safe distance from the house.

The lieutenant was carried into a room and laid on a bed, where Mrs Twigg and Martha immediately came and examined his wound. It was in the shoulder, and though the sudden pain had made him drop, as far as they could judge, it did not appear to be serious. He soon recovered after taking a stimulant. He begged them to bind up his shoulder that he might go forth and resume his command. The operation was soon performed, and as he again appeared he was received with warm congratulations. The other people who had been hurt had also gone in to have their wounds dressed. Happily none had been killed, notwithstanding the number of bullets fired at them.

Every one now believed that the blacks would abandon their enterprise, but, though foiled so frequently, no signs could be perceived of their retreating. They had managed to carry off those of their number who had been killed, and were now bewailing their loss in African fashion, with shrieks and cries which came up sounding mournfully from the valley below.

“I think we have given the rebels a lesson, and need no longer fear an attack,” observed Mr Ferris.

“We must not make too sure yet,” said the overseer. “Had we only island-born blacks to deal with, the case would be different; but there are a lot of Coromantees, the most savage of the African people, who are at the bottom of all this, and they will fight like tiger-cats as long as life remains in them. They won’t be satisfied, if they can have their will, till they burn us and the house in a heap. They will try it again, or I am much mistaken.”

The events which have just been described occupied but a few short minutes. The blazing faggots went out without setting fire to the plantations, of which there was imminent risk, and all was again quiet. Even the blacks had ceased shrieking and howling. Though the garrison had hitherto been successful, if they were to hold out for a protracted siege more water and food must be procured, and again Archie Sandys volunteered to obtain both. By taking due precautions he was able to lead a party down to the well, and to get back without being discovered by the rebels. In another direction, and rather further from the house, was a plantation of yams. A few basketfuls would afford subsistence to all the party for a day or more. Of course, rather than starve, they must kill one of the horses which were tethered at the back of the house within the lines. The companions of Archie’s previous expedition volunteered to accompany him, but he considered it more prudent to take only the blacks, who might dig up the roots and carry them in, while he stood sentinel to warn them to fly should they be discovered.

“You’re a brave fellow,” said Lieutenant Belt, “and I wish you success, but I tell you I think your expedition a hazardous one.”

“Nothing worth having is to be obtained without trouble,” answered Archie. “I have a good pair of legs, and can jump a fence with any one. The food must be procured, and I will get it if I can; only, should I be pursued, cover me with your fire, but take care none of our people shoot me or any of my companions.”

Saying this, Archie set out, followed by his six blacks, carrying baskets and spades. He had his cutlass by his side, a brace of pistols in his belt, and his musket in his hand. As there was ample shelter down to the yam ground, the lieutenant hoped that his friend would not be discovered. One thing was very certain, that, should the enemy come upon them, the slaves would scamper away in all directions, and very likely make their escape.

Before Archie set out, every man had been stationed at his post, to be ready for the rebels should they approach. They stood anxiously waiting his return. At length one of the slaves appeared, loaded with a basket of yams; a second and a third followed, and they repelled that Massa Sandys had made them fill one basket at a time, and had sent them off so as at all events to secure some. They were looking out for a fourth man, when two people were seen rushing up the hill without baskets on their heads. A third followed, but scarcely was he visible, when a shot was heard and he dropped to the ground.

“We must go and rescue Mr Sandys,” cried the lieutenant; “he must have fallen into the hands of the rebels.”

“If so, the poor fellow is dead by this time,” said the overseer.

The report of the two blacks who now came tended to confirm this latter opinion. A party of negroes had suddenly sprung out from a neighbouring cover as they had just got their baskets on their heads to come away, when, throwing down their loads, they had made off, though the hindermost had been nearly caught; and it was more than probable that Mr Sandys, who was stopping to cover their retreat, had been unable to escape. This was the saddest event which had hitherto occurred, and all sincerely grieved for his loss.

Chapter Sixteen.

Major Malcolm proceeds towards Walton Hall—Suspicious circumstances—The party cut their way through the rebels and gain the house—Preparations for an attack—The rebels attempt to storm the house with ladders and firebrands—Beaten back—An expedition to follow the rebels—Major Malcolm and his party set out—Jack Pemberton tries to reach Bellevue—Finds it still besieged—Retreats—Quashie sent with a message to Bellevue—Succeeds in getting in—A novel flag of distress hoisted—A fierce attack made on the house—The stockades set on fire—Blacks again driven back—Cudjoe offers to abandon the siege if the overseer is given up—Ammunition of the defenders almost exhausted—The overseer shot—Another fierce attack made by the blacks on the house.

Major Malcolm, influenced by the admiration he felt for Fanny Pemberton—if a deeper feeling had not already inspired him—had set out from Bellevue for the purpose of warning her family of the danger to which they were exposed, and, if he found it necessary, remaining to assist in their defence. He had intended, immediately he could do so, to ride on to Montego, to bring up such forces as he could collect, and to disperse the rebels wherever they could be found; but from the information his companions gained as they rode along, that large bands of rebels were already in arms in the intermediate country, he feared that he should be unable to force his way through them unless with a stronger party than he now had with him. He was acting according to his judgment for the best. He certainly could, not leave his friends at Bellevue without as soon as possible sending them assistance, while most of his present companions were bound to go on to Walton with young Pemberton. As they pushed forward as fast as their horses could go, they frequently caught sight of negroes, three and four together, who invariably ran away from them. A few old men and women in a great state of alarm were, however, found in the villages. They said that the younger men had run off to hide themselves, asserting that they were afraid of the rebels. But it seemed doubtful whether such was the case, or whether they had gone to join them. Jack Pemberton, who acted as guide, now told the major that they were approaching Walton Hall, and pointed out a house situated on an eminence, the ground sloping round it. On one side, up which the road led to the front door, the ascent was more gradual than on the others.

“I am in great hopes, sir, that the rebel negroes, notwithstanding what we heard, have not got here yet,” said Jack Pemberton. “If they have we must look out for them, for they cannot be far off, and we shall see them as soon as we have passed this wood.”

He led the way to the left round a grove of tall trees, when, in an open space which intervened between the wood and the foot of the hill on which the house stood, a large body of blacks were seen marshalling their forces, evidently preparing to attack the place. The party of horsemen were soon discovered, and the negroes, three or four hundred in number at least, faced about, and seeing a few white men, with their usual shrieks and shouts advanced to attack them.

“Now, my friends,” exclaimed the major calmly, “we must cut our way through these fellows. Trust to your swords, keep close together, and follow me. Forward!” and putting spurs to his horse, he dashed on. In another minute he was up to the black mass; and striking right and left with his sword, he quickly cleared a broad way for his companions, who, following close at his heels, had scarcely to use their weapons. A few shots only were fired at them, as the band apparently had but a small supply of muskets or pistols. The trooper brought up the rear, and as he saw the blacks attempting to close on him, quickly again drove them back.

“On! on!” shouted the major, “make your horses breast the hill, and we shall soon be under shelter.”

Before the negroes had recovered from their astonishment the whole party were up the hill, and the doors being thrown open by those within, who saw their approach, they forced the horses up the broad steps into the house. Here they were of course heartily welcomed by the planter and his family.

His first question was for his daughter. “We have had dreadful reports about Bellevue, that it was about to be attacked by the whole army of insurgents; and I was on the point of setting off to assist our friends, when those fellows down there made their appearance,” said Mr Pemberton, a portly, handsome-looking man with a bald head.

The major replied that he had done his best to place the house in a state of defence, and, as no enemy had appeared, that he had come at the request of Miss Pemberton to the relief of Walton, which it was also reported was to be attacked.

“I am afraid, however, as the rebels have favoured us with a visit, that the rumour with regard to Bellevue is also likely to prove true,” said Mr Pemberton, after warmly expressing his gratitude to Major Malcolm. “But with your assistance we can easily beat off our assailants. The house has stout walls, and we have, as you see, barricaded the windows and doors. We are amply provisioned, and have a supply of ammunition, so that we can hold out during a long siege should the insurgents venture to remain in our neighbourhood, which is not, I think, likely. But perhaps, major, as a soldier, you will think fit to look round the house, and see if we have left any weak points unguarded.”

“Very willingly,” was the answer; and the planter led his visitor through the building.

The front of the house was well fortified, but when they arrived at the back premises Major Malcolm pointed out more than one place through which a subtle enemy might easily find an entrance during the hours of darkness.

“See,” he observed, “they might make their way along under the shelter of that wall and reach this window and door, which might easily be forced with a few strokes of a roughly constructed battering-ram. I don’t know if these negroes have sense to use such an engine of war, but the knaves with whom I had to do in India would very certainly have made the attempt.”

The place pointed out was accordingly more strongly barricaded, and the major suggested a few other improvements.

“I feel satisfied,” he said at length, “that you are perfectly secure as long as your provisions and ammunition hold out. My only regret is that Miss Pemberton did not accompany us. She was more anxious about you than about herself, as we fully believed that Bellevue was sufficiently well fortified to resist any attack the rebels are likely to make against it.”

The worthy planter was much pleased with Major Malcolm, and especially grateful to him for coming to his assistance and bringing back his son.

Of course a watch was kept on the movements of the rebels, sentinels being stationed on the roof at each side of the house to give due notice of their nearer reproach. They showed no disposition to attack it during the daytime. It was naturally expected, however, that they would do so at night, should they entertain any hope of success. It was difficult otherwise to account for their remaining in the neighbourhood.

Major Malcolm expressed his wish to continue his journey, and Mr Hayward was anxious to accompany him, that they might carry out their intention of collecting all the available military and militia for the purpose of attacking the rebels wherever they could be met with. Mr Pemberton, as might be supposed, was desirous of retaining them.

“My dear sir,” he observed, “it is a very different thing to cut your way up to a fortress in the gallant style you did, and to force a road through an enemy on leaving it. In the one case, you at once gain shelter, and in the other are open to the pursuit of the foe. Your party, too, will be diminished, and you may be surrounded by overwhelming numbers, in contending with whom the most determined bravery will not avail.”

Major Malcolm saw the force of this reasoning, and agreed to remain till the following morning. Besides the book-keepers, overseers, drivers, and other free persons employed on the estate who formed the garrison of the house, there were several guests, planters and their families, from the neighbouring small properties, who had come to Walton for protection, knowing that they could not hold out should they be attacked in their own houses. They all brought rumours of the massacre of numerous families of whites. On still more distant estates one or two like Mr Hayward had narrowly escaped with their lives. Notwithstanding this, when they all assembled round Mr Pemberton’s hospitable board, few of them looked like people who had been exposed to fearful danger, and were at any moment liable to have to fight with a savage foe. Some of them, it is true, uttered threats of bitter vengeance on the heads of the villainous slaves, as they called the blacks; but they passed the bottle freely, and talked, and even laughed, as if nothing special was happening.

Major Malcolm was surprised at their apparent indifference to danger.

“Carpe diem is my motto,” observed a jovial, bald-headed gentleman, who sat next to him. “It does not do to think too much of to-morrow. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ Of course our pockets will suffer, but the rebellion will be quickly put down, and all things will come right in the end.”

“I only hope so,” observed the major; but he thought to himself, “If you were to treat your slaves justly, and do your utmost to instruct them, there would be less fear of outbreaks for the future.” He did not say this aloud, however, for he saw that his neighbour was not in a mood to listen calmly to such a remark.

Major Malcolm was more pleased with the lady of the house than with any of her guests. He had a good deal of conversation with her, the most interesting subject being her daughter, of whom she was justly proud, and she expatiated on her perfections with all a mother’s fondness. He won the good opinion both of his host and hostess, who begged that he would again favour them with a visit on the first opportunity, when they hoped that the country would be restored to peace.

The evening passed away quietly. So little was an attack expected that some of the guests proposed retiring to their rooms.

“You will run the risk, my friends, of being roused up in an unpleasant manner,” said their host in a warning voice; “the very silence of the rebels is, I suspect, ominous of their evil intentions.”

Major Malcolm agreed with him, and advised that a vigilant watch should be kept, offering to take command of the fortress. Jack begged that he might be allowed to act as his aide-de-camp. Like a good officer as he was, the major made frequent rounds of the house, seeing that the sentries kept a good look-out, and again examining every portion of the building to assure himself that no point remained unguarded through which an enemy might force his way. He went also, occasionally, on the roof, whence he could command an extensive view over the country. On each occasion he turned his glance especially in the direction of Bellevue, though he discovered nothing to cause him anxiety. He was about to descend, when, as he looked down into the valley, it appeared to him that a number of dark objects were creeping up the hill. He watched them till he was convinced that they were men.

Slowly and cautiously they came along. He had no longer any doubt that the house was about to be attacked. He hurried down and, going from room to room, warned the defenders to be prepared, while he sent Jack Pemberton to other parts of the building. As he looked out through a loophole on the side which the rebels were approaching, he saw that several carried ladders, and others bundles of firewood, though, for fear of betraying themselves, they had no lighted torches.

“Mr Pemberton,” he said to his young aide-de-camp, “tell the people to aim at the fellows with the ladders, and not to trouble themselves about the others—they can do no harm. The moment a man touches a ladder, shoot him down. Say those are my orders—they must be obeyed.”

The importance of the advice was soon evident. The insurgents, knowing that they must be discovered, now rushed forward, uttering fierce shrieks and yells. As they did so they lifted up the ladders with the intention of placing them against the walls, their object being evidently to throw the brands on the roof and set it in flames. Without waiting for further orders, the defenders fired, and every man carrying a ladder was shot down. Others took their places, most of whom shared the same fate; but one succeeded in fixing his ladder, a dozen others following fast at his heels, and instantly began to ascend.

Scarcely, however, had the first got half-way up, carrying a torch in his hand, than a shot struck him. He fell headlong among his companions. Another, notwithstanding, made the attempt, followed by a third; but they both met with the same fate, being exposed to the aim of the two best marksmen in the fortress, the rest of the assailants in the mean time firing away, aiming at the loopholes and roof. As few of them had before handled muskets, their bullets flew wide of the mark, while the garrison kept pouring down a continual fire among them. Even more experienced troops might have retired before such a reception.

The blacks showed the most desperate courage, and it was some time before they discovered that their attempt was hopeless. A few of them, indeed, again endeavoured to place the ladders against the wall, but as all of those who did so were shot, the rest, finding that so many of their companions had fallen, were seized with a panic and began to rush down the hill. The braver fellows among them lifted the slain and wounded, and, in spite of the bullets which flew about their ears, carried them off.

“If all the insurgents behave as these rascals have done it will be no easy task to subdue them,” observed Major Malcolm to his host.

Not a single person in the house had been injured, but they could not help acknowledging that the case would have been very different had they met the insurgents in the open field, for it would have been no easy task to drive back a host of savages who displayed the desperate courage their assailants had done, as Major Malcolm was afterwards to find.

No one expected that another attack would be made during the night, but of course a watch was kept as before, though many of the gentlemen threw themselves on the cane sofas and chairs, or went to sleep on the ground overcome with fatigue.

The next morning, when daylight enabled them to discern objects at a distance, not a black could be seen. Jack Pemberton and several other young men, on this, volunteered to go out and ascertain if the rebels had really retreated. They had been gone for some time, and fears began to be entertained that they had been cut off. However, they at length were seen coming up the hill. They gave the satisfactory report that not a black was to be discovered in the neighbourhood. “In what direction have they gone?” asked Major Malcolm. They had not thought of making any observations on the subject. “Then I must beg you and a few of your friends to accompany me that we may ascertain the point,” he said. Jack would go with the greatest pleasure.

They set out, and in a short time Major Malcolm expressed his opinion that they had gone northward, in the direction of Bellevue. He returned to the house and begged Mr Pemberton to allow him to take as many volunteers as he could obtain, that he might push his way on to Montego, to gather as large a force as could be collected, in order to attack the rebels without delay. Mr Hayward assured him that it would be hopeless to gain assistance in any other direction, as from certain information he had obtained the whole of the intermediate country was in a state of rebellion. Jack was very eager to go, but this his father would not allow. Six other young men, for whom horses could be provided, volunteered, and they, with the major’s servant and Mr Hayward’s follower, made up a party of ten.

After a hurried breakfast they set off, and were seen from the house galloping rapidly to the westward.

The remainder of the day passed off quietly. Not a negro was seen moving about in the neighbourhood of the house, and, except that here and there blackened patches showed that the cane-fields had been visited by the ruthless bands of the insurgents, there were no signs visible of the fearful rebellion raging throughout the country. Mr Pemberton, however, had become very anxious to obtain news from Bellevue, for although Major Malcolm had assured him that the house was well fortified, he was alarmed at hearing that the blacks who had so fiercely assaulted Walton had gone off in that direction. Bellevue, from its position and the character of the house, was less capable of offering an effectual resistance to a determined attack than Walton, and should the rebel slaves have resolved on its destruction, he dreaded lest they might by persevering attacks accomplish their object.

On going to the roof of the house he could see, both to the northward and eastward, dense columns of smoke ascending to the blue sky—too clear evidence that the insurgents had possession of the country, and were burning the plantations and residences of the settlers. Several of his guests thus witnessed the destruction of their homes and property, while they gave vent to their bitter feelings by uttering threats of vengeance, though they had ample cause to be thankful that they had escaped with their lives.

Proposals were made by the more daring to sally forth and disperse the rebels, but the greater number thought it wiser to remain in a place of safety. Mr Pemberton himself was unwilling to leave the house without defenders, lest some fresh bands, discovering that it was unguarded, might visit it during his absence.

No news had come from Bellevue, and at length his son Jack and three other men volunteered to make their way very cautiously in that direction and ascertain the state of affairs. If the rebel slaves were attacking the house, or were in the neighbourhood, so that they could not approach it without the risk of being cut off, they were to return; but if not, they had leave to go on and visit their friends, and report that all had gone well at Walton.

“Remember, my lads, you are to be cautious and not expose yourselves to the risk of losing your lives by getting between the savages and the road by which you can retreat to this house. Discretion, in this case, is the better part of valour. By the time you return we may perhaps have obtained further assistance, and we will then, if Bellevue is really besieged, do our best to go to the relief of our friends. The slaves are, I suspect, especially bent on revenging themselves on Thompson, the overseer, who is looked upon by them as a hard man and a severe taskmaster, though our friend Twigg thinks well of him, and is satisfied with his management of the estate. A slave who has become one of their leaders—Cudjoe, I am told by our people, is his name—was flogged some time back by Thompson, and the savage has ever since threatened to revenge himself on the overseer. This makes me fear that they will persevere longer than under other circumstances they might have done, but if our friends at Bellevue can hold out it will be an advantage, by occupying the slaves who would otherwise have been roaming through the country and devastating other estates. You may, Jack, if you have an opportunity, warn Thompson to beware of Cudjoe when the rest of the slaves have been again brought under subjection, for the savage is not likely to forego his desire of vengeance, even should the overseer escape at this time.”

These remarks were made while Jack was preparing for his expedition. He promised strictly to obey his father’s directions.

He and his friends, well armed, forthwith set out. They were all spirited young men, who had been educated in England, but had been long enough in the country to be well acquainted with its ways, and had also been accustomed to field sports. They were thus admirably suited for the task they had undertaken. Well aware of the danger they were running, they advanced cautiously, keeping as much as possible under cover of the hedges and trees, and looking out well ahead that they might not suddenly come upon the enemy. They had wisely agreed to keep shoulder to shoulder, or back to back, as the case might be, should they be attacked, and being stout-hearted and confident in the use of their weapons, they had little doubt that they should be able to beat back any number of assailants.

The sun struck down with tremendous force in the open places they had to pass, but they were lightly clad, with thick straw hats on their heads, and none of them cared much for the heat. When passing across the open country they pushed on rapidly, but moved forward more leisurely in the shade. As they avoided the villages, they met no one. The whole country indeed had, it seemed, suddenly become a desert. They wished to avoid falling in with any slaves who might give notice to the rebels of their whereabouts, and also had resolved not to rely on any reports they might hear, but to trust only to their own observations.

It took them nearly two hours, from the circuitous route they followed, to reach the neighbourhood of Bellevue. They now proceeded more cautiously. All seemed quiet. No shots were heard, and they began to hope that they should reach their friends without difficulty.

“We must not trust to appearances, however,” observed Jack. “The rebels may possibly be investing the house, and, judging from our own experience, they may yet not venture to attack it in the daytime. You lie down under these bushes while I creep forward, as from the top of this rise I shall get a sight of Bellevue, and be able to ascertain more accurately the state of affairs.”

Saying this, while his companions followed his advice, Jack made his way to the top of the hill, bending low, that should any of the enemy be posted in the intermediate valley, he might run less risk of being seen. At length the house came in view. All seemed quiet around it, but he was still not perfectly satisfied. He advanced a little further towards a bush, through the branches of which he could see into the valley without exposing himself. As he bent aside the boughs with the barrel of his musket to look through them more easily, he caught sight of a number of black heads moving here and there some five or six hundred yards below him. There could be no doubt that they were rebels, and that they were, after their fashion, laying siege to the house.

Presently he saw a party issue from the stockades, and he thought even at that distance he could recognise Archie Sandys. The leaders were white men, and were followed by several blacks with buckets on their heads. He at once divined their object. For some time, apparently, they were not discovered by the rebels, but presently one of the latter, doing duty as a sentinel in advance of the rest, saw what was taking place. He giving notice to the others, a number of them started forth, and, dashing up the hill, began firing away at the white men. Jack witnessed the gallant way in which Archie defended his followers, and had the satisfaction of seeing them regain their fortifications without any of them apparently being wounded.

While this scene was being enacted, as the rebels’ eyes were turned toward the house, he was able, without much risk, to creep forward and get a more complete view of their position.

“We should not have the slightest chance of getting in, that’s very certain,” he said to himself; “but if we remain here, we shall run a great risk of being caught.” And, not without some fear that he might be seen by the blacks, who now covered the opposite hill, he hurried back to his friends.

They agreed with him that the sooner they were off the better, but that if they could collect a sufficient force of white men and trustworthy mulattoes, they might without difficulty out their way through the undisciplined band of savages, with some prospect also of putting them to flight.

“In my opinion, if they are attacked in a determined way, they will very quickly take to their heels,” said Jack.

Their return occupied a shorter time than they had before taken, for, as they cared less for being seen, they were able to follow the highroad. On their way, about a mile distant from Walton, they passed through a village which appeared to be entirely deserted. Looking into one of the huts, however, they saw a boy of about twelve years old sitting on the ground, crying and looking very miserable.

“What is the matter?” asked Jack, who recognised him as the son of one of the Walton slaves.

“Me out in de fields, and when come back find fader gone, me not know where, but s’pose rebels take him away to kill him, for dey kill eberybody else who not get off and hide,” answered the boy, who was evidently an unusually intelligent little fellow.

“Well, Quashie,” said Jack, who was kind-hearted as well as brave, “you had better come along with us, and we will take care of you till father comes back—as I hope he will. Where is your mother?”

“Mother lib wid Massa Twigg—she call Martha,” he answered.

“Oh, then I know her. She nurses the children. All right, Quashie. Cheer up; you shall have something to eat as soon as we get back,” said Jack.

Quashie started up, and accompanied the young gentleman without further questioning.

Glad as Mr Pemberton was to get his son and young friends back again, he was made very anxious on hearing of the state of affairs at Bellevue.

“The rebels are evidently bent on taking the place, and from the desperate character I hear of Cudjoe, I fear that he will not give up the enterprise as long as he has a hope of success,” said Mr Pemberton.

The matter was talked over by himself and the other planters. Before any desperate enterprise was undertaken to afford relief to their friends, it was important to ascertain how much they required it.

“I will try what can be done by means of Quashie, the boy Jack just now brought in,” said Mr Pemberton. “He would make his way where a man would fail; and as his mother is a slave of the Twiggs, he can, I should think, be trusted, for I will let him understand she will be benefited as well as her master and mistress.”

“A good idea, perhaps. Not that I fancy these slaves have any natural affection,” observed one of the party.

“I do not agree with you there, my friend,” observed Mr Pemberton. “Both fathers and mothers are very fond of their children in their way; and I will answer for it that Quashie will manage to carry any message we may send, and bring back an answer safely.”

Quashie being called, he without hesitation undertook to do what was required of him. He begged only that he might take his own time and mode of proceeding, and grinned when some one remarked that he might be caught by the rebels.

“Me git in and me come back, neber fear,” he answered.

The only question was how to send a note. Mrs Pemberton proposed writing what was necessary, and, the paper being rolled up tightly and covered with black stuff, to conceal it among his thick crop of woolly hair. “Were he caught, the rebels might search him thoroughly and not discover it in the way that I will manage,” she said.

Quashie was perfectly content with the proposal, and was evidently proud of the confidence placed in him. He confessed that he had heard of the intended outbreak, and had given his mother the information which she had sent to her master and mistress.

Quashie, having had a good supper, declared that he should be ready to set out that night if required; but as it was hoped that during the next day a plan might be organised more effectually to help their friends than could be then done, it was agreed that it would be better to wait till the following evening. From Jack’s report they were at present, at all events, in no distress, and were likely to hold out against any attack.

Another night went by, and the next morning Jack and his companions expressed their wish to set off again to ascertain how their friends at Bellevue were getting on; but Mr Pemberton would not allow them to go. The risk, he said, was far too great for the advantage to be obtained. They could render no assistance, and would run a great chance of falling into the hands of the rebels and being put to death. In the course of the day, he hoped that Major Malcolm, with some troops, or at all events a body of militia, would appear, and that their first task would be to attack the rebels besieging Bellevue and relieve their friends. In that case, it would not be safe to leave Walton without a garrison, as the fugitives, if they found it unguarded as they made their way to the mountains, would to a certainty in revenge destroy it. “We must wait patiently till the evening, and then Quashie shall go and bring us word what they are about,” he added. He spoke with more confidence perhaps than he felt, yet on one point he had made up his mind, that he would not allow his son to run the risk of losing his life.

The day drew drearily on. The feelings of the ruined inmates of the mansion can better be imagined than described. Their friends slaughtered, their crops and houses destroyed, and their slaves (the most valuable part of their possessions) in revolt, and, if not killed, possibly never again to be reclaimed—what the future had in store for them no one could say. The more confident asserted that the rebellion would quickly be quelled, but others thought that the slaves, joined by the maroons and other free coloured and black people, might overrun the country, and compel all the whites who might escape slaughter to quit it for ever.

Mr Pemberton laughed at such a notion. “Depend on it, as soon as the troops and militia can be collected, the slaves will fly from them as chaff before the wind, or will, if they resist, to a man be cut to pieces,” he observed. “It will be a bad look-out for us, I confess, for we shall become bankrupt; but our estates will remain, and we must procure fresh labourers from other countries, Irish or Germans, who would stand the climate almost as well as blacks, and do twice as much work.”

Though the worthy planter talked and went about trying to keep up the spirits of others, he felt his own sinking when darkness came on, and no troops appeared.

Quashie was sent for, and Mrs Pemberton secured the note, done up, as proposed, in his woolly head. She had written it at her husband’s dictation, in a small, delicate hand, so that it occupied little more space than a quill.

It mentioned Major Malcolm’s arrival, the attack and defence of the house, the flight of the rebels, the fact that the major had gone to collect troops who might be expected every hour, Jack’s visit to the neighbourhood of Bellevue, and his having witnessed Archie’s expedition to obtain water. “We conclude,” it continued, “that you are well able to hold out; but if not, send us word, and, should the military fail to arrive, we will make an expedition to your relief, and will advise you to sally forth and cut your way through the savages. They will not for a moment stand our united attack, and there will be but little or no danger in the undertaking. We cannot leave Walton unprotected, but we can muster twenty well-armed men. Be prepared, and directly you see our signal—a flag flying on the top of the hill—dash out of the house, with the women and children in your centre. Should the rebels threaten to attack you, we will charge down upon them; if not, we will be ready to protect your retreat, and keep the savages at bay till you have got to a safe distance. I propose this in the possibility of your not having a sufficient store of provisions, or being unable to obtain water to stand a long siege. We have an ample supply of food for several weeks. Our love to Fanny. We were much pleased with Major Malcolm, who appears to be greatly struck by her.”

Quashie evidently felt the importance of the message confided to him, and was proportionately proud.

“Neber fear, massa, I git into de house and out again, and no one see me,” he said, strutting about after the note had been concealed in the top of his woolly pate. “Look here, massa, you no see it now, or neber anybody else till moder get it.”

“Well, then, away you go, my boy, and a dollar shall be yours when you come back,” said Mr Pemberton.

“Ki! dat’s good,” exclaimed Quashie, eager to be off.

The planter took him down to a back-door, by which he let him out that he might creep away, lest any prowling foe might be watching the house; not that there was much risk of that, or Jack and his friends would not have performed their expedition so securely.

Quashie ran on along the well-accustomed road till he got near his own village, when, taking off the few clothes he wore, he did them up in a bundle and stowed them away in the hollow of a tree to be ready for his return, leaving only a piece of black stuff round his waist, with which Mrs Pemberton had supplied him at his request. The sharpest of eyes only could have detected Quashie as he crept along under the hedges: he felt confident there was very little risk of his being discovered. Few of his age could outstrip Quashie, and making good use of his legs, he got over the ground in a third of the time Jack Pemberton had taken to accomplish the distance. He now moved more cautiously, stopping to listen every now and then for the sound of voices which might warn him of the whereabouts of the rebels.

At first he began to fancy that they must have decamped. Creeping down the hill, he suddenly found himself close to a group of men lying stretched on the ground fast asleep, while as he peered over a bush he observed others in the same position. He stole silently back, making his way to the left at a cautious distance from the besieging force, if they could be dignified by such a title. Presently, again he drew near, looking out for some opening in their line through which he might make his way, but they appeared to have extended themselves so as completely to encircle the house. Again and again he got up close to the line; still he was not to be daunted. He had undertaken to get through them, and he intended by some means or other to do so. Suddenly he heard a shot, followed by several others. The blacks close to him started to their feet, and hurried off in the direction from whence the shot came.

Now was his opportunity. He darted forward down the hill, springing up the opposite declivity like a hunted hare, at the same time keeping his body almost bent to the ground; and before he was perceived, he was close to the chevaux-de-frise. In vain, however, he endeavoured to find his way through it. The garrison were too much occupied with what was going forward on the other side of the house to observe him; indeed, his small, black, lithe body could scarcely have been perceived. He ran on like a mouse, looking for a hole through which to escape, and considering whether he should not cry out for assistance and ask to be taken in. At last he got to an opening, and in he darted, just as two men rushed up from the lower ground, no one in the darkness perceiving him. As soon as the men were in the inside, several persons filled up the gap, and he made his way undiscovered within the palisades and through the door of the house.

The first person he met was Martha, who had come out to learn what was going forward. Their delight was mutual. Tears streamed from the eyes of his mother as she pressed him to her heart. The planter who had lately expressed an opposite opinion would have acknowledged that the slaves, degraded as they were, were capable of human affection.

His errand was soon told, and Martha, proud of his performance, took him to her master, who was naturally very much surprised at seeing him.

“I bring message from Massa Pemberton,” he said.

“Where is it?” asked Mr Twigg.

“Here, massa,” answered Quashie, presenting his woolly pate. “You take it out, please.”

Martha, however, performed the operation; and the note being eagerly read, a consultation was held on its contents, which considerably raised the spirits of the besieged party, lowered as they had been by the loss of Archie Sandys.

None of them, however, were disposed to attempt cutting their way through the rebels. Lieutenant Belt was almost disabled—for though, in spite of much suffering, he still continued the command in the fortress, he could not use his sword—while the gallant young Scotchman was lost to them. Mr Ferris was willing to make the attempt if others wished it, but he feared the risk to which the ladies would be exposed; and it was finally determined to hold out till the arrival of the troops.

“The small quantity of yams we have secured will not last us long,” observed Mr Twigg, “and we must remember that we are threatened with starvation, as well as with another attack from the savages.”

“We have food sufficient for another day,” remarked Lieutenant Belt; “before the end of that time, relief may be sent to us.”

“But should it not come, what then are we to do?” inquired Mr Ferris.

“Act as our friend Pemberton suggests,” said Mr Twigg. “To-morrow evening, as soon as it is dark, we will send off Quashie. We must take care in the mean time that the rebels do not see him, or they will know that by some means or other he got in, and will be on the watch for him. We may depend on Pemberton’s carrying out his plan, and I should advise that the attempt be made in the night-time.”

Quashie was rather disappointed at finding that he was not to set off at once, as he was eager to get his dollar. His mother consoled him by assuring him that he would be allowed to go the following night, and Mr Twigg made him perfectly happy by at once giving him a dollar, so that he would become the possessor of two dollars, should he accomplish his return journey.

The garrison were not allowed to rest in quiet. The blacks, growing impatient, made several attempts to surprise them, but, in consequence of the severe punishment they had received, were more wary than at first. Each time, on finding that they were discovered, they retreated so rapidly that few, if any, of them were shot.

Morning at length arrived; the blacks had retreated to their cover, and, except that a few shots were at times wantonly fired from a distance at the house, the day went on as the previous ones had done. Much as they wanted food, it would be evidently a dangerous undertaking to attempt procuring it from the yam ground.

The arrival of Major Malcolm was eagerly looked for, but in vain, and it was resolved to send Quashie off at dark, with an account of their now truly desperate condition. He was confident of being able as before to get through the enemy’s lines.

In accordance with Mr Pemberton’s suggestion, it was resolved in the mean time to get up a flagstaff at the top of the house, with a flag hoisted half-mast high as a signal of their distressed condition. This would hasten the arrival of friends to their relief, should any be in the neighbourhood. It would not, however, prevent the necessity of sending off Quashie to urge that aid might at once be despatched. Fortunately a long pole, which Mr Twigg had intended to put up for that purpose on a neighbouring height, had been brought to the house to be prepared by the carpenter. It was at once carried indoors, and, the lower end being fixed in a beam of the ceiling of the upper story, was run through the trap which led to the roof. Here, under the direction of Mr Ferris, who had some nautical knowledge, it was stayed up by ropes to the corners of the house, halliards having previously been rove through the sheave at its summit. The difficulty was to obtain a flag. None was to be found, till Mrs Twigg remarked that she and the young ladies had some light dresses which would answer the purpose.

“Let us have them at once, then,” exclaimed Mr Twigg eagerly; “there is no time to be lost.”

Ellen and Fanny, hurrying to their room, quickly returned with a couple of cambric dresses, such as are generally worn in that warm climate. Before they had time to take their scissors and cut them open as they had intended, Mr Twigg seized them, and hurried with them up to the roof, where Mr Ferris was superintending the erection of the flagstaff.

“Here they are,” exclaimed Mr Twigg. “Run them up at once; they will tell our tale better than any more perfect flag.”

Mr Ferris, with a ball of rope yarn in his hand, fastened the dresses forthwith to the halliards by the skirts, allowing the full sleeves to blow out.

“There!” he exclaimed, with a touch of his native wit. “Faith, they will show that there are ladies in distress, and if there is any gallantry in the heart of the islanders, we shall soon have them running a race to our assistance.”

The dresses thus hoisted flew out to a brisk breeze which blew from the eastward. Just then several shots were heard, and two or three bullets fell on the roof, which, though spent, warned those on it that should the marksmen approach somewhat nearer their position would become dangerous. Mr Ferris, therefore, calling his assistants down, they all quickly got under shelter.

Notwithstanding the signal flying from the roof, the day passed without any one coming to their relief. Their provisions were almost exhausted, and affairs were becoming serious. Another consultation was held, when it was determined to beg Mr Pemberton to come as he proposed, the garrison undertaking to attempt cutting their way through the rebels, and abandoning the house to destruction. A note to that effect was accordingly written, and secured, as the former one had been, in Quashie’s woolly head. About an hour after sundown he crept out at the back of the house, and the instant after was lost to sight. Even his mother felt no fear for his safety, and every one believed that he would make his way without difficulty back to Walton.

After he had gone the enemy recommenced their system of annoyance, coming up under cover and firing at the house. Though the garrison aimed in return at the points from which the flashes of the rebels’ muskets were seen, the latter so rapidly retreated that it was supposed none of them were hit. Nothing could be more trying. Sometimes for several minutes together they would remain quiet, when suddenly a shower of shot would come pattering against the walls. The enemy would then again retreat, and single shots would be fired, now from one point, now from another; then again another shower would come, as if the enemy had made a general advance.

“Let them fire away as much as they like,” observed Lieutenant Belt, laughing. “I only wish they would fire much oftener at so safe a distance, as they must thus at last expend their powder.”

Still those unaccustomed to warfare could not fail to experience uncomfortable sensations as the bullets in rapid succession struck the walls, although as yet they had done but little damage, five of the people only, besides Lieutenant Belt, having been slightly wounded in their shoulders or faces. At length the rebels appeared to have grown tired of that style of amusement, and perfect silence reigned around the house.

Towards morning, when most of the little garrison were lying down, worn out with constant alarms and watching, the cry was raised that the blacks were again coming on; and they were seen rushing up the hill, carrying not only faggots but ladders, evidently intending to attack the house as they had done at Walton, and to set both it and the stockades on fire. Should they succeed, nothing could save the lives of the inmates.

The shrieks and yells uttered by the blacks for the purpose of intimidating the garrison were certainly terrific, and even the gallant lieutenant began to fear that all the efforts made to resist them would be in vain. On inquiry, too, he found that the ammunition was running short, a large proportion having been expended during that and the previous night. Still undaunted, he went round among the people, inspiring others with his own cool courage.

“We have more serious work than hitherto, my friends,” he said; “but if we are true to ourselves, we shall beat the enemy as before. Never mind though they burn the chevaux-de-frise, they will not venture through the flames, depend on that; and if we fail to put out the fire, we must retreat into the house. As I told you before, do not throw a shot away. Here they come.”

As he spoke, the savages carrying the faggots rushed forward with the intention of casting them over the outer line against the stockades. Many, however, were shot down before they succeeded in doing this; others were killed or wounded after they had thrown forward their loads. A number of men now advanced, carrying candlewood torches.

“Those fellows must be picked off,” shouted the lieutenant.

In some cases the command was obeyed; but many of the blacks, now leaping on one side, now on the other, eluded the bullets aimed at them, and threw the burning brands amid the bundles of wood, which catching fire began to blaze up in all directions, the smoke almost concealing the combatants from each other. Whenever it lifted, however, the flames exposed the shrieking mass of blacks clearly to view, and many were shot down in the moment, as they supposed, of their triumphant success.

As Lieutenant Belt had expected, none of them ventured through the burning mass; but here and there the stockades were catching fire, and it appeared too probable that they would be burnt through and afford an ultimate ingress to the foe. The scene was indeed terrible to those standing in the narrow space within the stockades—the crackling of the burning wood, the lurid flames, the dense mass of smoke, and outside the shouting, shrieking savages eager to break through the defences and massacre all within.

Efforts were made to extinguish the fire, and had there been an ample supply of water, it might easily have been done, for it was only in spots where the flames blew against the woodwork that they produced any effect. Still the back and sides of the house were protected, and until the stockades were destroyed the besiegers could make no use of their ladders.

“I do not think we need fear them,” said Lieutenant Belt. “We must watch narrowly where they are placed, and shoot down the people from the windows immediately they attempt to mount.”

The blacks, as before, carried off their dead and wounded, and it was difficult to ascertain how much they had suffered. Already a good many had retreated, but others were seen coming up with more faggots, which they attempted to throw amid the already burning mass. By this time the whole house was surrounded by a hedge of flames, and Mr Twigg, who had exerted himself as much as any one, made his way up to the lieutenant, and advised that they should retreat into the house while the enemy were unable to follow them.

“Let us make another attempt to drive them off,” was the answer. “They are afraid themselves of the flames they have kindled, and will not venture through them. Now, my lads, give them one more volley,” he shouted, “and if I mistake not they will turn tail.”

As he shouted “Fire!” at the top of his voice, the order was heard by the blacks, and away they went scampering down the hill, hoping to avoid the bullets which they expected would follow.

The greater number got under cover, or escaped by falling flat on their faces. Ignorant savages as they were, they were unable to take advantage of the success their bravery and hardihood had accomplished. On this the ultimate safety of the hard-pressed garrison depended. Had they pressed on through the opening which the fire had produced, they might have forced their way, not only within the stockade, but into the house itself. Hopes were entertained that the enemy had had fighting enough for the night, and intended to allow the fire to do its work before making another assault. Fresh efforts were made by the garrison to extinguish the fire, which had got hold of the stockades. They had been composed chiefly of dry timber, which easily ignited and burned furiously. At length the lieutenant saw that all attempts to save them would be futile, and that the utmost that could be done would be to prevent the doors and windows of the house itself from catching fire. This, by constant watchfulness and great exertion, was done; and he then, complying with Mr Twigg’s earnest appeals, summoned the people to come within the house, when the door was barricaded, and they prepared to hold out, in what they had from the first called their citadel, till the moment for the intended sortie had arrived.

It was a night of terror to many and anxiety to all. Their ammunition was running terribly short; but a few rounds only remained, and there was barely food sufficient to afford a breakfast for the weary garrison. The water also was almost exhausted.

Daylight came, and the lieutenant went himself to the roof of the house to look out, but could see no friendly band coming to their relief. The young ladies’ dresses were flying in the morning breeze, sadly rent by the bullets which had passed through them. The lieutenant then turned his glance into the valley, where he saw the black besiegers still apparently as numerous as ever. The hedge of fire had now burned itself out; large gaps existed in the stockades, but portions still remained standing, and would afford some protection to his men in case a sortie had to be made. His chief object was to examine the ground which they would have to traverse, should Mr Pemberton carry out his intention of coming to their relief. He at last descended, and went round to each of the windows, where he had posted a sentry to keep a look-out on the movements of the rebels; then, feeling that he had done his duty, he threw himself down on a cane sofa, to snatch for a short time the rest he so much required.

The other inmates of the house, who had been kept awake all the night, were dozing in their chairs or on their sofas; the men not on guard were lying down on the ground; the children were in their cribs, watched over by Martha. She had reserved some food for them, and they were in that respect better off than any one else. The young ladies and Mrs Twigg had positively refused to take more than their share. They were happily also forgetting their troubles in sleep.

Weary as he was, Mr Ferris felt the dangerous position in which they were placed too much to rest, and continued going from room to room, looking out at each window, and occasionally mounting to the roof. He was standing there, when he saw a single black advancing up the hill from among the savages. He was unarmed, and carried in his hand a pole with a large white flag waving from it. He evidently understood the use of a flag of truce, and trusted to its being respected. He advanced till he got within hearing distance of the house. He was a tall, strongly built man, his features unusually hideous even for a negro. On seeing Mr Ferris, he shouted at the top of his voice, “Will you gib in? You see what we can do. We ask you to make friends.”

“We shall be ready to do so on condition that you lay down your arms and return to your duty,” answered Mr Ferris.

The black laughed loud and hoarsely. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“No,” answered Mr Ferris.

“Den I tell you—I Cudjoe. Some inside de house know me, and know dat I no fool. Listen den. We go away and leave Massa Twigg—he good man—and all de people alone on one ’dition, dat you gib up the oberseer and let us hab him to do wid him as we like. Dat is our ’dition; ’cept it and you safe. If not—listen, massa—you got one lily-white daughter, and Massa Twigg him got wife and piccaninnies. You lub dem. You see what we do dis night; we soon come again wid more faggots and fire and ladders, and we burn de house ober your heads and kill ebery one. Cudjoe no fool—Cudjoe speak de truth. Listen, massa, what I say—gib up de overseer or die.”

“It is useless making such a proposal,” answered Mr Ferris; “no one would consent to it. If you have any other terms to offer we will listen to them. We can hold out against all your attempts to take the house. You have already lost a number of your foolish followers, and many more will be killed if you venture again to attack us.”

While Mr Ferris was speaking, he heard a person coming up the ladder, and glancing round he saw Thompson the overseer standing by his side, and on the point of lifting a musket, which he had placed on the roof. Before Mr Ferris had time to stop him, he had raised it to his shoulder and was taking aim at the insurgent leader. As he pulled the trigger Mr Ferris struck up the weapon, and the bullet whistled over the black’s head.

“Respect a flag of truce, even in the hands of a savage,” he exclaimed indignantly. “If we set such an example, what can we expect in return?”

Cudjoe had observed the act. “I tank you, massa,” he shouted, “but dat man die before de sun go down;” and, rapidly turning, he bounded down the hill.

Several shots, which went whistling after him, were fired by the men on guard in the lower story.

“You have done an ill service to the country, sir, and worse to all within this house,” exclaimed the overseer. “That man is the mainspring of the rebellion. Had I killed him, the blacks in this neighbourhood, without a leader, would have taken to flight, and we should have been safe.”

“I did what was right. A flag of truce should ever be held sacred,” answered Mr Ferris. “I do not regret refusing his request, but your act has prevented us from making other terms, which might have been done.”

“No terms can be kept with savages. It is impossible to trust them,” exclaimed the overseer. “However, we must now stand the consequences.”

Mr Ferris, who felt his anger rising at what he considered Thompson’s insolence, descended from the roof.

The firing had aroused the rest of the party. The lieutenant even, although musket-shots were familiar sounds, started to his feet, believing that the house was about again to be attacked. Mr Ferris explained what had happened, and both the lieutenant and Mr Twigg agreed that he had acted rightly, and blamed the overseer for firing. Lieutenant Belt especially was indignant at his conduct.

“They may or may not venture again to attack us, but if they do, and succeed, we can expect no mercy at their hands,” he said.

“We could have expected none, at all events, I believe,” observed Mr Twigg.

Some of the garrison, who had a lower sense of honour than Mr Ferris, were not so well satisfied with his decision, and declared that if they had had their will they would have given up the overseer to Cudjoe, though they took care not to utter such an opinion in his hearing.

The position of the garrison was now truly critical. The shots uselessly fired had expended several of the few rounds, now of such inestimable value. The lieutenant, on making inquiries, found that some of the men had only a single charge apiece; none had more than two. Should another attack be made, what hope had they of beating off the foe? He did not conceal the state of affairs from the gentlemen.

“Then our best chance will be to sally out at once and fight our way towards Walton,” said Mr Twigg.

“Unless our friends should appear to our relief we should be surrounded and cut to pieces,” answered the lieutenant. “When the blacks find that we have no powder, they will attack us with greater confidence. We may still hold out for some hours in the house, and as the enemy are not as yet aware of our want of ammunition, they may possibly not again venture on an assault.”

“But if they do?” asked Mr Twigg.

“Then we must reserve each bullet for the most daring among them. If we can shoot their leaders, the rest will probably take to flight.”

“But if we fail, and should they force their way in?” asked the planter, whose spirits were sinking as he thought of the fearful danger to which his family were exposed.

“Then, sir, we must endeavour to drive them out again with our cutlasses and bayonets; or, if the worst happens, place ourselves round the ladies and children, and fight to the last,” answered the lieutenant in a confident tone. “Though my sword-arm cannot serve me, I can use a pike or bayonet.”

Mrs Twigg had heard of what had taken place, and began to suspect their desperate condition. She imparted her apprehensions to Ellen and Fanny, though neither of them showed any signs of fear.

“I wish that I could use a pistol or sword,” exclaimed Fanny; “but surely we can do something. We can hurl stones or logs of wood down on the heads of our assailants from the windows or roof.”

“I will help you,” cried Ellen, inspired by her friend’s courage. “Let us get them carried up at once, in case they are wanted. There are paving-stones which can be dug up and broken into fragments, or pieces of the heavy furniture will serve the purpose. We will at once tell Mr Twigg what we are ready to do.”

They hurried into the room where the gentlemen were assembled.

“A brave idea,” cried Lieutenant Belt, looking at the young heroines with admiration; “but others can do the work you propose. You must not be exposed to the risk of appearing on the roof. The enemy’s bullets, as we know from experience, would reach you there. Let me entreat you to remain below. We shall fight with more confidence when we know that you are safe.”

Ellen’s suggestion, however, was carried out, and men were immediately sent to break up the paving-stones in the back part of the house. The blacks, at all events, were not likely to gain an easy victory. Hopes indeed were entertained that they would not make another attack, but those hopes were doomed to be disappointed.

“Here they come!” cried several men stationed at the windows.

Lieutenant Belt, starting to his feet, saw the whole body of blacks advancing, some in front, others on one side of the house.

“Now, my men, I charge you not to fire a shot till you can pick out the fellows leading them on, or, if you cannot distinguish them from the rest, wait till the ladders are placed against the wall; for see, they have got ladders with them, and faggots too, and they intend, if they cannot succeed by other means, to burn us out. But do not let that alarm you; if you keep up your courage, we shall prevent them.”

As he was speaking, the insurgent slaves were drawing nearer and nearer, though advancing slowly, apparently to enable those carrying the ladders and faggots to keep up with the rest. Just then a dense volume of smoke burst forth between the house and the sea to the north-east, flames quickly following, driven by a brisk breeze which had lately sprung up. The blacks, retreating before the fire, had to make a circuit to avoid it. So furious were the flames that they threatened to set the neighbouring plantations on fire. The chief effect was to shroud the view over the sea in that direction from those in the house; another was somewhat to delay the advance of the blacks, who had evidently determined to approach the house with their whole body at once.

The lieutenant having disposed his men to the best advantage, again ascended to the roof to see if any help was coming. He gazed eagerly round to the west and north. He could discover neither the looked-for signal announcing the approach of Mr Pemberton’s party, nor any troops or militia. As he was about again to go down the ladder, he discovered the overseer lying on the roof with a musket by his side.

“Why are you not at your post?” he asked.

“I am of more use where I am,” answered the overseer. “I intend doing what was left undone just now. Don’t interfere with me.”

The lieutenant had not time to exchange words with the man; he hastened down that he might be ready to encourage the rest.

Suddenly the savages gave forth one of those fearful yells which they are accustomed to utter as they rush forward to the fight. As soon as they got within musket range, those in the front line began firing, showing that they evidently had abundance of ammunition.

The lieutenant distinguished a tall black, with a musket in his hand, leading them on. He raised it to his shoulder and fired. At that moment a fearful shriek was heard—it came from the roof—and a heavy body fell from the trap to the floor below. The black flourished his weapon above his head without stopping to reload.

“De oberseer is dead,” cried Martha, who had rushed out of a closet in which the children had been placed for safety, “he is dead, pity he not killed dis morning.”

The event had indeed occurred too late to be of any avail to the garrison. To attempt making a sortie would now have been madness, for, bad marksmen as were the negroes, the whole party might have been shot down even before they could have reached any available shelter.

Cudjoe’s success—for he must have seen the overseer fall by his bullet—encouraged his followers, and now, shrieking, leaping, and brandishing their weapons, they rushed forward. In vain the lieutenant charged his men not to throw a shot away; the greater number in their eagerness fired, forgetting that they had no fresh charges, and when they felt for their cartridges to reload, they found that their ammunition was expended. The enemy thus almost with impunity reached the walls.

Several of the remaining shots were fired at Cudjoe. He seemed to bear a charmed life, or rather the wonderful leaps and bounds he made amid his companions prevented the defenders of the house, none of whom were over good marksmen, from taking a steady aim at him. Like a swarm of ants about to devour some creature of the forest, the blacks surrounded the house, and began to lift the ladders and place them against the walls.

The lieutenant now ordered the party he had told off for that purpose to go up on the roof to force back the ladders, to hurl down the stones, and to defend it to the last.

Desperate, indeed, had now become the condition of the devoted inmates of Bellevue.

Chapter Seventeen.

The Champion sails from Port Royal—In search of enemies—Chases a pirate, which escapes—Returns to the north coast of Jamaica—Norman Foley hears of the insurrection—Finds some murdered whites—Dreadful scene at Fort Maria—The ship proceeds along the coast—A white man seen making a signal from the shore—A boat sent to bring him off—Pursued by blacks—Rescued—Proves to be Archie Sandys—Gives an account of the attack on Bellevue—A conflagration—Signals seen—An expedition under Norman Foley sent on shore—The rebels put to flight—The garrison of Bellevue relieved—Meeting of Norman and Ellen—Major Malcolm and a strong force arrive—The Champion sails—Signs of a coming gale.

When Gerald wrote the last letter his father and Norah had received, the Champion was on the point of sailing from Port Royal harbour, on a cruise between Jamaica and Cuba, with directions to look out for any of the enemy’s privateers or smaller vessels of war, or should she come in sight of any squadron of larger ships, to watch their movements, and to return to port with an account of their whereabouts. Captain Olding also received orders to visit the northern coast of the island, and ascertain if the reports which had just arrived of the unquiet state of the slaves had any foundation in truth; but he was not to waste time on the coast, as the former part of his orders was considered of by far the greatest importance. Still his second lieutenant very naturally hoped that he might obtain an opportunity of paying his promised visit to Miss Ferris, and Gerald expected that he might get a run on shore, and perhaps spend a pleasant day with his friends. He had inquired, when at Mr Twigg’s office in Kingston, about the Ouzel Galley. The anxiety he had naturally felt when he heard of the hurricane had been relieved on his being assured that a search had been made for her along the coast, and that not the slightest trace of her could be discovered. He therefore hoped that the next packet would bring the account of her safe arrival at Waterford, and that he might before long meet Owen again at Kingston.

The Champion, after rounding Port Morant, stood to the northward towards Saint Jago de Cuba, and chased several vessels, which got away from her, not perhaps very much to Lieutenant Foley’s disappointment. He even ventured, when dining with the commander, to speak of the importance of visiting the northern coast of Jamaica, in case the slaves should really, as was supposed possible, be contemplating an insurrection. The commander, who did not imagine that such a thing was likely, was, however, bent on looking out for enemies of a size which he might hope to capture. He was heartily joined by Lieutenant Tarwig, who, if he did not care much for honour and glory, was at all events anxious to obtain a good lump of prize-money, with which he might set up housekeeping with Mrs Tarwig, whenever he had persuaded some lovely damsel to share his fortunes. The master and the other officers were very much of his way of thinking.

“A sail on the weather-beam, sir,” said Gerald, entering the cabin where the commander, the second lieutenant, the purser, and two midshipmen were his guests at dinner.

“Empty your glasses, gentlemen,” said the commander hurriedly, rising and running up the companion-ladder on deck. “What is she like?” he shouted to the look-out on the mast-head.

“A ship, sir, going free, and standing to the eastward,” was the answer.

“Make all sail, Mr Tarwig; we shall be up to her before dark, and ascertain what she is. Haul up a couple of points—she can’t escape between us and the land.”

The breeze was fresh, and the stranger continued on her former course, either not having discovered the corvette or not being desirous of avoiding her. Beyond her was seen the coast of Cuba rising into mountainous elevations, the more distant scarcely to be distinguished from the blue sky.

The corvette having been lately out of dock, and being in good trim, sailed her best. To deceive the enemy, the commander had had some canvas painted black and hung over her sides, triced up a couple of feet or so above the hammock nettings, to give her the appearance of a merchantman, but an observant eye might have detected her by the perfect trim of her sails. This, however, under the present circumstances, could not be avoided.

The stranger, now clearly visible from the deck, was after a time seen to haul to the wind. She was apparently not much smaller than the Champion, and probably did not carry fewer guns; it was hoped, therefore, that she would before nightfall heave to and await a contest.

“She is a fast ship whatever she is,” observed Mr Tarwig; “but as to her wish to fight us, or whether she is French or Spanish, I have great doubts.”

“She has hoisted Spanish colours, at all events,” said Mr Foley, who had been looking at her through the telescope, “but she does not shorten sail.”

“She is probably making for Cumberland harbour,” said the master, who had been looking at the chart, “and if she gets in there it may be a hard matter to persuade her to come out again, unless we send in the boats and cut her out.”

For a considerable time neither of the ships altered their course. The stranger, however, going free, was making faster way through the water than the Champion, which was close-hauled, and it seemed very likely, should the wind shift more to the eastward, that the former vessel would pass her. The sun was already approaching the horizon, and although the crescent moon could be seen faintly in the sky, it would not long afford its light. The stranger, if inclined to escape, might do so during the hours of darkness. The two ships, however, were now scarcely three miles apart, and rapidly approaching each other. The Champion was prepared for action, the crew were at their quarters, and the guns run out. The sea was sufficiently smooth to allow even the lee guns to be fought without difficulty. Mr Billhook had taken the telescope and was narrowly examining the stranger.

“Shiver my timbers, but I believe she is the same buccaneering craft we found alongside the Ouzel Galley, when we chased her till she had well-nigh run on those rascally Bahama reefs,” he exclaimed, still keeping his eye at the glass. “Yes, there is a square patch on her mizen-topsail to repair a hole which I doubt not an enemy’s shot had made, as she was showing her heels in the fashion the picaroons always do, unless they hope to make a prize of some unwary merchantman.”

The commander, on hearing this, took the telescope.

“Yes,” he said. “If not the same vessel, she is very like her; and should she be so, she will not wait to allow us an opportunity of taking her if she can help it, but will run ahead of us even now, unless the wind shifts a point or two more to the eastward, and then our best chance of catching her will be to tack and stand in for the land.”

The wind, however, held and the sun went down, when the stranger, setting flying sails above her royals, stood almost across the Champion’s bows.

“Try her with our foremost gun,” cried the commander to the second lieutenant, who had gone to his station forward.

McTrigger, the gunner, who was on the look-out expecting the order, trained the gun himself, and in the dim light of evening the white splinters were seen flying from the stranger’s side. The next instant nine flashes of flame issued forth from her, the shot ricocheting over the calm ocean, three or four passing close to the corvette but failing to strike her.

“The fellow wishes to show us that he can give as good as he can take,” said the master. “I wonder, since he has got so many teeth, he ran from us in the fashion he did before.”

“Perhaps they were not as well sharpened as they are now,” remarked the doctor, chuckling at his own wit.

“If we get alongside we’ll either draw them or knock them down his throat,” answered Mr Billhook.

“Thank you, kind sir, I owe you one,” replied the doctor, who objected to any one making jokes but himself.

All on board, now that her character was discovered, were more eager than ever to come up with the pirate. She was, however, evidently making better way through the water than the Champion. Again she fired her starboard guns, though she did not alter her course to do so; while the Champion could not fire her larboard foremost guns without keeping away a couple of points or more, and thereby losing ground. It was very provoking to have got within shot of a buccaneer which was reported to have committed so much damage to the trade of the islands, for, though the Spanish colours were still flying at her peak, no one doubted what she was. All the sail the Champion could carry was already set, and nothing that could be done would make her go faster. Twice again she fired, but neither shot reached the enemy. The gloom increasing, dimmer and dimmer grew the enemy’s wide spread of canvas, although the silvery light of the moon, playing on the starboard leaches of her sails, for some time showed where she floated on the glittering waters. The moon was, however, going down, and as the night advanced the darkness increased till the chase was almost lost to sight. The officers and even most of the watch below remained on deck.

“She has tacked, sir,” cried Mr Foley from forward.

“We’ll tack too,” said the commander. “Hands, about ship; helms alee; raise tacks and sheets; mainsail haul; of all, haul!” The crew eagerly performed the manoeuvre, and the ship, now on her starboard tack, stood in towards the land.

Many sharp eyes on board were directed towards the spot where the stranger had last been seen. The master had gone to consult his chart; it was his business to warn the commander not to stand on too long towards the coast, although it was not as dangerous from hidden reefs and keys as further to the westward.

“Can anybody see her?” asked the commander, whose eyesight was less acute than that of most of his younger officers.

No one answered.

“I got a glimpse of her a minute ago, but I can’t make her out anywhere now, sir,” said Mr Foley.

At length the ship stood on for a quarter of an hour, till the outline of the land could be seen distinctly ahead against the clear sky. Again she was put about, but nowhere was the chase visible. The Champion was now standing along the land at a safe distance. If the buccaneer could not be discovered from her deck, neither could she from that of the buccaneer; she might come upon her unexpectedly. A sharp look-out was kept all night, but when morning returned no sail was in sight. A mist hung like a thick veil along the coast, allowing only the summits of the higher ridges to be seen, as the sun, rising above the horizon, tinged them of a red hue with his glowing rays. To look for her to the eastward was useless, and the ship again being put about, stood to the westward along the land; but, except a few small craft which immediately made their escape among the rocks, or within the numerous bays and creeks, no craft worth overhauling was seen.

The commander was a calm-tempered man, accustomed to disappointment, or he might have joined with some of the younger officers in their expressions of disgust at having lost the picaroon. Lieutenant Foley tried to look unconcerned when the commander at length expressed his intention of standing across to the Jamaica coast, touching at different places to ascertain what was going forward on shore.

As the wind was favourable the Champion was not long in making the land. A small bay marked as Peyton’s Cove on the chart lay directly abreast of her. The commander, heaving the ship to, sent his second lieutenant with a boat to try and ascertain from any of the people in the neighbourhood what was going forward, that he might direct his course accordingly. A fisherman’s hut appeared not far off from where he landed, and the lieutenant made his way towards it. The door was closed, but Mr Foley, on listening, heard a loud snore from within. He knocked.

“Ki! who are you? What you come for?” asked a gruff voice.

“Open the door, my friend, and I will tell you,” answered the lieutenant; “but bear a hand, for I am in a hurry.”

The door was speedily opened, and a stout, well-fed negro appeared.

“Beg pardon, Massa Osifer,” exclaimed the man, who had evidently been taking his midday sleep after the labours of the morning, for he stood blinking his eyes as the bright light shone on them; “what you want?”

“I want to know what is going forward in the country; and if you cannot inform me, pray say where I can find some one who can, for I see no dwelling-houses hereabouts.”

“Oh, massa, bad, berry bad. De black slaves great rascals. Dey say dat dey murder all de garrison at Fort Maria, and kill de white buckras eberywhere.”

“That is indeed bad news,” observed Mr Foley, scarcely believing the man.

“It true news too,” answered the fisherman in a positive tone. “If you wish to know, go on along de road up dere, on de top of de hill to de right, and dere you find a house, and de people tell you what happen, if dey alive; but me tink all de people dead by dis time, seeing dat dere troats were cut last night.”

“Is such really the case?” exclaimed the lieutenant.

“Iss, massa; dey cut my troat ’cause I free gentleman, but I hide away and pull off in de boat, and so I ’scape.”

The black spoke so positively that the lieutenant, not thinking it prudent to venture alone, lest some of the insurgent slaves might be in the neighbourhood, called up his men and proceeded along the road the fisherman had pointed out, till he reached a house embosomed in trees. The doors were open, but no one came forth. He entered. Marks of blood were on the floor, and an odour of burning pervaded the building. Going along the passage, he found that the fisherman’s statement was too true. At the further end of a room lay on the ground the bodies of a white man, a brown young woman, and two children cruelly mangled, while in another room were some extinguished torches, showing that the murderers had intended to set the house on fire, but had suddenly retreated without effecting their purpose. As it was important to return immediately to the ship, he could make no further examination of the building. It had apparently been the residence of a small proprietor. The garden and neighbouring fields, though trampled down, had evidently been carefully cultivated. He hurried back to the beat, passing the fisherman’s hut on his way.

“I told you so, massa,” said the man quite coolly. “Worse tings happen in other places.”

“You did indeed speak the truth,” answered the lieutenant, his heart sinking as he thought of the danger to which Ellen and her father might be exposed.

On reaching the ship he informed the commander of the dreadful state of affairs, and recommended that they should stand along the coast and make further inquiries at the towns and forts near the shore. In the last letter he had received from Ellen, she had told him that she was residing at a house some way further to the westward, but its exact position he had been unable to ascertain, and he could not find it marked on the chart.

A fresh and favourable breeze blowing, the ship soon came off Fort Maria, when she hove to, and he—this time having Gerald with him, and accompanied by another boat, of which Crowhurst had the command—pulled on shore. As they approached the fort, the appearance it presented excited their fears that the fisherman’s report was likely to prove too true. The flag and staff had vanished, and no sentries were to be seen on the ramparts, while in the centre rose a mass of blackened walls. The guns peering through the embrasures commanded the landing-place, but, as the fort was evidently deserted, the boats pulled in, and the lieutenant and his companions at once leaped on shore. They made their way up a steep path which led to the rear of the fort. The gates were open, and they hurried in. A fearful sight met their gaze. Every building within had been set on fire and gutted. Amid the mass of charred timber lay numerous bodies, apparently, as far as their dreadful condition enabled the party to judge, of white men—some in the dress of civilians, while the half-destroyed uniforms showed that others had been soldiers. Two, from the broken swords still grasped in their hands, were apparently officers, who had fought their way out of the building, which had been the mess-room of the fort, and had been shot or cut down by the savages. A few bodies of blacks were seen, evidently from their dresses the officers’ servants, who had been waiting at table. The general state of the fort told its own story. The whole garrison and several visitors had, not dreaming of danger, been suddenly surprised by an overwhelming body of insurgents, who must have rushed in and massacred them before the soldiers could stand to their arms. If any white people in the neighbourhood had escaped with their lives, they must have gone away and not dared to return to the scene of the catastrophe.

The lieutenant and the midshipmen climbed to the highest part of the fort, and looked round in every direction. Nowhere could they see a human being, but in the distance they observed several blackened spaces where flourishing sugar-canes had lately grown or gardens or other plantations had existed. The fisherman’s account was thus fearfully verified. As no one could be seen from whom to gain further information, Mr Foley and his companions re-embarked, and pulled back for the ship as fast as the men could lay their backs to the oars. The commander thought of landing the marines and a party of small-arms men, but, without further information, it would be impossible to know in what direction to proceed.

The boats being hoisted in, the sails were again filled, and the ship stood on to the westward as close to the shore as the master would venture to take her. Every telescope on board was turned towards it, no one looking out more eagerly than Norman Foley, who dreaded lest they should come in sight of a once pleasant mansion now reduced to a mass of ruins. If a well-garrisoned fort had been surprised and thus fearfully destroyed, what might not have happened in the event of a single planter’s house with small means of defence being attacked. He very naturally conjured up all sorts of dreadful pictures; at the same time, he manfully tried to combat his apprehensions, and to hope for the best.

“I see some one on the shore, sir, making a signal,” cried Gerald, who had a telescope to his eye. “He appears to me to be a white man. He is running up and down, seemingly trying to attract our attention. There he is now, under that tall cocoa-nut tree.”

All the telescopes in use were turned in the same direction.

“Yes, that is a white man, no doubt about it,” said the commander. “He has taken off his shirt and is waving it. Heave the ship to, Mr Tarwig. Call the gig’s crew away, Mr Foley, and pull in to ascertain what he wants. There can be little doubt that it is a matter of importance. Come off again as soon as possible, for we shall probably find places further along the coast, where the white people are hard-pressed by the blacks.”

The commander’s orders were speedily obeyed, and Norman Foley, without the loss of a moment, followed by Gerald who was directed to accompany him, lowered himself into the gig. He was eager to be off. Every moment of time was precious; he had vividly realised the truth of the commander’s last remark.

“Give way, lads, give way!” he exclaimed, imparting his eagerness to the boat’s crew.

They bent lustily to their oars, and the boat shot rapidly over the blue waters towards the sandy beach, where the white man had been seen. It was yet impossible to discern him, however, without a glass. Mr Foley kept his eyes fixed on the spot, hoping that he would soon again come in sight.

“I see him, sir,” cried Gerald; “he is still waving his shirt, and seems in a desperate hurry. Perhaps he is some one who has escaped from the blacks, and he wants us to go and help some white people attacked by them.”

“Very probably,” answered Norman Foley, with a scarcely suppressed groan.

The boat was nearing the shore.

“He is now making for the west side of the bay, towards a reef of rocks which runs out some way into the sea,” exclaimed Gerald. “He expects that he shall reach us sooner.”

“I see him,” said Mr Foley; but directly afterwards Gerald exclaimed—

“He has disappeared.”

“He has had, probably, to go to the inner end of the rock to climb up it,” observe the lieutenant. “I thought so,” he added; “we’ll pull in and look out for a place where we can take him on board.”

“He has good reason to be in a hurry,” exclaimed Gerald. “See, there on the top of the hill are a whole host of black fellows, and now they are running down towards the sand. I suspect that they are in chase of him, and if he does not make haste they will catch him, too.”

While Gerald was speaking, a number of negroes, armed with spears headed with long blades used for cutting the canes, and with axes and other rudely formed weapons, were seen scampering down the hill. They possessed apparently no firearms, however, or the fugitive’s chance of escape would have been very small. He made his way along the rough rocks, leaping across the fractures in his course, and often passing spots on which he would scarcely have ventured had not a foe been at his heels. The blacks in their eagerness to catch him scarcely took notice of the boat, though had they done so they might have suspected that her crew possessed firearms, with which they could be reached. They were scarcely more than a hundred yards off, when the boat got up to the ledge of rock, and the white man, springing forward, aided by the bowman, leaped on board and was passed along by the crew to the stern-sheets.

The lieutenant immediately ordered the boat to be backed off, and her head being turned in the direction of the ship, the crew once more gave way. The blacks, meantime, finding that their expected victim had escaped, gave vent to their feelings of anger in shouts and cries. A few also, who had been in the rear, now appearing armed with muskets, had the audacity to fire at the boat, but happily the bullets fell short of her, and she was soon entirely beyond their range.

“Where do you come from? What has happened?” asked the lieutenant, as the stranger sank down by his side.

“I was hiding from the rebel slaves in the wood up in the hill, when I saw the ship out there, and came down in the hopes that the commander would land some of his crew and send them to the assistance of a white family, friends of mine, whose house is surrounded by savages who are threatening their destruction,” answered the latter. “There is no time to be lost, for they were fearfully beset, and have neither food nor water remaining, while nearly all their ammunition is, I fear, expended.”

“Who are they?” asked Norman Foley, in an evident tone of agitation.

“A Mr Twigg and his family, with whom Mr Ferris, an Irish gentleman, and his daughter are staying. There are several other white people in the house,” was the answer.

“Mr and Miss Ferris in danger!” ejaculated the lieutenant and Gerald in the same breath. “How far off is the house? Can we soon reach it?” inquired the former.

“Twelve or fourteen miles to the westward from here,” answered the stranger. “I should think with this breeze you might get off it in less than a couple of hours.”

“We’ll lose no time, and the commander will, I am sure, afford every assistance in his power,” said Norman Foley. “Mr and Miss Ferris are friends of mine, and I will use every exertion to go to their assistance. But how do you know that they are so hard-pressed?” he added, anxiously. “Have you made your escape from the house?”

“I did not do so intentionally. Having set out with a number of others to obtain some yams, we were attacked by a party of blacks, and I was made prisoner. Happily I had done some service to two or three slaves among the party, and had saved them more than once from a flogging. While some of the others proposed putting me to death, they dragged me off among them, and before the rest of the gang knew what had happened, it being at night, they enabled me to get off. I made my way along the shore, as I knew that part of the country and recollected places where I could conceal myself. I felt pretty sure, however, that should the black leader or any other instigators of the rebellion discover that I had escaped they would send in pursuit of me. I could not move fast in the darkness, and had got to no great distance when daylight broke, so I climbed up into a big cotton-tree and hid myself among the mass of creepers to rest. I had intended trying to reach a fort where I could obtain assistance, but on looking out of my hiding-place in the morning I saw a party of blacks, who were apparently searching for me. I therefore crouched down among the creepers, where, as I was pretty well worn out, I fell asleep. At night I again pushed on, hoping that the blacks had given up the pursuit. I had reached the hill below which you saw me, when another day broke, and I had once more to hide myself for fear of being discovered. On looking out next morning I saw your ship approaching, and though I thought it probable that the blacks might still be looking for me, I hurried down in the hope that you would see me and would go to the assistance of my friends. But two days have passed since I left them, and I know not what may have happened in the meantime.”

Norman Foley’s anxiety was greatly increased by the account given him by Archie Sandys, for he it was who had so happily escaped destruction. He observed the lieutenant’s evident agitation, though he might not have suspected the cause. Gerald plied him with questions, and drew forth many particulars of the siege and defence of Bellevue.

On reaching the ship Norman Foley introduced Archie Sandys to the commander, who, learning from him the state of affairs at Bellevue, ordered the sails to be filled, and the Champion under every stitch of canvas she could carry stood along the coast. As she approached that part where, by Archie’s account, Bellevue was situated, a look-out was kept for a fitting landing-place for the boats. They had all been got ready for lowering. The marines, under their sergeant, and a party of blue jackets armed with muskets, pistols, and cutlasses, were ordered to be prepared to go in them with Mr Foley, Crowhurst, Mr Dobbs the boatswain, and Gerald; Archie Sandys was of course to accompany the expedition as a guide. On nearing the spot dense volumes of smoke were seen rolling along, driven by the wind, concealing the landscape from view.

Poor Norman was almost ready to give way to despair. His worst apprehensions were fulfilled. The savage blacks must have set the house on fire, and too probably its hapless inmates were destroyed. Many others on board thought as he did.

Gerald, who was looking out, however, suddenly exclaimed, “I see the top of the house above the smoke; the fire does not reach it. There is a flagstaff with two flags flying from it, though they are odd-looking ones.”

“It is my belief that they are petticoats, or some female gear,” exclaimed the master. “Yes, no doubt about it; the signal is pretty clear, it means females in distress. We’ll soon help you, my pretty maidens, whoever you are.”

Mr Foley had taken the glass. After carefully surveying the spot he began to breathe more freely. Yes, it was a wood on fire, some way below the house, and that might still be holding out. The flags, too, he discovered, were light muslin dresses, and he very likely suspected even then that one belonged to Ellen. It did not require that, however, to make him spring forward with even greater eagerness than he had more than once displayed when setting forth on a cutting-out expedition. He took the lead, the launch and pinnace following. He allowed his crew to dash on ahead of the other boats, for as they approached the shore rapid firing was heard. Even now the house was being attacked, and Archie had mentioned the scarcity of ammunition. Should there be any delay they might be too late to save its inmates. The thick smoke had concealed their approach, as it had the ship, from the view of the blacks as also from those in the house. The former, indeed, not expecting to be interfered with from the side of the sea, had not turned their eyes in that direction.

Norman had time to land, and with the assistance of Archie, who pointed out the different localities to form his plan of proceeding. It was to move to the right just outside the burning wood, then to charge up the hill under cover of the smoke and attack the enemy on the flank, so that their shot might not be directed towards the house. The other boats appeared to him to be pulling very slowly, but they arrived at last, and a small party of marines quickly formed with the blue jackets on either hand. The orders were given in a low voice, Norman and Archie leading in Indian file, and at a double quick march. They proceeded a short way along the shore, and then facing about they rushed up the hill, uttering a true English cheer. The blacks raised a cry of alarm. Those who with burning brands in their hands were attempting to mount the ladders let them drop, tumbling head over heels to the ground. Their companions scampered off, many throwing down their muskets. Their leader Cudjoe held his, and sullenly retired, but as several shots came whizzing past him, he increased his pace, till he began to run as fast as the rest, and the whole multitude took to their heels, shrieking with alarm, like a herd of swine, tumbling over each other down the hill, some making for the opposite height, others rushing along the valley.

The marines, led by their sergeant, charged after them till the greater number of the fleet-footed savages had disappeared.

Archie Sandys accompanied the master with one party of blue jackets in pursuit of Cudjoe, but the black leader succeeded in reaching a wood, and was soon lost to sight among the trees. Several negroes, however, were overtaken. Seeing that they could not escape, they fell on their knees, begging for mercy. The seamen were about to cut them down when Archie recognised two or three slaves who had saved his life, and throwing himself before them intreated the seamen to desist. The master, who had fortunately heard his account, understanding his motive, restrained the sailors, and the lives of the poor blacks were spared.

“I don’t forget the mercy you showed me,” said Archie, “but I wish you had managed to run off.” Then, turning to the master, he begged that he would allow the blacks to escape. “If they are made prisoners I may be unable to save their lives,” he said.

“Well, then, let us go and look after some others,” exclaimed Mr Billhook. “Tell them to show leg-bail and we’ll not follow them.”

The kind-hearted seamen fully appreciating Archie’s object were well pleased to let the poor trembling wretches escape, and led by the master, they pursued some others who had still retained their muskets, and who proved to be Coromantees, the most warlike and savage of the blacks engaged in the insurrection. Several of these attempting to make a stand were captured.

The shouts of the gallant band of seamen and marines had been heard by the garrison, and their movements and the flight of the blacks seen from the windows. The doors being thrown open, the greater number rushed out to join them in the pursuit of the fugitives, but their ammunition being expended they were unable to fire a shot, and the blacks happily for themselves were soon beyond the reach of the whites, or they would have received less merciful treatment than the blue jackets were inclined to show them. As it was, indeed, the British officers had some difficulty in restraining several of the drivers from cutting down the prisoners who had been secured. In a few minutes not a single black, except those who had been made prisoners and a few who lay dead or wounded on the ground, was to be seen.

Mr Foley, having ordered the recall to be sounded, hurried with Gerald to the house, where the first person they met was Mr Ferris, who at once recognised them. Taking them by the hands, he thanked them with tears in his eyes as the deliverers of his daughter and himself and their friends.

“You have rendered me for ever your debtor,” said the merchant; “indeed, it is impossible to repay you.”

Norman, making a fitting answer, eagerly inquired for Ellen.

“She is there,” replied her father; and the words were scarcely out of his mouth before Norman sprang forward, and there he saw Ellen standing, somewhat pale indeed, though the colour began to mount rapidly to her cheeks, with her hands extended to greet him, her trembling limbs, however, preventing her from moving towards him as her feelings might have prompted. He had good reason to be satisfied that absence had not cooled her affection. Mr Twigg kindly allowed them to enjoy each other’s society without interruption. Perhaps Norman would have remained longer than his duty ought to have permitted him, had not the sound of hearty cheers reached their ears, and he and Ellen on going into the hall were informed by Mr Ferris that a party of white men were seen coming over the hill who were thus welcomed by the garrison. Ellen now first heard of the escape of Archie Sandys, who had been heartily welcomed by all hands, among whom he was a universal favourite. He might before have had his suspicions as to the interest which Lieutenant Foley entertained for Miss Ferris. When he saw them together, he had no doubt about the matter, and the slight hopes he had cherished vanished for ever.

Mr Twigg in the meantime had dispatched people to the yam ground, and to every part of the neighbourhood where provisions could be found, though the blacks had consumed most of the roots and fruits as well as the animals they could lay hands on near the house. Water had also been brought up from the well to supply the thirsty inmates, while the sergeant of marines had drawn up his men, as he said, to observe the enemy, lest they should venture on another attack. That, however, did not appear probable, as numbers were seen flying at full speed towards the mountains to escape the vengeance of their masters, which they knew full well was likely to overtake them.

Jack Pemberton and the party from Walton now appeared.

“We hurried off as soon as Quashie arrived,” said Jack, “but he with a misadventure, and was captured by some rebels who, though they could make nothing of him, detained him, and he had no little difficulty in making his escape. On our way we were overtaken by a messenger from Major Malcolm, who is advancing with a strong force, and depend upon it he will give the rebels a fearful drubbing if he overtakes them.”

“We are much obliged to you, Jack, for your good intentions, but had not the party from the ship arrived in the nick of time, you would in all probability have found the house a heap of ruins, and we all burned to cinders in the middle of it,” answered Mr Twigg.

No one welcomed Archie Sandys more cordially than did Lieutenant Belt, who had greatly admired the coolness and courage he had displayed. He had now also a fellow feeling for him, as he quickly perceived that the sailor officer had forestalled him in the affections of Miss Ferris.

The family at Bellevue, notwithstanding the fearful danger they had gone through, soon recovered their spirits. Such provisions as could be hastily collected were cooked, and, as there was a good store of wine and other articles of luxury, an ample repast was soon prepared for their guests.

While they were seated round the table, it was announced that a body of soldiers were seen coming from the west, with several persons on horseback; and in a short time Major Malcolm and two other officers galloped up to the door. The expression of his countenance when Mr Twigg went out to meet him, and as he surveyed the havoc which had been made around the house, and saw the fearful danger to which the inmates had been exposed, showed how much he felt. He condemned himself for having quitted Bellevue, although he had gone at Miss Pemberton’s express wish; but when he entered the room and saw her eyes turned towards him, and the slight tinge which rose to her generally pale cheeks, he knew that she, at all events, did not blame him. His stay could be but very brief, for as soon as the forces who were coming up arrived, he must push forward in pursuit of the rebel blacks.

“It is painful work, without honour or glory, and yet duty demands that it must be done,” he observed to Miss Pemberton. “I would that others had to do it.”

Mr Twigg did not fail to expatiate largely on the gallant conduct of Lieutenant Belt, and the important service he had rendered them. “It was indeed a happy day for us when you came here, for, had it not been for him, I believe that none of us would now be remaining alive; and I therefore propose the health of the hero of Bellevue, for such he deserves to be called.”

Every one corroborated Mr Twigg’s account, and the gallant lieutenant made a very neat and appropriate speech.

“As he is unfit to march, if you desire it, Mr Twigg, I will leave him here in command of a detachment sufficient to protect the house,” said Major Malcolm, “as probably the marines and sailors may be required on board their ship, to render aid in other directions.”

Norman Foley was not especially obliged to the major for this offer, as he had thought it possible that he might again have been sent on shore in command of a party to protect the house. He had now, however, no excuse for remaining; he was therefore compelled, very unwillingly, to order his men to prepare for embarking.

“You will write to Norah, Miss Ferris,” said Gerald, as he was wishing good-bye. “Tell her all about me, and say that I hope to see Owen Massey when he comes back again in the Ouzel Galley; and also tell her that we had a brush with, we believe, that same rascally buccaneer which attacked the old ship on her voyage out, when you were on board. The fellow escaped us, but we shall keep a sharp look-out for him and take him one of these days. I suppose that we shall remain on this northern coast for some time, and then go back to Port Royal, with lots of prizes, I have no doubt, and perhaps the pirate among them.”

Ellen and Norman had to part, but they expected ere long to meet again at Kingston, to which place Mr Ferris intended returning as soon as the country was considered safe for travelling.

As the evening was approaching, Lieutenant Foley had to hurry his men to the boats, after a friendly parting with Archie Sandys. He had another reason for making haste, for he did not altogether like the look of the sky.

“What do you think of the weather, Mr Dobbs?” he asked.

“Coming on nasty, to my mind,” answered the boatswain, casting his eye round the horizon. “Whether it is one of them hurricanes which blow in those seas, or only a common gale, I can’t just say; but the sooner we are aboard, and the ship can get a good offing, the better.”

Crowhurst, who had been some time before in the West Indies, was of the boatswain’s opinion, and thought that they had already delayed too long; but, then, he was not, like the lieutenant, in love, and had found nothing of especial interest on shore.

The commander was highly pleased at hearing of the service his officers and men had performed, and did not blame the lieutenant for remaining on shore so long. Indeed, he observed, “Had no other force appeared to protect the house, I should have considered it right to send you, with the marines and a few seamen, back to guard it, in case the rebels should return.”

Norman heartily wished that Jack Pemberton with his friends, and Major Malcolm with his troops, had marched after the rebels, instead of coming to Bellevue.

The commander had observed the signs of a change of weather, and by the master’s advice, who felt sure that a heavy gale would soon be blowing, though he could not say from what quarter it might come, the ship’s head was put off shore, so as to gain as good an offing as possible before it was down upon them. The wind increased, and though the Champion could still carry her whole canvas, it was necessary to keep a bright look-out against a sudden squall, all hands remaining on deck, ready to shorten sail at a moment’s notice.

Chapter Eighteen.

The Champion in a hurricane—Hove on her beam-ends—Loss of main and mizen-masts—Runs on before the gale—Strikes on a reef—An island discovered at daybreak—Boats and stores got out—The crew reach the shore—Water found—Site for a fort chosen—Stores and guns landed—A gale—Ship goes to pieces—Launch lost—A vessel seen—Chased—Escapes—Fort finished—A Spanish man-of-war approaches—Attacks the fort—Spaniards defeated—A gale—Spanish ship lost—Vain attempts to save the crow.

The Champion was standing across the channel between Jamaica and Cuba. The night came on very dark. The wind, though blowing fresh from the north-west, did not increase as much as had been expected, and it was hoped that the ship would claw off the shore and obtain a good offing before the morning. The topgallantsails had been handed, and as much canvas was set as she could carry. The master turned many an anxious glance over the quarter, where he could still dimly discern the outline of the land. The ship was heeling over till her lee bulwarks were smothered in the fast-rising sea. Still the commander was unwilling to shorten sail while she could bear what she was then carrying. It was impossible to say from which direction the wind might next blow. It might come from the northward, and if so, she would have the shore dead under her lee, and, should her masts go, might be driven helplessly towards it. Another reef was taken in the topsails, but still she heeled over to the wind more than the commander liked, notwithstanding which she was evidently making considerable leeway.

At length there came a lull; the ship righted, and for some time continued to stand up better than heretofore to her canvas. The appearance of the sky, however, did not improve. Dark masses of clouds flew across it, gradually thickening till a dense canopy hung over the ocean without any discernible break. The wind howled and whistled, and the sea rose more and more.

“We’ll heave the ship to, Mr Billhook,” said the commander. “We have got, I should think, a sufficient offing, and we must return to the shore as soon as the weather will allow.”

“If you will take my advice, sir, we will rather stand on for some time longer. We are perhaps nearer the coast than we may fancy, and we might find it a hard matter to get off again, should we discover in the morning that we have been drifting towards it.”

“Keep her as she is going, then,” said the commander, who thought that the master was probably right.

Soon after this the wind somewhat lulled, and the ship looked up more to the northward than she had hitherto done, showing that the wind had shifted a point or two. Even the master thought that the weather was improving. The watch below was ordered to turn in and some of the officers went to their berths.

It had just gone two bells in the morning watch, when a sound like a thunder-clap was heard, and Gerald, who was in his hammock, was nearly thrown out of it. He felt the ship heeling over to starboard. He and all those below, slipping into their trousers, sprang on deck. The ship was on her beam-ends, the water washing half-way up to the coamings of the hatchways.

“Hard up with the helm! let fly the main and mizen-topsail sheets!” cried the commander; but the ship did not rise or answer the helm. “Cut away the mizen-mast!” he shouted; and the carpenter and boatswain, armed with axes, came aft, and while some of the men severed the rigging, a few blows served to send the mast, with its spars and fluttering sails, over the side. At the same moment the mainmast, which must already have been sprung when the hurricane struck the ship, fell after it, and the seamen immediately commenced hacking away at the rigging to clear the wreck. The ship thus relieved, rose to an even keel, and now feeling the power of the helm, away she flew before the gale.

The master hurried to the binnacle. The wind had happily shifted to the westward, and though blowing with far greater fury than before, the ship was in less peril than she would have been had it continued in its former quarter. The yards were now squared and preventer backstays set up, and the carpenter, having examined the mast, reported that it was secure. The hands were sent to close-reef the fore-topsail; but even though thus reduced, it was as much sail as the ship could carry. On she flew, free from the wreck of both the masts, which it was impossible to secure. Every effort was made to secure the remaining mast, on which so much depended. Some spare spars still remained, with which, when the weather moderated, jury-masts could be rigged; but with the heavy sea now running, nothing could be done. The wind kept veering about, sometimes to the southward and west, at others getting back to the north-west.

“Provided it does not shift to the northward, we shall have room to run on till it blows itself out,” observed the master. But there was no security that it would hold in the most favourable quarter.

The hurricane blew harder and harder—for such it might almost be considered, though not one of those fearful storms which so frequently devastate the islands of the Caribbean Sea. The rain, too, beat down furiously, and the spoondrift in thick showers flew off the summits of the seas, shrouding the ship in a dense mist, through which no objects, had any been near, could have been discerned. At present, the chief fear was lest the ship should run foul of any other hove to, for none could cross her course under sail.

On she flew. Daylight returned, but the view around was almost as obscure as during the night. The master consulted the chart. He would have wished to haul to the southward, but the sea was running too high and the wind blowing too furiously for that to be done; neither, in consequence of the loss of her after-rails, could she be hove to. Her only safe course was to fly before it. Except the close-reefed topsail, no other canvas was set. The Champion had by this time got to the eastward of Cuba, and was compelled to run on far away from the coast her commander wished to reach.

Another day and night passed by, the wind blowing with scarcely less fury than at first. The well was sounded, but it was found that the ship had made no unusual amount of water. If she could steer clear of rocks and reefs, the only other thing to be apprehended was that, while in her crippled condition, she might fall in with an enemy’s ship of equal or superior force. Numerous reefs and rocks however existed, and as it had been impossible to take an observation, or even to keep an exact dead reckoning, in consequence of the frequent shifting of the wind, the master confessed that he was not certain of her position. She was, he supposed, approaching the southern end of the dangerous Bahama Islands, known as the Great Caicos. The island of Inagua, it was hoped, was passed, but even that was not certain.

Another night was coming on. All on board hoped that the gale would blow itself out, but as the darkness increased, it gave no signs of doing so. A sharp look-out was of course kept, ahead, and the cables were ranged ready to let go the anchors should any danger be seen.

Except when wearied out, in order to snatch a short rest, few of the officers or men had gone below. Most of them were collected on deck, when a voice from forward shouted out, “Breakers on the starboard bow!” and almost immediately afterwards their roar was heard, and the white foam could be seen dashing up over a dark reef. The helm was put a couple of spokes to windward; the ship flew on. Scarcely had the danger been passed, when the wind fell and the sea became rapidly calmer.

“Has not the sea gone down with wonderful quickness?” observed Gerald to Nat Kiddle, who was standing near him, both of them trying to peer out through the darkness.

“I suppose it is because we are protected by the reef we passed,” answered Nat. “I only hope we shall not meet with others.”

“Breakers ahead!” shouted the look-out from forward.

“Starboard the helm, hard a-starboard!” cried the commander.

The ship came to the wind, and as she did so the white foam was seen rising directly under her lee. The threatened danger was passed, although so narrowly that her keel grated over a rock below it.

“Stand ready to let go the best bower!” was the next order heard.

“Hands aloft to furl the fore-topsail!” Scarcely had the commander uttered the words than a terrific crashing sound was heard. The ship had struck a sunken reef. The way she had on her forced her over it.

“Sound the well, Mr O’Rourke,” cried the commander.

Before, however, the carpenter could obey the order, the ship again struck and remained fixed, apparently on a reef. Soundings were immediately taken ahead and astern, and from the small depth, of water round her, it was too clear that she had been driven hopelessly on a broad reef. The sea dashed against her, sending the spray in dense showers over her decks; but it was evident that there were reefs outside which greatly protected her, and that there was no immediate danger of her being dashed to pieces, or the crew losing their lives. The darkness prevented any object from being seen round her, except black rocks and the snow-white foam which flew off from the summits of the seas. The crew behaved, as well-disciplined British seamen always do under such circumstances, with perfect coolness. The men who were going aloft to furl the fore-topsail were ordered down, and the commander directed the carpenter to cut away the remaining mast, as it threatened every instant to fall. A few strokes of the axe brought it down over the forecastle, the wind carrying it in that direction.

“I fear the old bark is lost,” said Gerald to Nat Kiddle. “I little expected to see such an ending of her.”

“No doubt about it,” answered Nat. “The water is rushing like a mill-sluice into the hold, and if it wasn’t that she is firm on the rocks, she would not have many minutes to swim.”

“Faith, I don’t think she’s swimming now,” said Gerald.

“No,” answered Nat; “but she is not going down, and that is of considerable consequence to us. When daylight comes I suppose we shall find out where we are. I hope that land is not far off, or we may have to make a voyage on a raft, as the boats won’t hold us all.”

Norman Foley’s chief feeling was disappointment at the probability of not being able to return to Jamaica for an indefinite period of time. The distance was too great to perform with any safety in boats; indeed, it was doubtful, without masts to hoist her out, whether the launch could be got into the water.

As other shipwrecked seamen have done, all wished for day to relieve their anxieties. At present it was impossible to decide what to do. Gradually the ship became steadier. As the sea broke over her less frequently, the master was of opinion that the tide was falling, and that she had been driven on shore at high water.

The commander and his first lieutenant accompanied the carpenter round the ship to ascertain more particularly her condition. They quickly came to the conclusion that she was hopelessly wrecked. “The first thing to be done, then, is to get the stores from the hold while the tide is out, and to save the ammunition,” observed the commander. “Should we reach the shore, we must not leave ourselves defenceless.”

The crew were accordingly at once ordered to set to work, and beef, pork, flour, and other stores were hoisted up, while the powder was got out of the magazine and placed in the commander’s cabin with a guard over it.

Daylight found all hands thus busily employed. The wind had gone down and the sea was perfectly smooth. The commander was on deck when the first light streaks of dawn appeared in the sky. As the light increased, he discerned a line of cocoa-nut trees rising out of one of the low islands, known as keys in those seas, scarcely half a mile off, while in the intermediate space were numerous dark rocks, the upper portions of reefs which extended on every side. Between them, however, were wide spaces of calm water, so that there would be nothing to stop the boats from reaching the island. The satisfactory intelligence was soon made known through the ship. The smaller boats were at once lowered, while the carpenter and boatswain set to work to erect shears for hoisting out the launch. As soon as the boats were ready, the commander ordered them to be loaded with provisions, and canvas for tents, and a portion of the powder, and they were sent off under the command of the second lieutenant, with Gerald and Kiddle. The two latter were directed to remain in charge of half a dozen of the men, while the boats were immediately to return. In the mean while a raft was commenced, to assist in transporting the guns and stores, all of which the commander intended if possible to save. The crew were so busily employed that they had no time to indulge in apprehensions for the future, should they have entertained any.

The commander’s chief anxiety was to ascertain if water existed on the island. Without it they would be unable to support themselves, beyond a short period, when that on board was exhausted. The midshipmen were accordingly directed to search for water immediately on their landing. Away they pulled, their spirits scarcely lowered even by the loss of their ship. As they looked back at her as she lay on the rocks, with her masts gone and heeling over on one side, Gerald, however, exclaimed—

“Poor old girl, there you are, and there you will leave your bones. I don’t suppose you care much about it, though you don’t find it as pleasant as bounding over the heaving waves, as the poets say.”

“We shall not find it so pleasant, either, living on that sandy-looking island ahead there,” observed Kiddle.

As they drew near the island its appearance improved. They could see a variety of trees and bushes, and that the ground rose beyond them. Further in the interior the green grass, which here and there was visible, gave promise of an abundance of water, so that they should not have, as they at first feared, to suffer from thirst. In a little bay, with rocks rising on one side, they found a convenient landing-place, towards which the boats were steered. The goods were quickly got on shore, and carried up to a level spot under the shade of some cocoa-nut trees.

Here, as soon as Mr Foley had shoved off, Gerald and Nat set to work with their men to put up the tents in which the provisions were to be stored. Gerald then, taking one of the crew with him, set off to look for water as he had been directed. The island appeared to be scarcely half a mile across, but it was considerably longer. A somewhat elevated ridge ran down the centre, from which, before he had gone far, he saw an ample stream gushing forth into a pool, after which it ran in a meandering course towards the side of the island where they had landed. Having made this discovery, they returned to the camp. Soon afterwards the boats came back with some men and a further supply of provisions. He then learned that the commander intended to land the guns.

The work continued all day long, and towards evening the boats returned, towing a large raft on which several of the guns were placed. The only bad news was that, in trying to get the launch into the water, she had been severely damaged, and as it would have occupied time to tow her on shore full of water, she had been left anchored near the ship. About a third of the crew, with the marines, under charge of Mr Foley, had now landed; the commander and the remainder, with a portion of the officers, still staying on board. Crowhurst, who came with the raft, said that there was no danger, and that the commander intended to be the last man to leave the ship.

As there was abundance of wood, fires were lighted, provisions cooked, and the shipwrecked crew prepared to make themselves as happy as they could. Some, indeed, when they had knocked off work, amused themselves by playing leapfrog on the sands, and running races; and the black cook, who had brought his fiddle, beginning to scrape away, set the whole dancing. At last they were ordered to turn in, and though it was not likely that any enemy was near, sentries were stationed round the camp, according to man-o’-war fashion.

Norman Foley walked up and down on the beach long after his men had gone to sleep. The boats and raft had returned to the ship. He cast his eye round to note the appearance of the weather. Should it again come on to blow, her position would be one of considerable danger, and those on board might have great difficulty in saving their lives. Should the boats be destroyed, he and those with him would scarcely be better off without the means of escaping. They might have to remain there for weeks or months, for no vessel was likely willingly to approach so dangerous a neighbourhood. The provisions, though sufficient to last for some time, must ultimately be exhausted, as would be the ammunition, with which birds might be shot. Then what would be the consequence? “It is useless to indulge in such thoughts,” he said to himself at last. “With a few hours’ rest I shall feel more cheerful.” He did the wisest thing to be done under such circumstances—he went into his tent and fell fast asleep.

On rising the next morning, he saw the raft and boats again approaching. Mr Tarwig came in command of them, with directions from the commander to choose a site for erecting a battery on the island with their guns. “The commander thinks it probable that the Spaniards, when they find out that we are here, will attack us for the sake of making us prisoners, and the sooner we are prepared for them the better,” he said to Lieutenant Foley.

While the other officers and men were engaged in landing the stores which the boats had brought, the two lieutenants walked together across the island, and then followed the rise which ran along the centre on the eastern side. Although there were many reefs on that side, the island was more approachable than on the west, where the Champion had been wrecked, and after a careful survey they fixed on a spot below which it appeared that a ship might approach the shore. Consequently it was the spot which an enemy would probably choose for landing with boats.

The lieutenants were not long in marking out the site of their proposed fort. The ground was here covered more thickly than, in other places with trees, some of considerable height, which would effectually mask it from the sea. The island was of a width which would enable the guns in the fort to defend it on both sides, as some might be so placed as to command their own landing-place, should an enemy attempt to come on shore on that side. Having formed their plan, they returned to the camp. Here all hands were still busily employed in getting the guns on shore. The difficulty was to drag them up to the site chosen for the fort. Their own carriages, which had been also landed, were of no use for this purpose; but the carpenter suggested that rollers should be placed under them, and, ropes being secured to the breeches, they could be dragged up by the crew.

While the first lieutenant returned to the ship, Norman Foley directed the carpenter to form his proposed rollers, and to try what could be done with one of the guns. Some of the rigging had already been brought on shore on the raft, and there was an abundance of ropes for the purpose.

The carpenter and his crew were not long in getting all things ready. Four rollers were placed under one of the guns, and a party were told off to take charge of four others, while the rest of the crew laid hold of the towlines. The boatswain sounded his whistle, and off they set. It was pretty hard work to draw a heavy gun over the soft sand, but British seamen are not to be defeated when they put their shoulders to an undertaking. The gun was started amid cheers from the crew, and it began to move forward faster and faster. The moment one roller was released it was carried ahead, and at length the gun was dragged up to hard ground. Now, however, the tug of war began. Though the ground was hard, it was rough and uphill; but the inequalities were cleared away, and the gun was got some distance up the bank. It became evident, however, at length that the whole strength of the crew would be required to get it up to the site of the fort, and the lieutenant ordered the men to knock off, and to bring another gun up. This was soon done in the same fashion. The seamen enjoyed the work as if it had been given to them as an amusement.

Thus six guns which had been landed were got a part of the way towards their destination. Parties of men were next harnessed to the gun carriages, a boatswain’s mate or one of the other seamen seating himself on each—the former with pipe in mouth, and with a long stick in his hand, with which he pretended to drive his team, cheering and shouting in high glee. One of the carriages, however, as the men were running along with it, capsized and shot its occupant out sprawling on the sand, greatly to the amusement of his shipmates. It is wonderful what an amount of work can be got through by seamen when they are allowed to do it in their own way, and make an amusement of the severest labour.

It would still require the raft and boats to make very many trips before all the guns and provisions and stores could be landed. The commander wisely sent off a proportion of each, so that, should bad weather come on and the ship go to pieces, a certain amount of all things necessary might be saved. The weather, however, continued favourable, though the stormy period of the year had now come on. All the guns and provisions, and a considerable quantity of the stores, were at length landed. The carpenter had of course taken good care to bring his tools. He proposed building a vessel out of the wreck. The commander approved of his suggestion, and it was arranged that they should return the next day, and endeavour to procure timber sufficient for the purpose.

The commander had hitherto not left the ship. The last of the crew who had remained with him were sent into the boat. His own gig was alongside. With a heavy heart he hauled down the flag, which had hitherto been kept flying on a temporary flagstaff, secured to the stump of the foremast. After looking round his dismantled ship, he descended into the boat.

“Shove off,” he said, and his voice as he spoke appeared to have lost its usual cheerful ring.

He cast another fond look at her as she lay bilged on the cruel rocks. He had reason to be thankful that not a life had been lost, and that it was from no carelessness or want of good seamanship that she had been driven on shore. Had she struck one of the outer reefs, where would he and his gallant crew now be? Probably not one would have escaped. The sky as he looked westward had again assumed a threatening aspect.

“We shall have another gale before long, I suspect,” he observed to Gerald, who had brought the gig for him. “It may not do us on shore much harm, although it may blow down our tents if we don’t stay them up well, but the poor ship— I fear that her days are numbered. A heavy sea rolling in here would soon knock her to pieces. Give way, my lads, and overtake the raft; we may assist in towing it, and the sooner it reaches the shore the better.”

Fortunately by this time everything of value had been landed from the ship. The cabins had been stripped of their furniture, even to the bedding; the men’s hammocks, and every article belonging to them, had been brought off. There was an abundance of water, and there was no probability of their provisions running short for some time to come.

Scarcely had the boats and raft been unloaded and the stores carried up to the camp, than the sea began to roll in with much greater force than hitherto, and as the sun went down the white breakers appeared on every side, like horses’ manes waving in the wind, above the darkening waters. The commander was received with hearty cheers by his crew.

“Now, my lads,” he said, “I intend to turn this island into a man-of-war, and although we cannot get under way—for if we could we would soon run her up to Port Royal harbour—we will hold her against all enemies, whoever they may be, who may wish to make a prize of us. I intend to maintain the same discipline as heretofore, and I expect that you will still remain the well-ordered crew of whom I have always been proud.”

The captain’s address was received, as he expected it would be, with hearty cheers, and several voices among the men cried out, “We’ll stick by you, sir, and you won’t have to be ashamed of us.”

Several fires had been lighted, round which the men were collected, cooking their suppers in a fashion in which Jack especially delights when he has the chance; but the rising wind soon made it necessary to put them all out, for fear of their setting the bushes and trees in flames, or lest a wandering spark might find its way to the tent in which the powder was stored. This, by Mr Foley’s forethought, had been erected some way from the camp, and a sentry placed over it. The next thing to be done was to secure the tents with preventer-stays, as the seamen called them. By this means, furiously as the wind began to blow, not a tent was capsized. Being composed of sails, they were much lower than ordinary tents, and thus much less exposed than such would have been. They resembled indeed gipsy tents, though on a larger scale. It was fortunate for the shipwrecked crew that they had been erected in good time, for as the night drew on the rain came down in torrents, and would have drenched them to the skin. The wind increased, howling and whistling amid the cocoa-nut trees; while the sea, as it dashed with increasing fury on the shore, uttered continuous and never-ceasing roars, echoed, so it seemed, by the breakers on the more distant reefs. The commander, who had scarcely closed his eyes on board, shared a tent with his lieutenants and the surgeon. His chief care, for the present was over, and he at length fell fast asleep.

“It is a hard trial for him, poor man,” observed the surgeon, as he and the two lieutenants sat at their table at the further end of the tent. “Though it may not be the commander’s fault when he loses his ship, he must feel it dreadfully.”

“Somewhat as you feel when you lose a patient, Mac,” observed Mr Tarwig.

“Nay, nay,” answered the doctor. “I have a better chance of getting fresh patients, whereas the captain who loses his ship is often looked upon as unfortunate, and may chance not to get another—”

“That he may have the opportunity of losing her, doctor, you would say, just as you would desire to have the chance of losing some fresh patients.”

“You’re hard on me, Tarwig,” said the doctor. “My desire is to cure them. And just remember that men’s lives are not in our hands: all we can do is to employ such knowledge as we possess. That may be but little, I confess, for I tell you our ignorance is great. If I pride myself on anything, it is that I am aware that I know next to nothing, and that is what many fools do not.”

“Well said, Mac,” observed Norman. “I always had a respect for you, and I have a greater now, and shall have perfect confidence in your skill, if I should have again to come to you for assistance. I believe I owe my life to you when I was wounded, as far as I owe it to any human being.”

“Nay, nay,” again said the doctor, laughing. “You owe it, to my thinking, to a fair young lady who looked after you so carefully when we put you on shore at Waterford—for you were in a bad way then, let me tell you, though I did not say so at the time.”

“He has repaid the debt, doctor, for I understand that the same young lady was in the house attacked by the rebels, and that they were on the point of entering it and murdering all the inmates, when he drove them to the right-about,” said Mr Tarwig.

In another tent the master and purser, with the midshipmen, were engaged in amusing themselves in a more uproarious fashion. Many a merry stave and sentimental ditty was sung, and not a few yarns were spun, anecdotes told, and jokes cut, albeit not of the newest. The remainder of the shipwrecked men having been pretty well worked during the day, soon turned in, and in spite of the storm raging over their heads went fast asleep; the only people awake being the sentries, who, wrapped in their greatcoats, their firelocks sheltered under them, stood with their backs to the wind.

Thus the night passed away. With the morning light the rain ceased, and as Norman, who was the first among the officers on foot, looked in the direction of the spot where the ship had been, she was nowhere to be seen, but here and there amid the foam-covered reefs fragments of the wreck could be discerned, tossed about by the tumbling seas. He had reason to be thankful that such had not been her fate while the crew were still on board. He was soon joined by Mr Tarwig. He pointed in the direction of the wreck.

“Our chance of building a craft to carry us away is gone,” observed the first lieutenant, with a sigh. “Well, we must bear our lot patiently, and maybe some friendly craft may heave in sight. And if a friend does not come, why, perhaps an enemy will; and if so, we must capture her, and change places with her crew.”

“Little chance of that, I fear,” said Norman, who, eager as he was to get off, had from the first not been very sanguine of doing so.

After the crew had been piped up, and Mr Tarwig had mustered them and gone through the usual duties performed by a first lieutenant—although, as he observed with one of his comical looks to Norman, he need not get the decks washed, the rain having done that already—they re-entered their tent, to which their servants brought fresh water for their morning ablutions. Fires were lighted, though the wood did not burn at first very briskly, and the cooks busied themselves in preparing for breakfast.

The commander on going out of his tent took one glance seaward. “I feared it would be so,” he said, turning away his head. “Now, Mr Tarwig, we’ll get our fort under way.”

“It would be a hard matter to do that, sir,” answered the first lieutenant, screwing up his mouth, with a twinkle in his eye, “seeing it is not built yet.”

The commander, who knew he was fond of a joke, laughed, and desired to be shown the proposed site. On inspecting it, he highly approved of the spot selected.

Immediately breakfast was over, all hands were ordered to man the guns and commence the work of dragging them up the hill. One at a time, however, only could be moved, till it was got near enough to a stout tree to which a tackle could be fixed, and the seamen then ran it up the steepest part of the ascent with surprising rapidity.

Before the day was over half the guns were placed in position, and by means of stout shears, which were erected on the hill, were hoisted on their carriages. The rest were allowed to remain where they were till the embankments were thrown up. The smith and his mates, with such hands as he required, had put up a forge, and he and the carpenters had been busily engaged manufacturing pickaxes and spades. With such as had been finished the men were the next day set to work on the trenches, some being employed in cutting down trees to serve for the woodwork which was required. Eighty men were engaged in these operations, and it seemed extraordinary how much that number of willing hands could get through, the officers all labouring away to set them the example.

The commander was well pleased as he surveyed the work. “We shall be able to give a fair account of an enemy should one attack us before many days are over,” he observed to Mr Tarwig. “I think it very probable, should the Spaniards find out we are here, that they will not let us alone, as they will fancy that for some reason or other we have taken possession of the island.”

“Ay, sir; but I have a notion we should be able to beat them off without these embankments, satisfactory as it may be to have them as shelter,” answered the first lieutenant.

It took, however, several days to complete the fort, and when that was done, one of the chief objects of the commander was to find occupation for the men. He knew that it would never do to let them be too long idle. Among the stores saved were several seines; one or two of these were drawn every day on the sandy portions of the beach, and never failed to catch a number of fish, which added to the store of provisions. Drawing the seine afforded not only occupation but amusement to the men, who engaged in it with the greatest avidity. The fresh fish, too, assisted to keep scurvy at a distance. The surgeon explored the island in search of any vegetable productions which might assist in that object. Happily there were a good number of cocoa-nuts, but it was necessary to husband them, or the men would have consumed them in the course of a day or two.

Though it was necessary to prepare for a long stay, the commander took the requisite measures for attracting the notice of any passing vessels. A high flagstaff was put up in the centre of the fort, from which the British ensign was kept flying from sunrise to sunset, and on the two highest points of the island piles of firewood were placed ready to light up at night, should it be considered expedient to try and attract the attention of any ships seen in the offing. There might, however, be a danger in doing this, lest a stranger, standing too close in, might run on the rocks. By firing guns, however, she might be warned off. Of course, by these means it was as likely that an enemy would be attracted to the spot as a friend, but this caused them no anxiety, as they could beat off any vessel which might come with hostile intentions.

Day after day, however, went by, and no sail appeared in sight. As soon as the weather moderated the boats were launched, and the second lieutenant and master, with Crowhurst, pulled round the island and surveyed its approaches in every direction. They found but two channels through which a vessel of any size could approach to attack them, and that could only be done with the greatest caution, by those who had a thorough knowledge of the navigation. Indeed, the island was almost completely surrounded by reefs, some rising above the surface, others sunk beneath it at different depths. These, it was found, extended to a considerable distance from the shore, so that no craft of large size was likely intentionally to approach. After the survey had been completed, Lieutenant Foley offered to try and make his way to Jamaica in the pinnace, the largest boat which now remained, the launch having been lost with the ship.

“I cannot let you go,” answered Captain Olding. “Even should the weather continue favourable, the probabilities are that you would be picked up by a Spaniard or a Frenchman, and you would fail to reach your destination.”

“But I might as probably be picked up by an English man-of-war or a merchant vessel, sir,” answered Norman, who was eager to make the attempt.

The commander, however, was inexorable, and the lieutenant did not again for some time venture to broach the subject.

The shipwrecked crew continued in vain to look out for relief, and Commander Olding remained firm to his resolution of not allowing one of the boats to try and make her way to Jamaica.

Notwithstanding the refusal Lieutenant Foley had received, Mr Billhook, the master, offered to take charge of the pinnace with four or five volunteers. “No great harm can happen if we are taken, sir, and still less, some will say, if we go to the bottom, but the chances are we get clear and arrive all right,” he urged.

“One great harm would happen. Should you be captured, the enemy would suspect where you came from, even if you refuse to tell them, and we should have them coming here to try and cut us off,” answered the commander. “Wait patiently, gentlemen. Either some friendly vessel will appear, or a French or Spanish trader or guarda-costa will some day come to an anchor within the reefs; then, if we manage carefully, we shall be able to get aboard her before she has time to cut her cable and run out to sea.”

This idea of the commander’s soon got talked about, and all hands were constantly on the watch for any vessel which they might hope to capture. Not that the seamen were in any great hurry to leave the island; as long as they had an ample supply of food and liquor they were happy, while they had sufficient occupation to keep them out of mischief.

A look-out for any craft which might approach the shore was of course constantly kept on both sides of the island. A mist had hung over the sea during the night, which completely concealed all objects, except those close at hand, from view. The sun rising above the horizon dispersed the mist, when a small vessel was discovered under sail, threading her way among the reefs to the westward. Those on board her must have perceived the fort with the people moving about, and the British flag which had just been hoisted on the flagstaff, for she immediately kept away, and, the wind being to the eastward, ran off before it towards the open sea. If she could be captured she would afford the means of sending to Jamaica, though she could not carry all the crew. The boats were therefore launched, and chase was made; but, the breeze freshening, the stranger got clear out to sea, when all chance of overtaking her was abandoned. Much disappointment was felt—but as one vessel had come off the island so might others, and it was hoped that one of sufficient size would appear to carry the whole ship’s company. The commander, being a sensible man, advised his officers to be patient, and to make the best of the circumstances under which they were placed.

After the fort was completed, and all the huts required were erected, the officers had work enough in devising employment and amusement for the men. They encouraged games of all sorts—football, cricket, rounders, and ninepins; indeed, a stranger coming among them would not have supposed that the merry fellows he saw were a shipwrecked crew, especially if they had been found playing leapfrog, or dancing to the sound of Pat Casey’s fiddle. The commander and his officers were not, however, without anxiety; they knew that no British ships, either men-of-war or merchant vessels, were likely intentionally to approach the dangerous reefs which surrounded the island, and that their store of provisions must in time come to an end.

“We must not run the risk of starving,” observed Commander Olding; “and in the course of a couple of months, if we do not get off, I will allow you, Foley, or Mr Billhook to try and make your way, as you propose, to Jamaica.”

“I shall be ready to go at any time you give me leave,” answered the second lieutenant, well pleased with the thoughts of getting away from the island and once more meeting Ellen. By that time the hurricane season would be over, and he hoped to be able to make the passage safely.

“I trust, sir, that you will let me accompany you,” said Gerald, when he heard that there was at length a chance of a boat being sent off.

“That must depend on the commander,” answered Lieutenant Foley. “If he will give you leave, I will gladly take you, as I can depend thoroughly on you; but I suspect that he will prefer sending Crowhurst. However, we have some weeks to wait, and many things may occur in the mean time.”

“Thank you, sir, for your kindness,” answered Gerald, highly pleased at the compliment paid him, and thinking nothing of the danger to be run during a voyage of some hundred miles in an open boat, with a chance of being picked up by an enemy’s cruiser, or by one of the piratical craft which were known to infest those seas. Gerald was not given to boasting, but he confided to Nat Kiddle the promise Mr Foley had made him.

“I wonder whether he would take me too,” said Nat. “I should not like to be left here without you. I should wonderfully enjoy the trip. What fun it would be if we were chased, and managed, notwithstanding, to get away!”

“It would be no fun if we were caught, however,” answered Gerald; “but I hope that won’t happen. Depend on it, Mr Foley will do his best to keep clear of an enemy.”

Still some weeks had to be passed before the commander would consent to send off a boat, while not a vessel appeared in sight. The weather had remained fine for some time, but at length it gave signs of changing. One evening, as the commander, with several of the officers, were taking a quarter-deck walk on a piece of level ground near the flagstaff, occasionally sweeping the horizon with their glasses, now to the eastward, and now on the west side of the island, the commander, who had turned his in the latter direction, exclaimed, “There is a sail at last. Judging from her appearance she is a large craft; we shall soon ascertain how she is standing.”

The other glasses were turned towards the stranger, and in a few minutes the general opinion was that she was approaching the island. The wind was blowing pretty fresh from the south-west. Her topgallantsails had been above the horizon when she was first seen; gradually her topsails, then the heads of her courses, rose above the water. “Is she a friend or an enemy?” was the question asked by several of those watching her. Hopes, of course, were entertained that she might be the former. Gerald and Nat Kiddle thought that she must be a British man-of-war.

“See what a wide spread of canvas she has,” observed Gerald; “no merchant vessel would carry sails like that.”

“If so, then our chance of a trip in the boat is over,” said Nat.

The commander and his lieutenants discussed the subject earnestly.

“She is not a British ship,” exclaimed Mr Tarwig, who had been watching her attentively through his glass for a minute or more; “that craft out there is a Spaniard. She is coming here to see what we are about. Depend on it, the little craft we saw the other day has carried the information that we are here, and the Spaniards have come to turn us out, if they can.”

“I believe you are right,” observed the commander, after again examining the stranger. “We must be prepared for whatever may happen. If, as you suspect, yonder ship is a Spaniard, she comes with the intention of taking us. What say you, Mr Billhook?”

“I agree with the first lieutenant, sir,” answered the master.

“And what is your opinion, Foley?”

“I have little doubt that she is an enemy, and probably well acquainted with the reefs. If so, she will stand in near enough to attack the fort; or if its existence is not known, the Spaniards will send their boats on shore, expecting without difficulty to make us all prisoners,” answered the second lieutenant.

“They will find that they are mistaken,” observed the commander. “Get all the boats hauled up and placed under shelter behind the rocks, Mr Billhook. Call the men to their quarters, see that the guns are ready for action, and serve out arms and ammunition. We shall somewhat surprise the enemy if they attempt to land, for they are not likely to know of the existence of the fort, and will probably at once send their boats on shore, expecting to carry us off without difficulty.”

The men, who had, like their officers, been watching the approach of the stranger, were well pleased when they heard that she was supposed to be an enemy, and were eager for a fight. It would be a pleasant variety to the monotony of their existence, and no one entertained a doubt but that they should beat her off. The rays of the setting sun, glancing on her side as it rose above the water, showed her to be a large frigate. Though her flag could not be seen, not a doubt was entertained that she was Spanish. The wind, however, had fallen, and she was still some three or four miles beyond the outer reefs; when darkness settled down on the ocean, she was seen to haul her wind, apparently to lay to till daylight. The night was unusually dark, so that nothing could be seen of her.

The men were kept under arms, and sentries were posted round the island at the different points at which boats could land, to give notice should any approach, in which case the sentries were directed to fire off their muskets and retire to the fort. The officers continually went their rounds to ascertain that the men were awake and attending to their duty. Hour after hour passed by, still no sounds were heard to indicate the approach of an enemy.

It was within an hour of dawn, when Mr Foley, who having just visited the western side of the island, had returned to the fort, heard a musket fired, and presently afterwards a sentry came running up. “I caught the sound of the splash of the oars in the water, sir,” he said; “they cannot be far off. They hope to catch us asleep, for they seem to be making as little noise as possible.”

As the man was speaking, another sentry’s musket was heard to go off. He quickly came up and gave the same report as the first. The garrison were at once ordered to stand to their guns, and the two sentries were sent off to bring in their comrades.

“My lads, we shall probably be attacked in a few minutes by Spaniards: perhaps there may be soldiers as well as seamen among them, but I know that I can depend on you to beat them off,” exclaimed the commander. “Not a gun or musket must be fired until I give the order. They may or may not know, of the existence of our fort; possibly they suppose that we are without defences, and expect easily to make us prisoners. Don’t cheer now—let not a sound be heard till they get close up to us; they perhaps expect to surround our camp, but as they know we are awake, they cannot hope to capture us without a struggle, and will come on cautiously.”

The guns had been loaded with grape and canister. The men not required to work them were armed with muskets, so that should even the greater part of the frigate’s crew have been sent on shore, the shipwrecked party might well hope to drive them back.

The commander had taken up a position from whence he could command a view of the approaches to the fort on every side; and other sharp eyes were likewise looking out. So long a time elapsed that he began to fancy that the sentries had given a false alarm, and he was on the point of despatching a party down to the nearest landing-place, when he caught sight of a body of men emerging from the gloom. They approached cautiously, evidently doubtful of the reception they might meet with.

The seamen stood at their guns with the matches in their hands concealed from view; perfect silence reigned throughout the fort. The enemy crept steadily on, not knowing how near they were to their expected prey, the outline of the fort not being yet visible to them through the darkness. Commander Olding judged from the ground they covered that there must be between two and three hundred men—double the number of his own crew. Suddenly they halted, probably having just then discovered the fort. Two or three figures, apparently those of officers, were seen moving in front of them; then a shout was heard, and the whole line, advancing, fired their matchlocks, the bullets flying thick as hail over the fort.

The commander leaped down from his exposed position unhurt. “Now, give it to them, my lads!” he cried, and the guns sent forth an iron shower into the midst of their assailants. Shrieks and cries arose from the direction of the enemy, who had evidently not expected to find the English possessed of guns. Still the little garrison fully expected to be attacked; but when the smoke from the first discharge of the guns cleared off, the whole body of the enemy were discovered in rapid flight, making their way back to their boats.

“Let us follow them, sir,” cried several voices from among the men; “not one of them shall get back to their ship.”

“They have been sufficiently punished, and are not likely to renew the attack,” answered the commander, who had no wish to make prisoners, and saw no necessity for the utter destruction of the enemy. “If they come on again they must take the consequences.”

The seamen were somewhat disappointed at this, but they knew that it would be useless to expostulate. They remained at their guns, hoping that the enemy would again attack them; but when daylight appeared, the boats were seen making their way back to the frigate, which lay outside the reef. On the ground they had occupied when the fort opened fire on them were stretched upward of a dozen dead men. It was evident that the Spanish had carried off their wounded, who probably numbered as many more. A party was at once sent down, accompanied by the surgeon, to ascertain if any of those on the ground were still alive; but Mac, having gone round and examined each of these carefully, pronounced them all as “dead as herrings.”

“There, my lads,” he said to the men, who had come with pickaxes and spades. “Now you may bury them all as fast as you like; their fighting days are over.”

The seamen carried the bodies off to a distance from the fort, when having dug a large grave, they tumbled them in without any ceremony. Before the sun had risen many degrees above the horizon, the dead Spaniards were for ever put out of the sight of their fellow-creatures.

Meantime, the proceedings of the frigate had been watched with no inconsiderable interest by Commander Olding and his officers. The wind was still blowing a moderate breeze from the south-west, and would enable her without difficulty to get in much nearer than she was at present to the island. She was seen to be getting up her anchor. The topsails were let fall, and, with her boats ahead, she stood in towards the fort.

“Her captain, finding that he cannot capture us as he expected, intends to attack the fort with his great guns,” observed the commander. “He will find, if he attempts to do so, that he has made a still greater mistake than at first. He must be well acquainted, however, with the navigation or he would not venture to bring his frigate in among these reefs.”

The men had in the mean time been piped to breakfast, the commander and his two lieutenants alone remaining on the ramparts to watch the proceedings of the frigate. The wind was light, the sea smooth, and she was enabled to thread her way amid the reefs without difficulty.

“Her captain maybe a bold fellow, but he is not a wise one,” observed Mr Tarwig. “If it comes on to blow, and I think there is a great probability that it will do so, he will wish himself well out to sea again before he can get there. He seems only to be thinking how he can get near the fort, but if he had kept his eye to windward he would have observed yonder bank of clouds rising above the horizon.”

The Spanish flag was now seen to fly out from the peak of the frigate, leaving no doubt as to her nationality. She stood on for a few minutes longer, when her sails were clewed up and her anchor let drop. Though she had now got near enough to reach the fort with her guns, she had to get a spring on her cable before she could bring them to bear upon it.

“Now, my lads, let us show the Spaniards what English gunnery is like,” cried the commander, as the men returned to their quarters. “Fire!”

No sooner was the order given than every gun on that side of the fort was discharged at the enemy, with so good an aim that few missed, some of the shots striking her hull, others her rigging. In spite of it, however, the Spaniards managed to get a spring on their cable and to open fire with the whole of their broadside.

“They will not hurt us if they can’t take better aim than that,” observed Gerald to Nat Kiddle, as the greater number of the enemy’s shot flew either on one side or the other of the fort, or buried themselves in the bank below it.

As twelve of the corvette’s guns had been brought over to the west side of the fort, they were not much inferior in number to those the Spanish frigate could fire in return; while they were much better served, the English crew firing two guns to the Spaniard’s one. Their shot soon began to tell with terrible effect on the enemy; several were seen to go through her bulwarks, while her rigging was much cut up.

The action had continued for nearly an hour, and during all that time not a single person in the fort had been hit. At length the Spaniard appeared to have had enough of it. Her boats were observed ahead, as if about to tow her off the shore. Her cable was cut, and she was seen steering for a passage which the master had lately discovered between the reefs to the north-west.

“She must put her best foot foremost, if she expects to get to sea before the wind which will come out of yonder black cloud catches her,” he observed. “Should it hold as it does now she may do it, but if it shifts to the northward or westward she will go ashore as sure as my name is Billhook.”

As soon as the frigate’s head had come round, her topsails were let fall and sheeted home, and she quickly glided out of the range of the Champion’s guns. The British crew cheered lustily as they saw the defeat of their enemy.

“We must not be too sure that she will not come back again,” observed Mr Tarwig. “The Spaniards do not like the look of the weather; when the squall blows over, they will probably pay us another visit.”

“It is a chance if they will be able to do so,” observed the master. “See! here comes the wind sooner than I expected. If they can manage to get out between the reefs, they are better navigators than I take them for,” he added, as he eagerly watched the retreating enemy.

The wind continued for some time blowing from the same direction as before, enabling the frigate to thread her way between the rocks on either hand. A blast at length reached her. Over she heeled. There was no time for shortening sail; onward she flew at a rapid rate through the water.

“She will get through, after all,” observed the commander.

The various spectators almost held their breath, for, though the ship they were watching was an enemy, no one wished her to meet that fate which it seemed probable would overtake her. Now again she rose almost to an even keel, but not a brace or a sheet was slackened. Already the sea was breaking with fearful violence over a dark reef under her lee, while she was sailing as close as possible to the wind.

“She will not weather it,” cried the master. “They are attempting to go about. It’s too late, though. She’s lost—she’s lost!”

At that instant the gale with fresh force struck the devoted ship. Down she heeled, and a sea striking her before she had come round, drove her bodily on the reef. The following seas dashed wildly over her, almost concealing her dark hull from view. For a few moments her masts again came into view, but directly afterwards they fell over one after the other, and the vessel herself appeared to be melting away before the reiterated blows of the fierce waves, which seemed suddenly to rise for the purpose of effecting her destruction.

“We must be ready to offer help to any of the poor fellows who may be washed ashore,” exclaimed the commander; “though I fear that few will reach it alive.”

Both officers and men were eager to carry out his suggestion. A number of long spars and coils of rope were got ready, and the greater number of the Champion’s officers and crew set off towards the northern end of the island, the only point where it was at all probable that any of the Spaniards would be able to land. On reaching it, however, the desperate condition of the unfortunate crew was still more clearly seen. To send them help was beyond the power of the English. No boat could possibly live in the sea already running round the reef on which the ship had struck.

Already a large portion of the hull had been knocked to pieces, while the greater number of her crew had been washed into the raging surf and drowned. A few wretches alone clung desperately to the forepart of the ship and the stump of the bowsprit. No assistance could be sent to them. Every instant the wind increased; the seas rolled up more wildly against the wreck, as if eager for their destruction. Still the commander and most of the officers and crew stood watching, on the bare possibility of the wind again shifting and driving some of the hapless Spaniards on the beach.

They waited in vain. The hurricane had only as yet been gathering strength. Suddenly it burst with terrific violence, which even the seamen on the firm ground could with difficulty face, as it drove masses of spray and sand against them, the roar of the seas almost drowning the commander’s voice as he ordered them to retire to the shelter of some rocks a short distance from the shore. On getting under their lee, as they again looked towards where the wreck had been, scarcely a vestige of her remained, nor was one of her hapless crew seen alive. Still, while a hope remained that some poor fellow clinging to a piece of the wreck might be thrown on the beach, a look-out was kept to render him assistance; but some hours passed by, and not a single human being of those who had lately formed the crew of the Spanish frigate could by any possibility have remained alive. The commander ordered the men to return to the fort. The hurricane continued raging with unabated violence for the greater part of the flight.

“I say, Nat, it is as well we had not started with Mr Foley,” observed Gerald to his brother midshipman. “What would have become of us, I wonder?”

“We should have been in a bad plight, I suppose,” answered Nat. “I can’t help thinking that the commander was right in not letting us go as soon as we wished.”

The stormy weather continued for some time longer. Occasionally the wind ceased, but only again to blow with almost as much violence as before. Mr Foley and the master both acknowledged the commander’s wisdom in not allowing them to do as they had desired. The hurricane season must, however, come to an end, for it had apparently already lasted longer than usual, and the young lieutenant began to indulge in the expectation of soon returning to Jamaica.

Chapter Nineteen.

Two vessels appear off the island—One chasing the other—The sternmost supposed to be the Ouzel Galley—Firing heard at night—A calm—The boats put off—A breeze—The pirate escapes—Sound of an engagement heard—Belief that the merchantman has been captured—A boat prepared for a voyage to Jamaica—Just as she is starting, a vessel is seen at anchor inside the reefs—The boats push for her—The stranger fires at them—Is boarded and captured—Gerald’s dismay on discovering the “log of the Research, Captain Gerald Tracy”—Dillon found on board as leader of the pirates—He offers to pilot the Research into Tiger harbour—Commander Olding and his whole crew embark with guns, ammunition, and stores—The Research sails for the northward—A canoe, with five people in her, seen.

One morning Gerald and his constant companion, Nat Kiddle, had gone down just at daybreak to bathe in a pool on the beach, into which no hungry sharks were likely to enter. It was the only place where the commander would allow the men to go into the water, and they naturally preferred getting their swim before the rest of the ship’s company. They were somewhat earlier than usual, and after swimming about for some time had landed and were dressing, when Gerald, looking to the north-east, caught sight of a sail just rising above the horizon.

“Hurrah! I do believe she is standing towards the island,” he exclaimed, pointing her out to Nat. “She will see our signal and probably heave to, to know what we want. The chances are that she is a friend. No Spanish vessel would be coming from that direction, at all events, with the intention of attacking us. She is probably a man-of-war, or, if a merchantman, she is bound to one of the islands to the southward.”

“But she is as likely to be a foreigner as an English vessel,” observed Nat; “at all events, she must be greatly out of her course. If bound to Jamaica, she would have kept through the Windward Passage, or if bound to one of the Leeward Islands, she would not have come near this.”

The sun, now just rising above the horizon, cast a bright light on the topsails of the stranger, which must have discovered her to the look-out at the signal station, who immediately ran up the colours.

Gerald and Nat were soon after this joined by several other officers who had come down to bathe. Mr Foley, being among the last, had brought his telescope. The north-east trade-wind, which began blowing during the night, was now carrying the stranger steadily along before it. Mr Foley had lent Gerald his glass.

“Why, sir,” he exclaimed, as he was looking through it—“‘It never rains but it pours’—there is another craft of the same rig as the first, under all sail. It appears to me that she is chasing the headmost one.”

Crowhurst took the glass, and having glanced through it, agreed that Gerald was right. He then handed it to the master, who observed, “There is no doubt about it. The headmost vessel is a merchantman; by the cut of her canvas, I should say she was English. But the sternmost I can’t quite make out; she is probably a French or Spanish privateer. However, as they are coming on at a good rate, we shall know before long. In the mean time I intend to take my dip.”

Gerald and Nat continued watching the strangers as they approached. They had got considerably nearer by the time the master came out of the water.

“They must have encountered dark and heavy weather, and got out of their course, or they would not have been so close in to this dangerous coast,” he observed. “Lend me the glass again, Foley,” he added, turning to the second lieutenant. “Well, I can’t make out what she is,” he continued. “Her sails have an English cut about them, too. We shall make out her colours before long, for if she is English she is sure to hoist them when she sees ours flying from the flagstaff.”

Mr Foley and the rest of the party were as much puzzled as the master. No one felt inclined to leave the spot, even though breakfast-time was approaching.

Gerald felt unusually interested; why, he could scarcely tell, except that he had been the first to discover the strangers. Now he threw himself down on the sand; then he got up and walked about, and again borrowed Mr Foley’s telescope.

The course the two vessels were steering would carry them within half a mile of the outer reefs that surrounded the island. The hull of the first could already be distinctly seen. She appeared to be either an armed merchantman or a privateer; but if the latter, it was not likely that she would run from a vessel not much, if at all, superior to her in size.

Nearer and nearer drew the leading vessel. Those on board must have been aware of the dangerous character of the coast. As it was, she was standing closer than, under ordinary circumstances, prudence would have allowed.

“Yes, she is English,” exclaimed Gerald, who had been taking a long look at her through the glass. “I can see the people on her deck. They are looking, it seems to me, for some opening in the reefs, but they can find none on this side, and must see the surf breaking over the outer rocks. But what can the other craft be? If the first is English, I am sure she must be so, by the look of her hull and the cut of her sails, though I can’t make out her flag.” His hand began to tremble as he held the glass to his eye—a very unusual thing for him. “Mr Foley, sir,” he exclaimed at length, “will you take a look at yonder vessel, and say if you have ever seen her before? It seems to me that I ought to know her.”

He handed the glass as he spoke to the lieutenant, who took a long look through it.

“I can scarcely believe it possible; yet, Tracy, she appears to me remarkably like the Ouzel Galley,” observed Mr Foley.

“That is what I think she is, sir; but how she comes to be chasing another English vessel is mere than I can make out.”

While the lieutenant was speaking a flash was seen, and a shot flew from the vessel they were looking at towards the one ahead. Another and another followed from her bow-chasers, but the range was a long one, and they fell harmlessly into the water, under the counter of the ship at which they were fired.

“They were well aimed, and had they been fired from longer guns and with better powder, they would have hit their mark,” observed Lieutenant Foley.

“It won’t be long before the chase has some of those round shot aboard her,” observed the master. “The sternmost vessel is gaining on her fast, and unless she can manage to knock away some of the spars of the other, she must be overtaken in a few hours at most.”

Gerald had again got hold of the telescope. “I cannot make it out,” he exclaimed again and again. “I have just caught sight of her flag. It is black, with the death’s head and cross-bones. There is no mistaking her character; she is a pirate, but still I never saw a craft so like the Ouzel Galley. She has the same new cloth in her fore-topsail which she had when she last sailed from Port Royal, and a patch in the starboard clew of her main-topgallantsail. Can anything have happened to Owen Massey? He has not turned pirate; of that I am very certain.”

“I am afraid, then, Tracy, if that vessel is really the Ouzel Galley, she must have been captured by pirates,” observed Lieutenant Foley.

“I am dreadfully afraid that such must have been the case, sir,” answered Gerald, almost ready to burst into tears. “All I hope is that, though she is wonderfully like the Ouzel Galley, she is not her, after all. If she is, poor Owen, his officers and crew must have been murdered. Dear, dear! what will become of Norah when she hears of it?”

The two ships were now passing almost directly in front of the island; indeed, the chase had already got some way to the southward, the pirate ship—for that a pirate she was there could be no doubt—continually firing at her. Gerald walked up and down in a state of painful doubt and anxiety. Nat Kiddle remained with him, though getting very hungry and wishing to go back to the fort for breakfast. Mr Foley, who was almost as much interested as Gerald, was the only officer who remained with him.

Neither of the vessels appeared to have observed the flag flying from the fort; at all events, they took no notice of it. Both were too far off for the guns to reach them, or Commander Olding would not have allowed the pirate to pass unquestioned.

The wind, which had been blowing fresh in the morning, as the day advanced decreased, and by the time the two vessels were about three or four miles to the southward of the island it fell almost to a dead calm. They were still, however, at some distance from each other, but their guns could be heard as they exchanged shots; the headmost vessel firing her stern guns, and the other her bow-chasers, but, as far as could be seen at that distance, without inflicting much damage on the other. No sooner did the commander perceive the state of affairs than, calling his two lieutenants and the master, he proposed attacking the pirate with their three boats.

“If you will allow me, sir, I will gladly take the command,” exclaimed Mr Tarwig.

“I intended to have gone myself, but I will yield to your wishes,” answered the commander.

Of course, all the other officers were ready to go. The commander selected the master and boatswain to take command of the other two boats. Gerald and Nat Kiddle were eager to accompany them, and greatly to their satisfaction obtained leave, Gerald to accompany the first lieutenant, and Nat the master. By keeping among the reefs, many of which rose considerably above the water, they would be able to get near the pirate without being perceived, and it was hoped, should the calm continue until nightfall, that they might take her by surprise. This, of course, was most desirable, as she might thus be captured without much bloodshed. No time was to be lost, for the wind could not be depended on, and it might soon again breeze up, when she would quickly get beyond their reach.

The three boats carried altogether thirty hands, armed with firelocks, cutlasses, and pistols. The pirate’s crew was in all probability much more numerous, but that was not likely to deter British seamen from attacking them, either by night or day.

Mr Tarwig led his little squadron, threading his way among the rocks to the southward.

Gerald naturally felt an intense interest in the expedition. He was sure that the pirate was the Ouzel Galley, and he hoped from some of the prisoners they might take to gain information about Owen Massey.

A considerable portion of the day had been spent before the boats, rounding the island, again came in sight of the two ships. They were still as before cannonading each other at a distance. The boats had met with a strong current, which had considerably impeded their progress. It wanted a little more than an hour to sunset, while they were upward of two miles from the pirate.

“If we wait till dark we shall have a better chance of taking the pirate by surprise, as she will not expect to be attacked by the boats,” observed Mr Tarwig to Gerald; “but then, again, we run the risk of losing her altogether, should a breeze spring up.—What do you say, master?” he shouted to Mr Billhook, who was in the boat nearest to him. “Shall we wait till darkness comes on, or pull away at once for the pirates?”

“As you ask me, I venture to say that we had better wait till dark. If the pirates catch sight of us before we are alongside, they may knock one of our boats to pieces, or, for that matter, sink all of them,” answered the master.

The boatswain, when asked, agreed with the master. Mr Tarwig therefore decided to wait, under shelter of a high reef of black rocks, which would effectually conceal the boats from the pirate.

Gerald felt greatly disappointed. He had hoped to pull on board at once, and settle the doubts which had been agitating his mind all the morning. On looking out to the northward, he observed the hitherto glass-like sea rippled over in various directions.

“Do you observe those cat’s-paws, sir?” he asked, pointing them out to Mr Tarwig. “If the strangers feel the breeze before we get on board, we shall lose the pirate, and too likely the other vessel will fall into her hands.”

“I believe you are right, Tracy. We must give up the idea of surprising the pirate.—We must pull for her at once, master. You board on the starboard bow, Mr Dobbs on the larboard, and I will get on board over the starboard quarter. You will clear a road for yourself along the starboard gangway, master. I will meet you there.”

Scarcely had these arrangements been made, the boats still remaining concealed behind the rocks, when the pirate’s canvas blew out to the increasing breeze, and she began to glide rapidly away over the smooth water.

“I was afraid so,” exclaimed Mr Tarwig. “I am the most unlucky fellow in existence. We shall lose her, after all.”

As he spoke the pirate was seen to be running rapidly through the water, the chase at the same time getting the breeze, and, as before, keeping ahead and doing her utmost to escape. On seeing this, Mr Tarwig gave the order to the other boats to pull back.

“I can’t make it out, sir,” said Gerald, as they were returning to the island; “I feel more certain than ever that the vessel with the black flag is the Ouzel Galley. I wish that we could have got on board her, to learn what has become of my friends.”

“It is very disappointing, I allow, Tracy,” answered the first lieutenant, “but I doubt if we should have been much the wiser. Depend on it, the pirates would not have acknowledged that their craft is the Ouzel Galley, and still less how they had disposed of the officers and crew.”

“They must have murdered them all,” cried Gerald, bending down his head upon the palms of his hands. “I cannot bear to think of it, for I am sure that Owen Massey would not have yielded without a desperate struggle.”

“Well, Tracy, we have all our trials to bear. Cheer up, cheer up, matters may not be so bad as you suppose,” said Mr Tarwig in a soothing tone. Rough as was his exterior, he was a true kind-hearted man at bottom.

The two vessels were soon lost to sight in the darkness, which rapidly came on. Still the guns could be heard, showing that the chase had not yet yielded, and was, as before, endeavouring to make her escape. First they were fired only at intervals, as either one or the other could bring her bow or stern-chasers to bear on her antagonist; just as the boats reached the shore the booming sounds came with far greater rapidity, as if both were firing their broadsides.

“The pirate has brought the chase to action,” exclaimed Mr Tarwig. “May Heaven protect the right! The merchantman has done her best to escape, and small blame to her. She will now, I doubt not, fight to the last, and may, I hope, beat off the enemy.”

The whole party, on landing, stood listening to the sound of the guns, trying to judge how the fight was going. Broadside after broadside was exchanged for the space of nearly half an hour; then suddenly the firing ceased.

“Can the merchantman have beaten off the pirate?” said Gerald to the first lieutenant. “Do you think she has, sir?”

“I much doubt it,” was the answer. “What do you say, master?”

“I believe that the pirate has taken the merchantman,” replied Mr Billhook. “Those buccaneering fellows will stick to their prey like leeches. They had made up their mind that she would prove a rich prize, and were determined to have her.”

Most of the party agreed with the master, and few felt otherwise than sad at the thought of the fate which had probably overtaken the crew of the merchant vessel.

They returned to the fort.

The commander was satisfied that Mr Tarwig had done his best to capture the pirate. He had observed the breeze coming on, and fully expected that she would escape.

The fine weather having now set in, and the stock of provisions running short, the commander agreed to allow his second lieutenant, without further delay, to try and make his way to Jamaica. It had become of double importance that he should get there as soon as possible, both that a man-of-war might be sent to the relief of the Champion’s crew, and another despatched to search for the pirate, which was likely to be committing serious depredations on British commerce.

Mr Foley begged that he might be allowed to start the very next morning. He had already obtained from the purser the provisions he expected to require for the voyage, and had selected eight trusty men from among those who had volunteered to accompany him.

Greatly to Gerald’s delight, the commander gave him leave to go, Mr Foley having, according to his promise, applied for him.

The pinnace had been carefully overhauled, and such additions to her fittings as the second lieutenant thought would be necessary had been made. Nothing more, therefore, had now to be done than to put her stores and water on board, and that would not take long, so that she might set off at an early hour the next morning.

Nat Kiddle was greatly disappointed at finding that he was not to go. He again applied, through Mr Foley, for leave, but the commander considered that another officer was not necessary; he was unwilling to risk the safety of more people than were absolutely required. There was but little danger to be apprehended from the weather; the risk was far greater of falling into the hands of the enemy, who would, of course, if they were taken, prevent them from proceeding on their voyage. Should this happen, matters would become serious on the island, though the commander still hoped to be able to maintain the crew for many months to come, with the help of such wild-fowl and fish as could be caught.

Next morning, before daybreak, all hands were roused up, it being arranged that the pinnace was to start directly there was light enough for her to see her way between the reefs. Those who were to go were first to breakfast, while a party who had been told off for the purpose carried the stores and water down to the pinnace. She was soon loaded; and a ruddy glow had just appeared in the eastern sky as Mr Foley and his companions stepped on board.

It had again become perfectly calm. Not a breath of air ruffled the smooth surface of the ocean; scarcely a ripple broke on the beach.

“You will have a long pull of it among the reefs,” observed the master; “but you will get a breeze, I hope, from the north-east when the sun rises.”

The mists of night had begun to clear away, when Mr Foley, looking towards the south-west, exclaimed, “There’s a vessel at anchor.”

The pinnace was on the point of shoving off.

“Wait till we see what she is,” said the commander, who had come down, as had all the officers and men, to bid farewell to their shipmates.

The sun now quickly rising, shed its rays on the stranger, towards which several telescopes were turned.

“She is the very merchantman we saw yesterday, or I am much mistaken,” observed the commander.

“No doubt about it, sir,” said Mr Tarwig.

“Foley, you will be saved a voyage in the boat. We must board her without delay, or she may be getting under way, although it seems strange that she should not have noticed our flag,” said Commander Olding. “Can she have beaten off the pirate?”

“It looks like it, sir,” answered the first lieutenant. “Either the pirate must have escaped or been sent to the bottom.”

“We shall soon hear all about it, I hope; and we must get her to take us off,” said the commander.

“As the pinnace is ready, I will pull on board at once, sir, if you will allow me,” said Mr Foley.

The commander hesitated for a moment. “We will run no unnecessary risk,” he observed. “She may have beaten off the pirate, or she may have become her prize, and if so, it will be safer for all the boats to proceed together well armed.”

Some minutes were occupied in unloading the pinnace, that more men might go in her; and in the mean time the crews of the other boats hurried back to the fort to obtain their arms. Mr Tarwig and the master taking charge of them, as soon as all were ready they shoved off, and pulled as fast as the men could lay their backs to the oars towards the stranger. As they got from under the shelter of some of the higher reefs, which had at first concealed them, they must have been seen from her deck, as the British ensign was run up at her peak.

“Hurrah! after all, she must have beaten off the pirate!” exclaimed Gerald.

“I am not quite so sure of that,” answered Mr Foley. “If she is a prize to the pirates, they would hoist the flag to deceive us, and as they see only three boats, they may hope to beat us off. Don’t let us be quite sure that yonder vessel is not in the hands of the pirates,” he shouted out to Mr Tarwig, whose boat was astern of the pinnace.

“I agree with you,” was the answer. “We will be on our guard.”

The first lieutenant, as the senior officer, now took the lead, and the other two boats followed a little more than an oar’s length apart. Mr Tarwig’s boat carried an ensign, and as he approached the stranger he unshipped the flagstaff and waved it so that it might clearly be seen. The boats had now got within hail of the merchant vessel. The British colours were still hoisted at her peak.

“Who are you?” shouted a man who just then appeared on the poop of the merchant vessel. “Keep off, or we shall fire at you.”

“We are British—the officers and men lately belonging to his Majesty’s sloop of war Champion,” answered Mr Foley. “If you are English we are your friends, and we intend to come on board.”

“You may be, or you may be buccaneering rascals, and we don’t intend to trust you; so stand off, or we shall fire and sink all your boats,” shouted the man who had before spoken.

“I repeat that we are British, and you fire at your own risk,” answered Mr Tarwig.

“There is no doubt that the pirates have possession of the vessel,” observed Mr Foley to Gerald.

The first lieutenant seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion. “Pull ahead, lads!” he cried out; and the men again gave way, the pinnace dashing up on the quarter, and the other two boats on either side.

As they approached the stranger opened her broadsides, and firelocks and swivels were discharged at them; but they were already so close that the shot flew over their heads, and the next instant the British seamen were scrambling up the sides of the stranger, in spite of the opposition offered them from pikes, firelocks, and pistols. As they threw themselves over the bulwarks, they encountered a savage-looking crew, of whose character there could be no doubt; but, savage as they appeared, the cutlasses of the hardy tars quickly played havoc among them. Some were cut down; others fled to the waist, and leaped below; and several, in desperation, threw themselves overboard. Within a minute the greater part of the deck was in possession of the Champion’s crew, a small number of pirates alone standing at bay around the mainmast.

“We ask for quarter, and if you give it we will lay down our arms and save further bloodshed,” exclaimed one of the party, who appeared to be an officer.

“We give you the quarter you ask, and your lives will be safe till you are brought to a fair trial,” answered Mr Tarwig, “but I will not promise you any other terms.”

The man consulted with his companions. It was evident that all further resistance would be hopeless, as already the Champion’s people were in possession of the forecastle and aftermost guns, and could in an instant turn them on the pirates, whom they, besides, considerably outnumbered.

“We trust to your honour and give in, sir,” said the former speaker.

“I repeat what I have before said—your lives shall be spared,” answered Mr Tarwig.

On which the pirates threw their arms on the deck. They were forthwith pinioned by the victors, and those who had escaped below were brought up and treated in the same manner.

Gerald had remarked the countenance of the man who acted as spokesman for the pirates, and was much struck by it. Could he be O’Harrall? The man, though he had at first stood forward, now tried to conceal himself among his companions. Gerald, on getting closer to him, felt sure that, if not O’Harrall, he was the very man whom he had before mistaken for him, who had been pressed on board the Champion and afterwards made his escape from her. This, if he was right, would account for his wish to conceal himself as much as possible from the Champion’s officers and people, who could scarcely fail, however, to recognise him.

Gerald’s attention and that of most of the party was, however, taken up with other matters. The appearance of the ship showed that she had been engaged in a hard-fought action. Her masts and rigging were considerably cut about, though none of her spars appeared to be severely damaged. Her bulwarks in two or three places were knocked in, and there were several shot-holes in her sides, which had been hastily plugged. Splashes of blood here and there on the deck showed that several of the hapless crew had been killed or wounded while defending their ship. The pirates had already obliterated the name on her stern. Why they had done this it was difficult to say, except perhaps, for prudence’ sake, it was their custom immediately on capturing a vessel.

While the first lieutenant and the master were superintending the operation of securing the prisoners, Gerald accompanied Mr Foley into the cabin. At the first glance they saw that it had been lately occupied by passengers. In the side berth were hanging up two or three articles of female gear. A book lay open on the table.

In another cabin were a pair of men’s shoes; and in a third, evidently that of the master of the ship, were several other articles. Gerald hurried into the latter, for his eye had fallen on a chart hanging against the bulkhead, the appearance of which struck him. The outside was marked in large letters, “Caribbean Sea.” He had himself written them. With trembling hand he took it down. Yes! it was a chart belonging to his father. He hurriedly glanced at other articles, several of which he recognised. On a locker was a log-book. He opened it; all doubt was at an end. It was headed “Log of the Research, Captain Gerald Tracy.” He hurried over the latter pages. There he saw that the ship had met with a long course of bad weather when no observations could be taken. The last entry was—“A strange sail in sight standing towards us. Latitude 23 degrees north, longitude 73 degrees 15 minutes west.” Leaving the berth with bloodless lips and pale cheek, he turned to the first page of the book on the table. On it was written—“Norah Tracy.”

Mr Foley was startled by the cry of grief and alarm which escaped from Gerald. Unable to speak, Gerald could merely point at the page. Mr Foley in an instant understood it all. Several articles belonging to Norah remained in the cabin. In the other were some books, and several things marked with the name of Dennis O’Brien.

“Then Captain O’Brien must also have been on board,” said Mr Foley.

“He was my father’s greatest friend; but oh, Mr Foley, what can have become of them? Can they have all been killed by those villainous pirates?” cried Gerald.

“I trust not,” answered Norman Foley, though his heart misgave him as he spoke. “Bad as they are, they could not have been barbarous enough to put to death a young girl and two old men like your father and Captain O’Brien; beside which, I doubt whether the pirates would have yielded so quickly if they had been guilty of such a crime. I think we shall find that they were taken on board the pirate vessel, which stood on for their stronghold, leaving the prize to follow as soon as she had repaired damages.”

Norman Foley, feeling sincere sympathy for Gerald, offered him all the consolation in his power; but still, knowing the savage character of the pirates, he could not help dreading what might have been the fate of Norah and the old captains. He guessed at once that they had come out in search of the Ouzel Galley, which, if she had been captured by the pirates, could not have returned home; and now they themselves had fallen into the power of the miscreant who had taken her. Mr Foley at length persuaded Gerald to return with him on deck, where they found the man whom Gerald had at first taken for O’Harrall, standing with his arms bound behind his back, while Mr Tarwig was questioning him as to how he came to be on board the merchantman. Several of the Champion’s crew had in the mean time, it appeared, recognised him as Michael Dillon, the man who had deserted from their ship in Port Royal harbour, just before she sailed from thence. Gerald had no longer any doubt about the man, and corroborated what the seamen had said.

“I will not deny that I am Michael Dillon, or that I deserted from your ship. I suppose that I must be prepared to meet the doom of a deserter,” he answered boldly; “but you guaranteed my life, sir, till I have been fairly tried; and as I conclude that you intend to keep your word, I need not at present trouble myself about the matter. In the mean time, I can give you valuable information, and render essential service to that young gentleman I see there, Gerald Tracy, and to those he cares for. If you will undertake to let me go free after I have rendered the service I speak of, I will perform it faithfully. If you refuse to promise that my life shall be spared, my lips will be sealed, and you will find no one else to do what I can. You know me for a determined man, and you may tear me to pieces before you get the secret out of me.”

“I do not understand you,” answered Mr Tarwig. “I must know more about your offer before I make any promise.”

“I believe that I can explain what the man means,” said Mr Foley, drawing the first lieutenant aside, when he informed him of the discovery that he and Gerald had made in the cabin, and his belief that the pirates had either put Captain Tracy and his daughter to death, or carried them off on board their own ship.

This of course made Mr Tarwig much more ready to listen to Dillon’s proposals; still, without Commander Olding’s sanction, he could not promise the man his life. He determined, therefore, to send the gig under charge of the master, who would give an account to the commander of what had occurred, and receive his orders. It was necessary to keep the greater part of the Champion’s people on board to repair the damages the ship had received, and to watch over the prisoners.

“I will not be long absent, depend upon that,” said Mr Billhook, as he jumped into the boat and pulled away for the shore.

It was a trying time for poor Gerald. He longed to ascertain from the pirate how his sister and father had been treated; but Dillon and his companions kept their mouths closed, and would not reply to a single question put to them. The men not engaged in watching the pirates were fully employed in more effectually stopping the shot-holes than had before been done, and in knotting and splicing the rigging; thus Gerald had but little time to talk on the the subject which engrossed his thoughts. He just got a few words with Mr Foley, who somewhat relieved his mind by expressing his belief that Norah and his father had been made prisoners and carried on board the pirate. “I think there is another reason for believing that they were not put to death; I suspect that had they been, Dillon would not have offered to give us any information, as he would have known that he could expect no mercy at our hands.”

“I wish that the commander would come off,” said Gerald. “I have been thinking, sir, that if he would agree to man this ship and go in search of the pirates at once, before returning to Jamaica, we might capture them. They will not know that we have retaken her, and we might thus approach them without being suspected. If you will press the matter on the commander, I hope that he will agree to the plan.”

“I feel nearly sure that he will do so,” answered Mr Foley. “The idea is a good one; he will probably think of it himself; if not, I will lead him to it. If the plan occurs to him, so much the better, as of course he will be the more ready to carry it out.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” answered Gerald, his sanguine temperament making all difficulties vanish. He could not indeed bring himself to believe it possible that any beings in the form of men could have had the cruelty to injure his dear young sister and revered father; but then, if Owen had been killed, how sad would be Norah’s lot! It would break her heart; of that he was sure.

“Gig coming off, sir,” cried the look-out to Mr Tarwig.

In a short time the commander stepped on board. The first lieutenant reported all that had occurred. Commander Olding at once sent for Dillon. Gerald stood by, almost trembling with anxiety as to what course would be taken. The pirate boldly confronted his late commander, and repeated the offer he had already made.

“How can I trust you?” asked Commander Olding.

“You can put a pistol to my head and shoot me, sir, if I do not fulfil my promise,” he answered, calmly.

“If you can enable us to recover the master of this ship, and his daughter, and any other of the people who were on board her, I will promise to set you at liberty; but, if you are retaken, you must stand the consequences,” said Commander Olding.

“That is the very proposal I was going to make, sir,” answered Dillon. “I will undertake to carry this ship alongside the Ouzel Galley, which was captured by buccaneers, and is now used by them to go pirating. Her former master and several of his people are alive, for I saw them lately, and if you manage as I will advise you, you will recover them likewise. I confess, sir, that I wish to save my life, and I desire also to make what amends I can for the harm I have done. Will you believe me?”

“I believe you to be a great villain, but I trust you to perform your promise, because it will be to your interest to do so,” answered the commander. “Should you prove treacherous, you may depend upon being instantly shot.”

“I have not the slightest doubt about that, sir,” said Dillon, with an attempt at a laugh. “The sooner you can get this ship ready for sea the better. I was left here to do so, not supposing that you had any boats on shore to come off to us; and from the number of shot-holes in her hull, it was feared that, unless we could get them securely stopped, should a strong breeze get up she would go to the bottom.”

Gerald felt greatly relieved when he heard the commander undertake to carry out Dillon’s proposal.

After a short consultation with his lieutenants, Commander Olding despatched all his own boats, and two of the Research’s which had escaped injury, to bring off the remainder of the officers and crew, with provisions, ammunition, and stores, and four guns to increase the armament of the Research. These would make her more than a match for the Ouzel Galley. He also directed that the guns left in the fort should be spiked, as too much time would be lost in bringing them down to the beach and throwing them into deep water.

“It will matter little, however, if the Spaniards do take possession of the island, as no one would wish to deprive them of it,” he observed to Mr Tarwig.

“I should think not, sir; and, for my part, I hope never to set eyes on it again,” was the answer.

The boats made several trips, the whole day being expended in bringing off the stores. The carpenters had in the mean time plugged all the shot-holes, while the boatswain and the men working under him rove fresh braces, fished the damaged spars, and repaired all the standing rigging, so that by the following morning the Research was ready to proceed on the expedition.

The commander had had another interview with Michael Dillon, who swore solemnly that neither Captain Tracy nor his daughter, nor the other old captain, had received the slightest injury. He had seen them, he declared, taken on board the Ouzel Galley. The young lady’s trunks and their valises had also been removed with them.

“And what became of the rest of the officers and crew of the merchantman?” asked the commander.

“They were mostly expended before we boarded,” answered Dillon, coolly. “They were knocked on the head by our shot; others who resisted were cut down, and the remainder were taken on board our vessel.”

“Are they still on board her?” asked Commander Olding.

“As to that, sir, I cannot say,” answered Dillon; “but our captain was in good humour, and may have spared their lives, though I will own it is not always his custom to let his prisoners live. He ordered me, with the hands you found on board, to take charge of the prize, and to follow him as soon as I could get her into seaworthy trim.”

Gerald was satisfied that one part of Dillon’s statement was correct, as on examining the cabin he could find none of his sister’s trunks, nor any in either his father’s or Captain O’Brien’s cabins, although nothing else had apparently been removed from the ship. What the intention of the pirate was with regard to them, it was impossible to say. Dillon could throw no light on the subject. Mr Foley expressed his hope that the pirate intended to treat them mercifully, and perhaps, he thought, would land them at some place whence they could find their way to Jamaica, or to put them on board any vessel they might fall in with bound to that island.

This idea of Mr Foley’s greatly relieved Gerald’s mind, and he again began to hope that he should have the happiness of once more seeing them. The commander gave him permission to visit Dillon, so that he might try to ascertain the fate of Owen Massey.

“Though you were among those who dragged me on board the king’s ship, I bear you no ill-will,” answered Dillon. “I will therefore tell you that I saw Owen Massey, alive and well, not ten days ago. He was then on good terms with the pirate captain, but I cannot answer for what may happen when the young lady appears on the scene. She may perchance prove to be an ‘apple of discord.’ The captain has an eye for beauty, and from what I have heard, Owen Massey is engaged to marry your fair sister.”

“How do you know that?” asked Gerald, surprised at the man’s remark.

“We hear all sorts of things, and such an idea was current among our fellows,” answered Dillon in a careless tone, which somewhat excited Gerald’s anger.

“You have given your promise to try and rescue Owen Massey and any of his companions, as well as my father and sister, and their friend Captain O’Brien,” he observed.

“I have promised to do my best to help them, and I intend to keep to that promise,” answered Dillon.

Villain as he knew the pirate to be, Gerald was now satisfied that the lives of his father and Norah had been preserved.

Soon after dawn the next morning a light breeze sprang up, which enabled the Research to get under way. As soon as she was clear of the reefs, Dillon was brought on deck, and desired to inform the master what course to steer in order to reach the pirate’s stronghold. Look-outs were stationed aloft and at each fore-yardarm, that any dangers ahead might be seen and avoided, the commander not trusting alone to Dillon’s pilotage.

“With this light wind it will take us three days at least to reach ‘Tiger Key;’ that is the name the buccaneers have given their stronghold,” said Dillon. “It is a place no one, even when looking for it, would be likely to find, unless he knew the landmarks well, or came upon it by chance, and they will not thank me for leading you to it. I must trust, sir, to your not only sparing my life, but protecting me afterwards, for if I fall into their hands they will murder me to a certainty.”

These remarks were addressed to Mr Tarwig, to whom the pirate seemed more inclined to be communicative than to any one else.

“What makes you so ready to deliver your late companions into our hands?” asked the first lieutenant. “I thought that buccaneers were always faithful to each other, although at war with the rest of the world.”

“In the first place, sir, I wish to save my life—that would be sufficient reason for what I have undertaken,” answered the pirate; “and, then,” he added, a dark scowl coming over his countenance, “I have sworn vengeance against those who have offended me. I had a quarrel with the captain, whom, though I am his equal, I was ready to serve. He treated me with contempt, and refused to trust me. However, it is a long story, and I will not trouble you with it now. What I say will convince you that I intend to be faithful, and that it will not be my fault if you fail to capture the pirate and his followers.”

“And who is this buccaneering captain of whom we have heard so much of late years?” asked Mr Tarwig.

“He goes under different names, sir; and, although I may happen to know his right one, you will excuse me if I decline to tell it,” answered Dillon, the dark frown still resting on his brow as he spoke.—“His present followers know him as Manuel Bermudez; but he has not a drop of Spanish blood in his veins, I can answer for that.”

What Dillon said convinced Mr Tarwig that he could be trusted in carrying out their project. It was arranged that on approaching Tiger harbour he should appear to have the command of the ship, and that only as many men as had been left on board by the pirates should be seen on deck, all of them dressed as the pirate crew had been, and that the remainder should lie down concealed under the bulwarks, or remain below ready to spring up at a moment’s notice. Commander Olding intended, on entering the harbour, to run up alongside the Ouzel Galley and capture her, and then to turn his guns on the people on shore should any resistance be offered. Dillon assured him that no forts existed on shore for the defence of the harbour, the pirates trusting entirely to the intricacy of its navigation.

The Research stood on for a couple of days more, close-hauled, frequently having to tack to avoid the rocks and reefs to the westward. Without the greatest possible care she might easily have shared the fate of the Champion. As she got to the northward the difficulties of the navigation increased. Dillon, however, proved himself to be an able pilot. He smiled as he saw the pistol which one of the warrant officers held constantly at his head, as if he considered the precaution a very unnecessary one.

“Nobody desires to see the Research safe inside Tiger harbour more eagerly than I do,” he observed. “Should the ship strike on a reef, it will not be my fault.”

“A sail on the weather-bow!” shouted the look-out from aloft.

“What is she like?” asked Mr Foley, who had charge of the watch.

“A small boat or canoe under sail, sir,” was the answer.

Gerald, who was on deck, was sent by Mr Foley with a spy-glass aloft to take a look at the boat. “If she steers as she is now doing she will pass, I take it, a couple of miles from us, sir,” he cried out.

The commander, who just then came on deck, upon hearing this, ordered the ship to be put about to cut off the boat. At the same time the colours were hoisted, so that should the people in the boat be English, they might know that the ship was a friend. A considerable amount of curiosity was excited as to what a small boat could be about in these little-frequented seas, and all the glasses on board were turned towards her. As she had now altered her course and was standing towards the ship, she was rapidly neared, and five people were counted on board her.

Chapter Twenty.

The Ouzel Galley overtaken by a hurricane—Driven towards the coast of Cuba—The mainmast struck by lightning—Fire—Owen extinguishes the flames—Close in with the coast—A stranger seen—A mutiny on board—Chased—The Ouzel Galley boarded by pirates—O’Harrall recognises Owen, and spares his and his followers’ lives—The Ouzel Galley carried to the pirate’s stronghold—Owen and his companions imprisoned in the store—Old Mammy keeps strict watch—O’Harrall’s changeable temper—Plans for escaping—Months pass by—Fresh guards set to watch them—Hear of the loss of the Eagle—The pirates still in the Ouzel Galley—Owen and his followers escape in a canoe—See the Ouzel Galley—Avoid her—Get on board the Research.

When Owen Massey sailed from Montego Bay, he had hoped to escape all enemies and make a rapid passage to Waterford; but those hopes were doomed to disappointment. Scarcely had the Ouzel Galley passed Bellevue than signs of a coming gale from the westward were perceptible. So partial, however, are the disturbances of the atmosphere in that region, that Owen kept the ship under all sail in the expectation of being able to run out of it before it reached him. Still he was too good a seaman not to take the necessary precautions. All hands remained on deck, while he continually turned his eye to windward, to be ready to shorten sail immediately it became absolutely necessary. As the day drew on, the blue mountains of Jamaica grew less and less distinct. Should the gale overtake him, it was of the greatest importance to gain a good offing, for in mid-channel he would not have much to fear. The Ouzel Galley was a stout ship, and, if well handled, might brave the fiercest hurricane. The log was hove. She was making between eight and nine knots, a speed she could not often exceed. The wind was well aft and all her sails filled. His hopes of escaping the gale continued. After some time, however, he saw that the dark bank of clouds which had long been visible above the horizon was rising more rapidly than at first. Then masses detached themselves and came rushing across the sky, breaking into numerous portions, like the riflemen of an advancing force feeling their way through an enemy’s country. Still he carried on to the last moment.

“In studding-sails!” he suddenly shouted. “Let fly royal and topgallant sheets!”

The first-named sails were speedily hauled down. The crew then hurried aloft to hand the others, which were fluttering in the wind.

“Three reefs in the topsails!” was the next order given.

A strong crew alone could have performed the operation as rapidly as it was got through. The courses were next brailed up. Still the ship flew on as fast as previously before the rising gale.

“Bedad! and it’s my belafe that we’re going to have old Harry Cane on board,” observed Dan to Pompey.

“You not far wrong dere,” answered the black. “Cappen Massey know what him about. I’se sooner be ’board Ouzel Galley when a hurricane blowing dan on board many a king’s ship, when de cappen tink he berry wise an’ carry on till de masts go ober de side.”

“Troth! an’ ye’re right there, Pompey, my jewel! We’ll be afther running out of the harricane, and sorra the worse will we be.”

The confidence felt by the young master’s two faithful followers was shared by most of the crew.

The Ouzel Galley behaved admirably; she ran on before the fast-rising seas roaring up alongside. The wind whistled in her rigging, and bright flashes of lightning darted from the black clouds now gathering thickly overhead.

As the night drew on the wind increased, and it was now blowing a regular hurricane; still, as long as there was plenty of sea room, no danger was to be apprehended, unless indeed, the ship should be struck by lightning, against which no skill or seamanship could guard. No one on board could hide from himself that such might possibly occur, as the flashes succeeded each other with still greater and greater rapidity, the lightning frequently running along the yards, now playing round the mast-heads, now darting over the foaming seas in snake-like forms. In the intervals between the flashes, so dense was the darkness that the eye failed to see half across the deck, and had another vessel been overtaken, the Ouzel Galley might have run her down before she could have been perceived. The canvas had been reduced to a single close-reefed fore-topsail, which so tugged and strained at the mast that every instant it seemed as if about to be torn out of the bolt-ropes. As long as the wind blew from the westward or south-west, the ship could run on with safety till she had got to the eastward of Cuba, and before that time there was every probability of the hurricane ceasing. Her only safe course was to keep directly before it, for if she were to bring the seas abeam, they would to a certainty sweep over her and carry everything before them.

Owen remained on deck, holding on to a stanchion, while two of his stoutest hands were at the wheel. For some hours he had stood at his post, feeling no apprehension of danger, when towards the end of the middle watch the wind shifted suddenly to the southward, blowing with even greater fury than before. The helm was put a-starboard, and the Ouzel Galley was now running towards the dangerous coast of Cuba. There was no help for it; but Owen expected, as is often the case during a hurricane, that ere long the wind would again shift.

For a short time there was a comparative lull, and all on board hoped that the gale was breaking.

“We shall be able, I am thinking, sir, to make sail and haul off from the shore by morning,” observed his first mate. “It is well not to get nearer the Cuba coast than we can help. There are not a few low keys and sandbanks to bring us up; or one of the enemy’s cruisers may be spying us, and it would give us a job to get away from her.”

“As to that, I am not much afraid,” answered Owen. “I shall be thankful when the hurricane is over and we can stand on our course.”

The hurricane, however, was not over. Again the wind struck the ship with tremendous force, the lightning, as before, playing round her, crackling and hissing as it touched the wildly tossing waves. Suddenly there came a frightful crash. The splinters flew on every side, and the tall mainmast, tottering for a moment, fell over the side, breaking away the bulwarks—either it or the lightning which had riven it killing three men who were standing near. In its fall it carried away the mizen-mast.

“Fire! fire! the ship is on fire!” shouted several voices. “Put it out, then, my lads, and clear away the wreck,” cried Owen, seizing an axe which hung inside the companion-hatch, he himself setting the example, which was followed by his mates and several others.

While one party was engaged in cutting away the shrouds and running rigging, so as to let the blazing mass fall into the water, another was handing up buckets and throwing water over the stump of the mainmast. The wreck of the mast being got rid of, the flames on deck were soon extinguished; but a cry came from below that the heel of the mast was on fire.

“We shall soon put that out, lads,” cried Owen, with all the calmness he could assume; and leading the way into the hold, bucket in hand, he forced a passage through a dense mass of smoke until he reached the seat of the fire.

There he took his post, in spite of the heat and the clouds of smoke surrounding him. As the buckets were handed to him, he hove the water over the burning wood. Bravely he fought the flames, and at length was able to shout to his crew that they were extinguished. Having assured himself of this fact, he hurried on deck. The foremast stood, carrying the closely reefed fore-topsail.

“It can’t be helped,” he observed to his first officer. “As soon as the weather moderates, we must set up fresh backstays to the mast and try and rig jury-masts, which will carry us back to Port Royal.”

“I shall be thankful if we can keep clear of the land and escape the enemy’s cruisers we were talking about, sir,” answered the mate, who, though a steady man, had less spirit than the master.

When daylight broke, the outlines of the lofty mountains of Cuba were seen ahead, but still indistinct, and, to the ordinary eye, not to be distinguished from a bank of clouds. Still the ship drove before the hurricane; but, as the sun rose, the wind began greatly to decrease, although it still blew with too much force, and the sea ran too high, to allow the ship to be brought on a wind. She had, therefore, still to run before it, unwilling as those on board were to approach the dangerous coast. The sun rose as the land became more and more distinct, but still the sea was too high to allow of jury-masts being set up. In the mean time the spars were got ready to do so as soon as possible.

As the wind decreased the sea went down, but by the time the ship could be brought on a wind she was within sight of the coast, and, owing to the eccentric course she had steered, it was difficult to say exactly whereabouts she was, although Owen calculated that she was somewhat to the westward of Cumberland harbour.

“We can only hope, sir, that no Spanish man-of-war or privateersman lies anywhere inside of us, and that we shall be able to get a good offing again before we are sighted by an enemy,” observed the mate.

“I hope so,” answered Owen. “What we now have to do is to set up our jury-masts and make sail as soon as we can.”

All hands were engaged in this important operation. While it was going on, Owen occasionally took an anxious glance through his telescope towards the land. As he did so, his eye caught sight of a sail, on which the bright rays of the sun fell, standing out from it, and he soon saw that she was a large ship. A friend was not to be expected from that quarter! He made no remark, however, as all hands were working as fast as they could.

His mate at last saw the stranger.

“What do you think of her?” asked Owen.

“No good, sir,” was the answer.

“I fear not,” said Owen. “All we can pray for is that a calm may come on, till we can make sail on the ship, and then we may get away from her during the night.”

“She will be up to us long before that, sir,” observed the mate, shaking his head.

“At all events, in the mean time we will do our best,” remarked Owen; and, without taking further notice of the stranger, he continued working away with his officers and men.

At length her jury-masts were got up, with yards across, and the main-topgallantsail, and such other sails as they could carry were set on them.

By this time the stranger had approached too near to escape the notice of any one on deck. Of course her character was suspected.

“You see her,” cried Owen. “Now, my lads, I hope you will stick by me; and if she proves to be an enemy, of which I have no doubt, we will try and beat her off.”

Several of the crew answered with a hearty “Ay, ay, sir!” but others were silent; among them were the men who had lately come on board in Kingston harbour.

The wind was light, and the Ouzel Galley made but little way through the water. The stranger was now seen to be a ship of her own size, if not larger. Owen ordered the colours to be hoisted, but none were shown in return by the stranger. Again and again he took a glance at her through his telescope, and at last he called his first mate.

“Have you ever seen that ship before?” he asked.

“I have been thinking that I have, sir, and, if I mistake not, she is the very craft which so nearly captured us on our passage out.”

“I am afraid so,” said Owen. “The more reason we should try to beat her off; and, please Heaven, we will do so.”

“I will stand by you, sir; and so, I hope, will most of the men,” answered the mate; “but I don’t like the looks of some of the new hands, and least of all of that man Routh.”

As he spoke, he caught sight of Routh ascending to the mast-head, from which he was seen to wave a flag, supposing, apparently, that he was not perceived from the deck.

“We must seize that fellow,” cried Owen. “He did not make that signal without a cause.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the mate. “I will soon learn his object;” and, calling Dan Connor and Pompey, he went forward to secure Routh as he descended on deck.

Just then Owen observed a smaller flag hoisted at the mast-head of the stranger; then Routh, instead of at once coming on deck, ran out to the end of the fore-yardarm, from whence he dropped something into the water, apparently the very flag he had just waved. He then deliberately returned to the foretop, and after stopping there for some seconds, and looking at the stranger, he slowly descended the fore-rigging. As he did so, he caught sight of the mate, with Dan and Pompey, waiting for him, when, suspecting their object, he sprang up again, and shouted to several men who were standing forward. They were those of whom the mate had just before spoken as likely to become traitors. With threatening gestures, they at once advanced towards the mate.

“If you interfere with Routh it will prove the worse for you,” exclaimed John Green, who acted as their spokesman.

The mate’s first impulse was to seize the fellow, but his courage failed him. “You will hear what the captain has to say to this,” he answered, and began to retreat, Dan and Pompey unwillingly following him.

Routh, on this, took the opportunity of slipping down on deck and joining his companions.

Owen, who had seen what had been taking place, at once went into the cabin and got his own pistols and cutlass, directing the second mate to arm the rest of the men. Still, notwithstanding the mutiny on board, he kept to his determination of fighting the ship till the last. Fortunately, the mutineers had no arms, and before they were aware of it all the true men had got their weapons.

“Now, my lads,” cried Owen, “if you refuse to do your duty, you must take the consequences. Go to your guns! The first man I see flinch from them I will shoot through the head.”

This threat seemed to produce its effect, and even Routh obeyed.

The stranger was now rapidly overhauling the Ouzel Galley, which, hauled on a wind, was standing to the south-east. Owen had got his guns ready for action; the crew were at quarters. Crippled as the Ouzel Galley was, he could only hope to succeed by speedily knocking away the enemy’s masts, or otherwise seriously damaging her; for, unable to manoeuvre his ship except very slowly, he could not prevent his opponent from taking up any position which might be chosen, either ahead or astern, and raking him at leisure—or she might at once run him aboard and overwhelm him with superior numbers. Still he bravely determined to fight till the last.

He anxiously watched the stranger to judge what she would do. She had at first set all the canvas she could carry, but as she came towards the Ouzel Galley she shortened sail, gradually also edging away to leeward, apparently for the purpose of preventing Owen from making his escape. The enemy had as yet not fired a shot. Directly, however, that Owen could get his guns to bear he fired them at her; not without some effect, but that did not make her alter her course.

“She intends to board us, sir,” cried the mate, who had been watching the stranger.

“You are right, but we will give her a broadside or two first, and maybe make her alter her purpose,” answered Owen. “Fire, my lads! and run in the guns and load again as fast as you can.”

The men stationed at the aftermost guns obeyed the order, but the shot from those forward, manned by the new hands, flew wide of their mark; it might have been from their ignorance of gunnery, but, considering their late conduct, it was too probable that it was done on purpose. The rest of the crew took good aim, and then running in their guns, reloaded them.

“Here she comes!” cried the mate. “She will be aboard us presently.”

As he spoke the stranger ranged up alongside, her decks covered with men. Four of the Ouzel Galley’s guns alone went off, and ere they could be again loaded the stranger was alongside, throwing grappling-irons on board to secure her prey.

“Cut them clear!” cried Owen. “Resist boarders!”

As he issued the order, the pirates, who stood ready in the main and fore-rigging of their ship, leaped down on the deck of the Ouzel Galley, when, with a feeling almost of despair, Owen saw Routh and several of his crew join them. Still, rallying his men round him, he resolved, if possible, to drive back the pirates in spite of their numbers. Firing his pistols, he gallantly attacked them, cutlass in hand, seconded by his mates and several of his men, Dan and Pompey fighting with undaunted courage.

“On, my lads! on!” he shouted; and so sturdily did he and his companions attack the pirates, that they drove the greater number back to their own ship. This, success encouraged his men, and once more they began to hope that they should get free.

At this moment, a voice was heard from among the pirates cheering them on, and a fresh party leaping down on the deck of the Ouzel Galley bore all before them. In vain Owen and his faithful followers, Dan and Pompey and others, fought with the most determined bravery; they were soon overwhelmed by far superior numbers. Owen’s foot slipping, he fell upon the deck. At that moment one of his assailants raised his cutlass, and was on the point of giving him a death blow, when the leader of the pirates interposed his own weapon.

“Let him live!” he exclaimed. “He is one I am bound to protect; and these fellows with him—we will spare their lives. You hear?” he shouted, turning to Dan and Pompey; “if you wish to have a longer spell of life, drop your cutlasses. The ship is ours; give in, or in another moment you will be among those who lie there on the deck.”

“Faix, thin, yer honour, if yer are going to spare the captin’s life, I have no objection at all at all to live a little longer,” answered Dan—still, however, keeping his cutlass ready to defend himself.

“And I’se too glad to ’cept your offer!” cried Pompey, who also wisely stood on his guard.

“Let no one touch them, or the boy there,” said the pirate, pointing to Tim Maloney, who, though he had done his part, had now got behind Dan and Pompey.

A dizziness had come over Owen’s eyes as he fell, but now looking up, he caught sight of the pirate gazing at him. Their eyes met.

“Owen Massey,” said the pirate, taking his hand; “I know you and remember my promise.” He pointed to the ring which Owen wore upon his finger.

“O’Harrall!” exclaimed Owen. “Is it possible that you are the leader of such men?”

“It is fortunate for you that I am their leader,” answered O’Harrall, helping Owen to rise. “Were I not, you would have shared the fate of your crew. I will protect you and the three survivors, although it will be no easy matter to do so.”

“I accept your offer, and trust that you will keep your word regarding my men,” answered Owen.

More he could not say, for his feelings overpowered him, as looking round he saw his two mates stretched dead on the deck, and the rest of the men who had remained faithful to him weltering in their blood not far off. Though bruised from his fall, he was not otherwise hurt, nor were either Dan, Pompey, or Tim wounded.

“The safest place for you and these three men is your own cabin,” said O’Harrall. “Go in there with them, and I will place a sentry at the door. I cannot trust my own people, and still less the fellows who turned traitors to you.”

Owen, fully agreeing that O’Harrall was right, followed his advice. As he was going below, he saw Routh approaching O’Harrall. After gazing at each other for a moment, they shook hands. Owen, on seeing the two together, no longer wondered that he should have mistaken one for the other, so great was the likeness.

“They must be brothers, and the man who calls himself Routh is the younger, of whom my mother has spoken to me,” he thought.

Thankful to have escaped with his life, more for his mother’s and Norah’s sake than his own, Owen Massey, sad and almost broken-hearted at the loss of the ship, threw himself into a chair in his cabin, Dan, Pompey, and Tim standing round him.

“Cheer up, Cappen Massey; tings when dey come to de wust begin to mend, dey say,” observed Pompey, anxious to console his beloved master. “As de pirate sabe our lives, he set us free p’raps, and den we go back to Jamacee and you get oder ship.”

“Bad luck to the pirates for taking us, though!” exclaimed Dan. “It’s my belafe we should have bate them off, if it hadn’t been for that thafe of the world, Routh, and the other villains. By the powers! if I ever get the chance, I’ll make him repint his treachery; but as you have escaped, captin dear, the rest matthers but little to my mind in comparison.”

Owen thanked his followers for their kind expressions towards him, but he severely felt the loss of his mates and the rest of the crew, besides that of his ship, while he could not look forward with much hope to the future. He was very doubtful, also, how O’Harrall might treat him. He knew too well the savage and lawless character of the man, who, though he had saved his life, might at any moment, in a fit of passion, turn upon him and his other prisoners; and although he might withhold his hand from killing him, would without compunction put the others to death. For the present, however, their lives were probably safe; and Owen resolved to follow the pirate’s advice and remain in the cabin until summoned to leave it. He could judge by the sounds on deck that the pirate crew were engaged in repairing the damages the Ouzel Galley had received. After this he heard the order given to make sail, and he found by a small compass in the cabin that the ship was standing to the eastward.

After some time O’Harrall himself entered the cabin. “I was compelled to take your ship, Massey,” he said, “and now I have got her I am equally obliged to keep her; but I repeat to you that your life and the lives of the two Irishmen are safe, provided you remain below. The black runs no risk from my people, and he may go on deck and make himself useful. He will act as your steward, and bring you your meals while you remain on board. I intend to take command of the Ouzel Galley, so that I shall be able to look after you till you are put on shore.”

Owen was not inclined, it may be supposed, for conversation; while O’Harrall had matters to attend to on deck. He therefore, having sent Pompey there, soon left the cabin. After some time the black returned with a substantial meal, which he had prepared by O’Harrall’s orders.

Night came on, and the ship still continued her course. Owen’s only hope was that she might be sighted by some man-of-war and recaptured. This hope, however, was but slight. The pirates were likely to be wary, and they would take care to keep away from any strange sail. The wind was light, and the Ouzel Galley made but slow progress. Owen recollected that the pirate ship was in company. O’Harrall, when he came occasionally into the cabin, showed no inclination to give him any information.

Another and another day went by, and Owen began to lose all hope of being retaken; still, as long as the ship was at sea, there was a probability of this occurring.

“Suppose we are chased—won’t the pirates be after cutting all our throats, sure?” suggested Tim, who was more out of spirits than either Owen or Dan.

Owen could not help thinking that such might be the case; yet if the Ouzel Galley were to be recaptured, notwithstanding the injury O’Harrall had done him, he determined to plead for his life. Not that he could perceive a single good quality in the man, except his undaunted bravery, and he himself felt grateful to him for saving his his life, though it was done in return for his twice having saved O’Harrall’s.

On the morning of the fourth day the wind freshened, and the ship made better progress. Towards evening, Owen and his fellow-prisoners could distinctly hear the roar of breakers. Occasionally the loud voice of O’Harrall, issuing his orders, reached their ears. The ship rose and fell several times as if passing over a bar, then Owen felt that she was gliding on through perfectly calm water. He heard the orders for shortening sail; still she continued her course for some distance, till the anchor was dropped and all movement ceased. He could have no doubt that she had entered a harbour, the rendezvous of the pirates, where they would consider themselves safe from attack, and that his chances of escape were now likely to be small indeed. The Ouzel Galley had been some time at anchor when O’Harrall entered the cabin.

“I have made arrangements for you and the two Irishmen to live on shore,” he said; “the black can attend on you, and you must make the best of the circumstances in which you are placed. As to your escaping, that is out of the question, so I will not go through the ceremony of taking your word that you will not make the attempt. As to the future, I can say nothing. If I can prudently at any time set you at liberty, I will do so, although when that may be is more than I can at present say. You are at liberty to take with you your clothing, and any books you may require for your amusement. I have obtained that favour for you. According to our laws, every article on board the ship is public property, and must be divided accordingly. I will accompany you on shore as soon as it is dark. In the mean time, you can employ yourself in putting your things together, and taking farewell of the old ship. I little supposed when I was before on board that I should one day find myself her commander.”

O’Harrall spoke the last sentence in a somewhat ironical tone, and, without further remark, left the cabin. It was already dark, and Dan had lighted the lamp which hung from the deck above when O’Harrall returned.

“I will take you and your followers on shore now, Captain Massey,” he said. “Ask no questions, and take no notice of anything you see. While I am with you, you are safe; obey my directions and you will continue so, but I cannot answer for the conduct of the people hereabouts if you venture anywhere by yourself. Your men will carry your chest and their own bags.”

Pompey had entered with O’Harrall, to assist Dan and Tim; taking up Owen’s chest, they followed him and the pirate on deck. Not a man was to be seen on board; the ship appeared to be deserted. A boat was alongside, with two people in her. The Irishmen and Pompey lowered down the chest.

“Come, Massey, bid farewell to the old craft,” said O’Harrall, in the same tone in which he had before spoken; and he went down the side of the ship into the boat.

Owen and his three companions descended after him.

“Shove off,” said the pirate in Spanish; and the crew, obeying, began to pull towards the low shore, which could dimly be distinguished through the obscurity. A few trees rose above it, and here and there at intervals twinkling lights could be perceived, as if proceeding from the huts of the inhabitants.

Owen, as he glanced round, saw at once that the ship lay in the centre of a lagoon of some size, the shores of which were in most parts low; but to the southward, the direction of which he knew by the stars shining brightly from out of the unclouded sky, the ground rose to a considerable height, with what appeared to be cliffs directly above the water. Near the Ouzel Galley lay another large ship, and he guessed that she was the one which had captured her, but he wisely forebore to ask questions.

“You see the sort of place you are in,” said O’Harrall. “It is not one from which you could easily escape, however much you might desire it; but let me advise you not to make the attempt. You would to a certainty be retaken, and I could not save you from the fate to which you would be doomed. I have already shown that I desire to serve you. I could not help capturing the Ouzel Galley, for the signal made by one of your crew showed my people that she was a prize worth taking; although I knew her at once, and guessed that you must be in command, I could not help myself.”

Owen made no reply to these remarks. Bad as a man may be, he generally endeavours to offer some excuse to those he respects. But little further conversation passed till the boat reached the beach. O’Harrall then gave some orders to the men in her, who, as soon as he and his companions had landed, pulled away. The black and the two seamen then, shouldering the chests, followed O’Harrall and Owen, the former conducting them directly inland, passing some groves of cocoa-nut and other trees, and avoiding any of the huts which were scattered about here and there. After they had walked nearly a quarter of a mile, a largish building, which might have been a barn or store, met their gaze, a light gleaming from one end of it.

“Open the door, Mammy; here are your guests,” said O’Harrall, and immediately an old black woman appeared, with a lamp in her hand, which she held up to enable her to scrutinise her visitors.

“All right, massa cappen,” she said. “Glad to see the gen’lemen. I’se take good care ob dem, neber fear.”

“Go in, Captain Massey,” said the pirate. “Mammy will be your hostess while you remain with us.”

Owen and the rest entered the hut. He saw that the room in which they found themselves occupied only a part of the ground-floor of the building, being divided off from the larger portion by a wooden partition or bulkhead. On looking round he saw a ladder, which led through a trap-door to the floor above.

“Your lodging is to be up there,” said O’Harrall, pointing to it. “It may remind you of a place in which you once gave me shelter. I have not forgotten that. I wish that I could afford you better accommodation; however, it is sufficiently large and airy, and you will, I hope, find it as comfortable as you desire. Mammy will supply you with food, which your black fellow can cook, with her assistance. The only charge I have to give you is not to leave the house until you hear from me. A tackle hangs from the beam overhead. Let your men get your chest and their bags up at once; so that, should any one come to pay Mammy a visit, it will not be suspected that you are here. You see, I took precautions for your safety, and they were not unnecessary. Some of the gentry who inhabit this island would not scruple to stick a knife into you, if they thought that you were prying into their proceedings.”

“I will follow your directions,” answered Owen, telling Dan to go up the ladder and lower the tackle.

They at once hoisted the chest and bags to the floor above. A second lamp, which the old woman supplied, showed them a large room which extended the whole length of the building. At one end was a cabin table, with some chairs and a cot; at the other several bunks and seamen’s chests. There were numerous bales and boxes placed against the walls, on which also hung a variety of arms: firelocks, blunderbusses, and pistols, cutlasses and sabres, apparently the spoils of various captured vessels.

“You see that I am not afraid of trusting you with weapons,” said O’Harrall who had followed his prisoners into the place, and he pointed to the arms. “If by chance you are attacked you are welcome to defend yourselves, but I do not expect that that will happen. This building is my property; no one will come here, if you keep yourselves quiet. I have directed Mammy to get some supper for you, and the black will bring it up shortly. Now, good night. I have matters to attend to on board the Eagle, and it may be some days before I again visit you.”

“I have to thank you for the care you take of us,” answered Owen. He could not bring himself to offer his hand to the pirate, nor did the latter apparently expect him to do so.

Without further remark O’Harrall descended the ladder, and, after exchanging a few words with the old negress, took his departure.

Owen paced up and down the room, meditating on the strange position in which he was placed; while Dan and Tim sat on two chests at the further end, feeling very disconsolate. Pompey, meantime, could be heard below, chattering away to the old woman while he assisted her in preparing supper. In a short time he appeared, with a tray on his head, up the ladder.

“Cheer up, cappen,” he said. “She not so bad ole woman, me tink, and p’raps tings go better dan we suppose. At all events, she make berry good fricassee.” And he pointed to the dish of fowl prepared as he had described, which looked very tempting.

Notwithstanding their misfortune, Owen and his companions managed to discuss the viands placed before them with tolerable appetites, the two seamen and Pompey especially doing their part. At length Owen threw himself into his cot, and endeavoured to forget his sorrows in sleep. His followers, having secured the trap-door, imitated his example.

The next day passed without a visit from O’Harrall. Pompey alone went below to obtain food, Owen thinking it prudent to follow the pirate’s advice. He spent the time walking up and down the room, occasionally trying to calm his mind by reading; so that he found the hours pass away more rapidly than did Dan or Tim, who were ignorant of the art. It occurred to him at last that he might amuse them as well as himself, and as several of his books were of an interesting character, he read aloud to them, greatly to their delight.

“Faix, captin, I niver knew there was sich beautiful things in books,” exclaimed Dan, who had not in his life been read to before; “and I’ll jist make bould to axe you to tache Tim and meself, and you’ll find us apt scholars, if you don’t think us too simple to learn.”

“With all my heart,” answered Owen; and thenceforth he devoted several hours during the day to the instruction of Dan and the lad, who, giving their minds to the task, rapidly learnt to read.

One day passed very much like another. A month went by without O’Harrall’s making his appearance, so that Owen concluded that he had again sailed. Pompey could obtain no information. Mammy, he said, had made him promise not to go outside the door, and had threatened him with fearful punishment if he ventured to do so. There were windows to the room, but they were high up and strongly barred. Dan and Tim climbed up to them, but a grove of trees intervened between the house and the harbour, so that nothing could be seen of the vessels, while on the other side was a wide extent of sandy country, with the blue ocean in the distance.

Owen was naturally getting very weary of his captivity. What the pirate’s object was in keeping him a prisoner, it was difficult to understand. He could scarcely intend to keep him a captive for life; but when would he give him his liberty was the question. Owen determined to ask him as soon as he returned. He naturally often thought over some plan for making his escape, but, unacquainted as he was with the surrounding country, and without means of gaining any knowledge of it, it was impossible to decide what to do. Dan and Tim often talked over the subject with Pompey, who, however, declared that they were so narrowly watched by the old woman that it would be impossible to succeed.

“Mammy always sleep wid one eye open and ear wide-awake,” he observed. “Suppose we get out and she not raise a hullabaloo, where we go to? Wait a bit, and den we see what we do.”

Pompey, in truth, was no more able than the rest of the party to devise any feasible plan for getting away.

Imprisonment is galling to all men, but it was especially so to Owen, who had hoped to make a successful voyage, and to marry his beloved Norah at the end of it. He had no means of communicating with her, and she, naturally supposing him to be lost, would be plunged in grief. He felt that he could better bear his hard fate if he could but let her know that he was alive. He might some day regain his liberty. He had no doubts about her constancy; he was sure that she would be faithful to him; and although her friends might try to induce her to marry, he felt confident that she would not do that.

At length, one evening when Pompey was sitting with his shipmates in the loft, voices were heard below.

“Hi, dat de pirate cappen,” he exclaimed; and Owen prepared himself for an interview with O’Harrall.

Before long the pirate came up the ladder. A dark scowl was on his brow. Owen rose to receive him. O’Harrall advanced and threw himself into a chair, scarcely glancing at the men as he passed them.

“I am glad to see you, Captain O’Harrall, for I hope that you will allow me and my companions to quit this place, and we shall be ready to enter into any arrangement you may dictate not to betray its position,” said Owen.

“I am not in the habit of placing myself in the power of others when I can help it,” answered O’Harrall. “Your word may be as good as your bond, but both may be broken. I tell you plainly I intend to keep you prisoners as long as I remain in these seas. Circumstances may induce me to return to Europe, and if so, I may either carry you with me or land you at some island, from whence you may find your way to Jamaica. When that may be I cannot say. In the mean time, you must make up your mind to be content with your lot.”

“You might land me, when you next sail from this, at some such place as you speak of without any detriment to yourself,” said Owen; and, bethinking him that he would appeal to the pirate’s better feelings, he added, “You have deprived me of my vessel and ruined my prospects of advancement. I was engaged to marry a young lady who is sincerely attached to me, and for her sake I plead for my liberty, that I may be able to return to her, or at all events inform her that I am still alive.”

“Who is she?” asked O’Harrall, “although I need scarcely put the question.”

“Captain Tracy’s daughter—you have often seen her,” answered Owen.

“I thought so,” exclaimed O’Harrall. “You have counted too much on my generosity. I have not only seen her, as you say, but admire her more than any woman I have met, and should I ever wed I intend to make her my wife. Is it likely, then, that I should allow you to return home and forestall me?”

Owen’s heart sank: he could not reply.

“You have but ill pleaded your cause,” continued O’Harrall in the cold sarcastic tone in which he often spoke. “You saved my life, and I have preserved yours; more you cannot expect from me. Those men there behaved well to me on board the Ouzel Galley, and I therefore could not allow them to be killed. My sense of justice does not go further than that. You and they must make up your minds to remain where you are for an indefinite period. I came to see how you had acted, and if you behave as wisely as you have hitherto done you need not fear being subjected to any further restraint. I will, by-the-by, send you some books for your amusement. You will see by this that I do not wish to treat you with greater severity than is necessary. Now, good evening.”

O’Harrall rose as he spoke, and without further remark descended the ladder, drawing the trap after him.

A parcel of books was delivered through Mammy the next day; they consisted chiefly of voyages and travels, and proved a great boon to the prisoners. O’Harrall, however, did not again appear until some weeks after this. He was, when he then came, evidently in a bad humour, his manner being even threatening towards his prisoners. He spoke as if he regretted having spared their lives, exhibiting by the expressions he used his abandoned disposition. Owen knew that his only safe course was not to answer him. He felt that it would be hopeless to attempt to arouse any better or more generous feelings. He, however, was more than ever resolved to try and escape.

Dan proposed, could they ascertain that the pirates had sailed on any expedition, to secure the old woman, make their way down to the harbour during some dark night, and attempt to gain the open sea. Once clear of the island, they might hope to get picked up by some ship, and under their circumstances they might trust even to an enemy, or they might succeed in reaching Jamaica. They must wait, however, until the hurricane season was over, and they might then, even in a canoe, navigate these calm seas without much danger.

Owen thought the plan feasible, although it might prove difficult and dangerous. It could scarcely be hoped that the pirates would leave the harbour unguarded. It might be a hard matter to find a canoe suitable for their object, and they must also obtain a supply of provisions and water. Mammy’s watchful eye would effectually present them from doing this, and herein lay their first and chief difficulty.

O’Harrall had now been for some time absent. It struck Owen that perhaps the account he had given of the savage character of the inhabitants was to prevent then from leaving the house, and he resolved to try how Mammy would behave should they attempt to go out.

Pompey undertook to try and persuade her to allow them to take some exercise, as their health was suffering from their long confinement. He got her, therefore, one day into conversation, when she appeared to be in a better humour than usual, and after some time he made a signal to Tim, who was on the watch, to come down. Owen and Dan followed. Then, telling her that they would go out and take a short walk, they left the house without further ceremony, notwithstanding her expostulations.

“Nebber mind, Mammy,” said Pompey; “dey come back. Me help you cook dinner meantime.”

Owen took a path in the first instance away from the harbour, but as his great object was to obtain a view of it, he doubled back on the other side, and then hurried towards it. Just as they had caught sight of the water through the trees, they came upon a hut, near which they were about to pass, when Owen heard the voice of a man, as if in pain, proceeding from it. Prompted by a kind feeling and a wish to relieve the sufferer, he entered. On a rude bunk lay a white man, apparently ill of fever. He appeared greatly astonished at seeing Owen and his companions.

“Who are you?” he asked. “I thought the ship had sailed.”

“I would inquire who you are?” said Owen.

“Well, sir, I am an unfortunate fellow, who wishes that he was anywhere but where he is. I see that you are not one of the Eagle’s crew, and so I don’t mind telling you. I joined her to save my life, and now that I am ill I am allowed to die like a dog by myself, with no one to look after me. I was left on shore sick, and since I grew worse I have been unable to get any food, and I am too weak to walk.”

Owen promised to try and induce Mammy to supply the poor fellow with nourishment. He would at once have hurried back, but he was anxious, having got thus far, to obtain a view of the harbour. Accordingly, telling the man he would send him relief as soon as possible, he, with Dan and Tim, left the hut, and made their way on, keeping themselves concealed as much as possible among the trees and bushes till they came in full view of the harbour.

It was a wide lagoon, which narrowed towards the southern end, where a perpendicular cliff of some extent rose directly out of the water, its summit covered with trees. Both Owen and Dan were of opinion that this formed one end of the channel leading to the sea. No boats or canoes could be discovered on the beach. Further along it to the northward were seen a number of huts and buildings of larger size, probably storehouses. People were moving about among them, but it was impossible at the distance they were to know if they were blacks or whites. In the centre of the harbour lay the Ouzel Galley, much in the condition in which she had been when captured, and there were several smaller vessels at anchor, completely dismantled.

So far the inspection of the harbour had been satisfactory; there was nothing that Owen could see to prevent the possibility of their escaping. The party hastened back to the house. Mammy scolded them for being so long absent. “If cappen here, you no do it,” she observed; by which remark they guessed that, though she held O’Harrall in awe, she had herself no ill-feeling towards them. On Owen’s telling her of the sick man, she consented to let Pompey take him some food, and undertook to visit him herself, provided they would promise not to leave the house during her absence. This they readily agreed to do.

Some days afterwards, when Owen again managed to get as far as the hut, he found the man greatly recovered. John Hempson (as he said was his name) professed himself very grateful, and declared his intention of escaping from the pirates on the first opportunity. “I suppose that they will take me to sea the next time they go,” he observed, “and if I then have the chance, I will leave them. They are likely to be back soon, and, indeed, I wonder they have not come in before this.”

“Well, then,” said Owen, “if you ever return to the old country, you must promise to find out Captain Tracy, living near Waterford, and tell him that I am alive, and hope some day to get back. Depend on it, the captain will reward you for your trouble.”

“How will he believe me?” asked Hempson.

“I will write a letter for you to deliver,” said Owen. He, however, recollected that he possessed no writing materials, and he might not again have the opportunity of communicating with Hempson. That moment it occurred to him that he had a small book in his pocket. It contained but a portion of a blank leaf. He tore it out, and with the end of a stick he wrote the letters “O.M.”

“When my friends see this, they will know that you are speaking the truth,” he said, giving the man the paper.

Just then Dan, who had gone on ahead, came hurrying back with the information that a ship was entering the lagoon, and Owen thought it prudent at once to return to the house. Mammy, on hearing this, told her captives that they must not again venture forth, and they, of course, saw the prudence of obeying her.

O’Harrall, who had returned in the ship, paid them but one visit, when he evidently wished to find a cause for quarrelling with Owen. Owen wisely kept his temper, though Dan looked as if he would like to try the strength of his shillelagh on the pirate’s head. Whether or not O’Harrall suspected that his prisoners contemplated trying to make their escape, it was difficult to say; but they found that a hut was put up close to their abode, and that it was occupied by two Spaniards, ill-looking fellows, who seemed to have nothing to do but to sit at the door and smoke all day. They did not, however, prevent Mammy going out, accompanied by Pompey, to obtain provisions; and the latter brought them word that the ship had again sailed. Pompey also found out that Hempson had gone on board the ship, and Owen hoped that he would carry out his intention of escaping. Slight as was the chance that he would convey any information to Captain Tracy, it yet raised Owen’s spirits.

“We, must wait, howeber, to get ’way till we can manage dese rascal Spaniards,” said Pompey. “Dey keep de eye too wide open to let us go just now.”

Days and weeks and months went by, and nothing occurred to vary the monotony of their existence. The Spaniards kept too strict a watch to enable them to make any excursions out of the house, and Mammy herself seemed as cautious as she had been on their first arrival. Had it not been for the interest Owen felt in teaching his two countrymen to read, his own spirits would have broken down. Pompey also begged to go to school and join their class, but he had great trouble in learning his letters, although after he knew them he got on as rapidly as either of his companions.

Thus several months more passed by. Twice the Eagle came in, and again sailed without their receiving a visit from O’Harrall. Owen was becoming more and more sick at heart. It may seem strange that he and his three companions should have been kept in such thraldom by an old woman and two Spaniards, but could these ever-watchful guardians have been overpowered, and even a canoe secured, it would have been madness to have put to sea without provisions and water, with the chance of being pursued or picked up by the pirate ship. He waited, therefore, for an opportunity, which, however, he at times thought might never arrive.

Pompey had at length one day gone out with Mammy, when on his return he brought the news that the Eagle had been lost, and that the captain, with a portion only of the men, had returned in a small vessel they had captured. Owen naturally feared that O’Harrall, after his misfortune, would be in a worse temper than before, and was thankful that he did not make his appearance. Pompey accounted for it by informing them that he and all hands were on board the Ouzel Galley, busily employed in fitting her out.

It was now again the hurricane season, and some time would probably elapse before the pirates would venture to put to sea. For the same reason Owen considered that it would not be prudent to try and make their escape. Their chance, however, of getting off undiscovered was less than it had been before, for so great was the demand for hands to man the Ouzel Galley that the two Spaniards were called away from their post, and no others were sent to take their places. One evening, about this time, Pompey made his appearance in a great state of agitation.

“What do you tink, Cappen Massey?” he exclaimed. “I talk berry often to Mammy, and not ’spect anyting, but dis berry morning I’se tell her dat, when I was one piccaninny, I’se carried away from Africa wid my mudder; when I’se come to Jamaica, one massa buy her and anoder buy me, and from dat day I neber set eyes on her. We talkee for some time, and den she cry out, ‘You Pompey, my son,’ and she trew her arms round my neck and burst into tears. Den I kiss her and tell her dat she right, and we laugh and cry togeder for two ’ole hours.”

Owen, upon further questioning Pompey, was convinced that he was not mistaken. It greatly raised his spirits, and he had now hopes that Mammy would connive at their escape, even if she would not venture to assist at it. Pompey was very sanguine about the matter. “She so happy to find me dat she do anyting I ask,” he said positively. “Neber fear, cappen, we get away soon.”

It was, of course, necessary to wait till the Ouzel Galley, now fitted out as a piratical ship, should sail. With varied feelings Owen saw her one morning gliding out of the harbour. He, accompanied by Pompey, had gone as near to her as he could venture. He had but little to fear of being discovered, as the whole population of the place were watching the departing ship. It was certainly trying to see his own vessel sailing away in the hands of the miscreants who had captured her, on an expedition which boded ill for any merchant vessels she could overtake. She was rigged exactly as before.

Owen would not have delayed making the attempt to escape, but the nights were moonlight, and they would run a great risk of being discovered. After this bad weather came on, and a further delay occurred. Pompey had undertaken to look out for a suitable craft. It was necessary to use caution in the search lest their intention might be suspected. He had made several trips along the shore, and had discovered places where boats and canoes were hauled up, but some were too large and heavy, and others too small. At last he said that he had found one of a proper size to hold five persons, and provisions and water sufficient to last them for a week or ten days. “Five persons!” exclaimed Owen.

“Yes, cappen. Mudder says she go too. If she stop, dat fellow cut her troat.”

Although Owen would rather have dispensed with the company of the old woman, yet, in common humanity, he felt bound to take her if she wished to go. It showed, also, that she had confidence in their success, and would contrive to obtain the necessary provisions. About this she had been engaged for some time, getting some in one place and some in another, so that no suspicions might be raised as to her object.

The Ouzel Galley had sailed a fortnight or more, when Pompey announced that all was ready. Mammy packed up all the provisions in bundles, and had obtained two small casks of water, besides a number of gourds filled with the precious liquid. Pompey and Dan started as soon as it was dark, carrying loads, which they intended to hide near where the canoe was drawn up.

“We carry all de tings dere first,” he said, “and den you, cappen, and mudder, and Tim, come along, and we shove off widout delay.”

The last trip was made at about an hour before midnight, when Pompey and Dan returned, and Owen, with the old woman and Tim, accompanied them down to the beach. The night was very dark; no human being was stirring. As silently as possible the canoe was launched, when the stores were quickly put on board.

“Now, mudder, we put you ’longside cappen,” whispered Pompey. “Whateber happen, don’t cry out.”

And taking the old woman up in his arms, he waded with her till he plumped her down in the stern of the canoe. She knew no more of the navigation than they did, so she could not be of further use to the adventurers, and they thus had to depend on their own judgment.

Owen took the after paddle. Pompey placing himself in the bows, Dan and Tim gave way, and the canoe noiselessly glided down towards the supposed entrance to the harbour. They hoped that any look-outs who might, under ordinary circumstances, have been stationed on the other side of the channel, would be withdrawn to man the Ouzel Galley. They therefore trusted that they could escape without being questioned. Still the expedition was one to try the best strung nerves. Owen feared that, should they be hailed, Mammy might forget her son’s injunction. He was not aware of the determined character of the old woman.

They soon got into the narrow channel, in the centre of which Owen steered the canoe. It was necessary to proceed slowly, as from the darkness the shore on either side was in some places scarcely visible. The channel was long and intricate, but Owen, of course, knew that there must be considerable depth of water to allow large ships to get up it. They had just got to the end of the cliff, when a light was seen. Whether it proceeded from a hut or from a man with a lantern, it was impossible to say.

“Cease paddling,” whispered Owen; and the canoe glided on with the impulse already given to it.

The light remained stationary.

“Give way,” he again whispered. The men plied paddles as before. They had got some way further down, when they were startled by hearing a man shout, “Who goes there?”

They all remained perfectly silent and motionless. Just then the noise of the surf on the shore reached their ears, and they knew that they must be close to the entrance.

The man did not repeat his question for nearly a minute. As soon as he again began to speak, Owen told Dan and Tim to paddle away. He and Pompey did so likewise, and the canoe glided forward at a far more rapid rate than before. A shot was heard, but the bullet came nowhere near them. It was evident they could not be seen by the guard. The channel now widened out considerably, and they could distinguish the open sea beyond; they made towards it. There was but little or no surf on the bar, and they crossed without shipping a drop of water.

Owen had made up his mind to steer to the southward till they should sight Cuba. He felt sure that the pirate island was one of those which exist close to the Bahama Bank. Owen steered by the stars. His crew plied their paddles all night, the wind being too light to make it worth while to set the sail, and they hoped to be far out of sight of the island by daybreak. They were not without fear, however, that they might be pursued. The man who had fired at them would suppose that they were fugitives.

“Ill luck to the spalpeens who may be sent in chase after us!” observed Dan, showing what he was thinking about.

“Me no tink dat any boat come off after us,” said Pompey, “’cos ebery man who can pull an oar is on board Ouzel Galley, so we safe as to dat.”

The black’s remark was cheering to Owen, who had hitherto thought it very probable that they would be pursued. Mammy, who as yet had not uttered a word, corroborated her son’s statement.

When morning broke the island could scarcely be seen astern, nor was any land in sight ahead. The sea was perfectly calm; the sky overhead undimmed by a cloud. Owen looked round; no sail was visible in any direction. All they could do was to paddle on, in the hope that a favourable breeze would spring up to carry them on their course, when two at a time might get some sleep. The weather looked perfectly settled, and, though the canoe was somewhat deeply laden, Owen felt confident that she would be able to go through any sea which was likely to get up. His chief anxiety arose from the possibility there was of falling in with the Ouzel Galley. Should they do so, they could scarcely expect any mercy from the pirates. He, of course, intended to do his best to keep clear of her. This he trusted that he might easily do, as the canoe, being low in the water, was not likely to be attract the attention of those on board the ship, while she could be seen in time to be avoided.

A breeze came at last; the sail was hoisted, and the canoe ran merrily before it. Dan begged that he might take the steering paddle, and that the captain would lie down and get some rest, which Owen was glad to obtain, as he intended to steer during the night. The sun was setting when he awoke, and after some supper was served out he resumed the steering paddle, and told Dan and Pompey, who had hitherto been keeping watch, to turn in. Notwithstanding the sleep he had obtained, towards morning he began to feel very drowsy; still his eye was fixed on the star by which he was directing the course of the canoe.

Tim had been stationed forward to keep a look-out, and Owen had hailed him every now and then to ascertain that he was awake. He had not done so, however, for some time, and was on the point of crying out, when Tim exclaimed, “By the powers, captin, there’s a big ship ahead!”

“Lower the sail!” exclaimed Owen. “Dan and Pompey, out with your paddles.”

They started up at hearing their names called, and obeyed the order.

“Paddle for your lives, lads!” cried Owen, keeping the canoe to the eastward.

Tim was not mistaken. The wide-spread canvas of a large ship was seen towering upwards not half a mile away; in a few minutes more she would have been close to the canoe. Owen and his companions watched her anxiously; there could be little doubt that she was the Ouzel Galley. Although she was clearly seen, they might hope to escape observation. They continued, however, paddling away at right angles to her course till they were well abreast of her, when Owen once more put the canoe’s head to the southward; but not, however, till she was out of sight did he venture again to hoist the sail. The danger he had chiefly feared was past. It would take her probably a day or two before she could reach the harbour and discover their flight, and they might hope thus to keep well ahead of any boat sent in pursuit of them.

Two days more they stood on. One passed by very like the other. The wind remained steady, the sea smooth.

On the fourth day, some time after sunrise, a sail was seen ahead. Had not they all felt sure that the ship they had passed was the Ouzel Galley, they would have avoided her. Although prepared, if necessary, to perform the whole voyage to Jamaica, Owen judged that it would be far safer to get on board the first ship they could fall in with. He resolved, therefore, to approach her, and should she prove to be English, to run alongside. He little doubted that, even should she be French or Spanish, on their giving an account of their escape from the pirates, they would be treated with humanity. He accordingly steered towards her.

“Hurrah!” cried Dan. “She’s a frind, she’s a frind—for, there, up goes the English flag.”

His quick eye had seen the character of the bunting as it ascended in a ball to the peak, even before it blew out to the breeze.

As the canoe approached, the ship hove to, and in a few minutes the party of fugitives were alongside. Owen was quickly on deck, when the first person he encountered was Gerald Tracy. Exclamations of surprise burst from their lips, and Owen was soon shaking hands with Norman Foley and the rest of the Champion’s officers. His companions had followed him, Pompey shoving up old Mammy with his shoulder, while Dan hauled away at her from above. Numerous questions were put to Owen as to where he had come from, and he had to answer them before he could ask others in return.

At first he had experienced a feeling of intense satisfaction upon finding himself on board a friendly ship, but his grief may be imagined when he now heard that Captain Tracy and his daughter had fallen into the power of O’Harrall and his savage crew. Instead of rejoicing at his escape, he regretted having left the island, lest they might retaliate on their hapless prisoners. He trembled at the thought of what might be Norah’s fate. Gerald, of course, shared his feelings; and, indeed, every one sympathised with them both.

As soon as the canoe was hoisted up the sails were filled, and the Research again stood on her course towards the pirate’s island.

Chapter Twenty One.

Voyage of the Research commenced—Norah’s anxieties—A calm—Tropical sea—A gale springs up—The ship runs before it—Again stands to the westward—A dangerous position—Among islands and reefs—A suspicious sail—Chased—The Ouzel Galley—The pirate’s flag—The pirate begins firing—Norah placed in the hold—A fort seen on the island—No boats come off—The island passed—The pirates fore-topsail yard shot away—The second mate and several men of the Research killed or wounded—A calm—Damages repaired—A breeze springs up—The pirate overtakes the Research—Runs her on board—Fearful slaughter of her crew—Captured—The two old captains unhurt—Norah’s interview with the pirate—Taken on board the Ouzel Galley—Courteously treated—A sail in sight—Chased by a frigate—The Ouzel Galley escapes among the reefs—A calm—The frigate’s boats approach to attack her—A breeze springs up—She escapes.

The two old captains were well aware of the numerous perils they might possibly have to encounter when they sailed on their voyage in the Research, but for the sake of Norah they took care to make light of them whenever their prospects of success were discussed in her presence. Norah very naturally would ask questions, and to those questions they were compelled to try and find answers. In what part of the numberless groups of those western islands were they to search for Owen and Gerald? One subject absorbed all their thoughts—on that alone could they converse. Even when Captain O’Brien, as he frequently did, tried to introduce any other, it before long was sure to merge into that one. Norah day after day would unroll the chart of the West Indies, and pore over it for hours, till she knew the form and position and size of every island and key, and reef and sandbank, delineated thereon. The ship had already reached the tropics when a heavy gale sprang up from the westward, before which she was compelled to run for three days. She then had a long beat back, and the weather being unusually thick, no observations could be taken to determine her position. Day after day the two captains and the first mate came on deck at noon with their quadrants, but not a break in the clouds appeared through which they could get a glimpse of the sun.

They calculated at last that they could not be far off the most western of the Bahamas, and, as they hoped, near the entrance of the Windward Passage. At sunset the clouds dispersed, the wind shifted to the northward, the stars shone brightly forth from the clear sky, and it was hoped that the next day they might be able to determine their position. As no land had yet been seen, they stood on for the greater part of the night; but towards morning, Captain Tracy; afraid of running further, hove the ship to, to wait for daylight.

Even before the first streaks of dawn appeared above the eastern horizon, the two mates, followed by Captain O’Brien, went aloft, eager to catch the expected sight of land. What was their surprise to discover it not only to the westward, where they had looked for it, but away to the south-east and over the starboard quarter. The ship had run in during the night among a group of islands, but what islands they were it was difficult to determine. Norah had dressed and appeared from her cabin as her father and Captain O’Brien came below to consult the chart.

“Here is our position, if I mistake not,” said Captain Tracy, placing his finger on the chart. “We are further to the south’ard than I had supposed. An ugly place to have got to, but it might have been worse; the ship would have chanced to run foul of a reef had we stood on. But, Heaven be praised, we’ve escaped that disaster, and we’ll now try to thread our way into the Windward Passage.”

While the course to be pursued was still under debate, a cry from aloft was heard of—“A sail to the nor’ard!”

The captains hurried on deck, followed by Norah. “What is she like?” asked Captain Tracy.

“A large ship under all sail, standing this way, sir,” answered the second mate.

In a short time it became evident that the Research was seen by the stranger, for the latter set every stitch of canvas she could carry, and steered directly after her.

A small island appeared ahead. At first it was proposed to pass to the westward of it, but the look-out from the mast-head discovering several dark rocks rising above the surface, and extending to a considerable distance in that direction, the ship’s course was altered so that she would run along the eastern side of the island, as close in as prudence would allow. It was hoped that, to the southward of the island, a channel might be found which would lead her clear of the rocks and shoals by which she was surrounded.

Norah, who had continued on deck, had seldom withdrawn her eyes from the stranger, which appeared to her to be much nearer than when first seen. “What do you think, Captain O’Brien—is not that vessel fast gaining on us?” she asked.

“That may be, my dear Miss Norah, but it need not make us fear that she will come up with us,” answered the old captain, who could not deny the fact. “She hitherto has had the advantage of a stronger breeze than has filled our sails, but we may shortly get more wind and slip away from her. If she does come up with us, we may find that she is perfectly honest, and that we had no cause to try and keep out of her way; so don’t be alarmed, my dear, but go below and have some breakfast—it is on the table by this time—and your father or I will join you presently. One of us must remain on deck to look out for any reefs which may run off that island yonder.”

Captain Tracy giving Norah the same advice, she unwillingly went below, and took her seat at the breakfast-table to await their appearance. She waited and waited, but neither of the captains nor the first mate came below. They were all, indeed, too busily engaged in watching the progress of the stranger and discussing her character to think of breakfast. She had been bringing up a much stronger breeze than had hitherto filled the sails of the Research, to which she had now got almost within gunshot. Captain Tracy had for some time been intently examining her through his telescope.

“Tell me if you have ever seen that craft before,” he said, handing it to Captain O’Brien. “My eyes may deceive me, and it may be mere fancy, but I cannot help thinking that she is a ship I ought to know well.”

“By my faith, I ought to know her too,” exclaimed Captain O’Brien. “If that vessel isn’t the Ouzel Galley, she has been built to look like her. Perhaps, after all, our friend Owen may have run her on one of the unfrequented keys to the nor’ard, and, having only lately got her afloat and refitted, is now on his way to Jamaica. He is therefore naturally anxious to speak an English ship, to hear news from home.”

“That vessel may be the Ouzel Galley, but Owen Massey would never hoist such a piece of bunting as that,” cried Captain Tracy, who, having again taken the telescope, was looking towards the stranger, which had just then run up to her fore topgallant mast-head a black flag with the well-known pirate’s device of a death’s head and cross-bones. The object was evidently to intimidate the crew of the chase.

Directly afterwards the stranger yawed and fired her foremost gun. The shot came flying across the water, but, after several times striking the surface, sank short of the Research. There was no longer any doubt of the character of the stranger.

“Lads,” cried Captain Tracy, “you see that flag! Death or worse than death will be our lot if we don’t beat off the piccarooning villains who have hoisted it. They think to frighten us; but stand to your guns like men, and we’ll beat her off.” The crew cheered, and promised to do their duty.

Norah had not heard the sound of the gun fired by the pirate, but the men’s hearty cheers reaching the cabin, she hurried on deck to learn what caused them. Just as she appeared, the pirate, again yawing, fired three shot in rapid succession, one of which glanced along the side of the Research. Captain Tracy had just ordered two guns to be brought aft, and the crew were engaged in the operation, when, seeing Norah, he begged Captain O’Brien to take her below and to place her where she could be out of the way of harm. She had seen enough, however, to show her the state of affairs; her fears were realised.

“Come away, my dear,” said the old captain, taking her hand. “Bound shot are ugly playthings for young ladies, and the sooner we get you stowed safely away the more ready we shall be to carry on the game with yonder gentleman. We’ll beat him, so don’t be alarmed when you hear our guns firing. Perhaps we shall knock some of his spars away, and we shall then take the liberty of leaving him to repair damages at his leisure.”

Captain O’Brien thus talked on, endeavouring to keep up Sarah’s spirits, as he conducted her to a secure place in the hold, which, with the help of the cook and steward, he set about arranging for her. It reminded her of the place to which she and Gerald had been sent on board the Ouzel Galley, when her father and Owen, with their handful of men, had so bravely fought the famous Captain Thurot and his numerous crew. The recollection of that event encouraged her to hope that the well-manned Research would beat off a vessel much larger than herself, however desperately the pirate’s ruffianly crew might fight. She sat with her hands clasped, endeavouring to retain her composure. She would have been thankful for any occupation, but she could do nothing but sit still and wait for the result of the impending fight—yes, she could pray; and earnestly she did so, that her beloved father and his friends might be protected from the shot of the foe.

When Captain O’Brien returned on deck, he found that the two guns had been pointed through the stern-ports. The match was applied, and both were fired by the first mate in quick succession; but no visible effect was produced on the enemy’s spars.

“Run them in, my lads, and load again,” cried Captain Tracy. “Let me see what I can do; if we can wing the pirate, we shall be saved further trouble.” Running his eye along one of the guns, he fired; Captain O’Brien at the same time discharging the other. Looking through his telescope, Captain Tracy uttered an exclamation of impatience as he could discover no damage caused by the shot on the pirate’s rigging. The broad spread of white canvas remained extended as before to the yards. “We must try again and again till we succeed,” he exclaimed; “maybe we shall have better luck next time.” While the guns were being run in and loaded, he turned his telescope towards the island, which was now broad on the starboard beam. “Why, as I live, there is a British ensign flying above what looks very like a fort in the centre of the island!” he exclaimed. “If there is anchorage under it, we can run in and set the pirate at defiance. He does not appear to have discovered the fort, or he would not venture so near it.”

Captain O’Brien took the glass, and minutely examined the coast. “I see no opening between the reefs through which we could get up anywhere near the fort,” he observed. “Were we to attempt to run in, we should very probably get the ship on the rocks, and be far worse off than we are likely to be if we stand on and trust to our guns to beat off the piccaroon. Though the sea is so smooth here, the surf is breaking heavily on the reefs and shore. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll not make the attempt. There must be Englishmen on the island, though how they came there is more than I can say, but I am very sure that, on seeing a British ship chased by a pirate, they would come off to our assistance if they could launch their boats through the surf.”

Captain Tracy acknowledged that his friend was right. To stand in closer to the reefs in order to look for an opening through them would be, should one not be found, to allow the pirate to come up and attack them with rocks close aboard.

The two ships ran on for some distance, the pirate gaining but slightly, if at all, on the chase. All the time a rapid fire was kept up from the two guns run through the stern-ports of the Research, the pirate almost as frequently discharging her bow-chasers. Her shot as she drew close began to tell with deadly effect. The second mate was the first to fall; two of the crew were soon afterwards desperately wounded, and another was killed; still the spars and rigging had hitherto escaped much damage. Matters were becoming very serious, when the shot from a gun trained by Captain O’Brien brought down the pirate’s fore-topsail yard; the studding-sail booms being carried away at the same time, the studding-sails were seen flapping wildly in the wind.

“I am thankful that my old eyes are still of some use,” he said, as he saw the effect he had produced. The British crew cheered right lustily.

The wind, which had been falling, breezed up a little, and the Research glided on out of reach of the pirate’s guns. Not a moment was lost in repairing the slight damages her rigging had received. It was seen, however, that the pirates were similarly employed.

“The yard was only shot away in the slings, without damaging the mast, I fear,” observed Captain O’Brien. “It will take the rascals some time, however, before they can sway it aloft, and ere then, if this breeze holds, we shall have run the pirate well out of sight.”

But the breeze did not hold. As the day advanced the wind fell, and the two vessels lay becalmed just within long range of each other’s guns. Both continued firing as before.

Poor Norah, as she sat all alone in the dark hold, was not forgotten. Sometimes Captain O’Brien and sometimes her father hurried below to say a few cheering words, assuring her that they hoped before long to get clear of the pirate.

The calm continued, allowing time to repair damages, and to commit the poor fellows who had been killed to the deep. A breeze was eagerly looked-for by all on board the Research. Should it come from the eastward, she would probably get it as soon as the pirate and retain her present advantage, but if from the northward, the enemy might creep up to her before she could move. Preparations were made for every emergency. The crew stood ready to brace the yards, from which the sails hung down against the masts, as might be required; the guns were loaded, and run out; pikes, cutlasses, muskets, and pistols were placed ready, in convenient positions to be grasped, should the pirate succeed in getting alongside.

The day wore on, and evening was approaching. The old captains were looking out astern.

“Do you see yonder dark line of water?” asked Captain O’Brien, grasping his friend’s arm. “The pirate, after all, will get the wind before we do.”

“It cannot be helped. We must do our best, and trust in Providence,” answered Captain Tracy. “Our men will prove staunch, and though the villains outnumber them, and their metal is heavier than ours, we may still beat them off.”

In less than a minute the sails of the pirate were seen to blowout, and she began slowly to glide through the water. Those of the Research gave a few loud flaps against the masts, and then hung down again, then swelled slightly to the breeze; but before she had gathered way, the pirate had gained considerably on her.

“We must try to stop her progress,” exclaimed Captain O’Brien. “A gold doubloon to the man who first knocks away a spar; and if I succeed myself, I’ll keep it in my pocket.”

The old captain fired one of the stern guns as he spoke, but the shot did no harm to their pursuer. The first mate and the most experienced gunners among the crew tried their hands with no better success. The speed of the Research was increasing, but the pirate, having now got a steady breeze, came on faster than she was going through the water.

“If we can maintain our present distance, we may still escape the enemy during the night,” observed Captain Tracy.

The sun was setting on the starboard hand, casting a ruddy glow on the sails of the two ships.

“Would that we could knock away a few of her spars, though,” said Captain O’Brien; “it would make the matter more certain.”

“It is to be hoped that she’ll not knock away some of ours,” remarked the first mate, as he observed the pirate yawing.

By doing so she brought her starboard broadside to bear on the Research, and every gun from it was fired at once. Although no one on deck was hurt, it wrought sad havoc in the rigging: braces and shrouds were shot away, the main-topsail yard was cut almost in two, the foreyard was severely damaged, and two or three of the lighter spars were knocked away. The old captains gazed up at the injuries which had thus suddenly been produced. To repair them seemed almost hopeless.

“I feared it would be so,” muttered the first mate. “These fellows have some good gunners among them, as we shall find too soon to our cost.”

Still neither of the sturdy old captains were inclined to despair. Hands were sent aloft to fish the foreyard, and to knot and splice the most important parts of the running rigging. The main-topgallantsail was let fly, the main-topsail brailed up so as to take the strain off the yard. The two stern guns were in the mean time kept actively employed.

The pirate gained more and more on the chase.

“We shall have to fight it out, yardarm to yardarm, if the pirates so choose, or maybe they think fit to board us,” muttered the first mate. “They have the game in their own hands, and if we cannot manage to beat them back, they’ll be masters of the Research before long.”

He spoke too low for the rest of the crew to hear him, but his words reached Captain O’Brien’s ears.

“Cheer up, Mr Rymer; never say die while there’s a chance of life,” he observed. “Though we may not like the look of things, it’s better not to let the men know what we think, or our good captain either. He must be sorely troubled with the thoughts of the fearful position in which his young daughter will be placed, should the pirates overcome us.”

“Overcome us!” exclaimed the mate. “I’d sooner blow the ship up with all hands, if it comes to that.”

“No, no, my friend; don’t attempt so mad and wicked a deed,” said the old captain. “In doing that, we should be imitating the rascally buccaneers themselves. We are bound to leave our lives in God’s hands, and He’ll order things as He sees best. All we have to do is to fight to the last, and to try and save the ship from the pirate’s hands.”

“I hope we may succeed, sir,” said the mate, his spirits animated by the old captain’s remarks. “I, for one, will do nothing desperate, and I’ll tell the gunner and boatswain what you say.”

The pirate continued creeping up on her expected prey, firing her guns as they could be brought to bear; while the crew of the Research, firm to their promise, returned shot for shot, some aiming at their antagonist’s rigging, others at the hull—though two more of their number were killed, and three or four wounded. The latter, however, having stanched the blood flowing from their limbs, returned to their guns, and continued fighting them with all the energy of despair.

They could not fail to see that they were suffering more than their opponent. The pirate ship was already on the starboard quarter of the Research, and in a short time would be on her beam, and thus prevent her from rounding the southern end of the reef, which it was calculated she had already reached.

The gloom of night had settled down on the world of waters, but it was lighted up by the rapid flashes of the guns.

“If we could but knock away her foremast, we should still have time to luff round ahead of her,” cried Captain Tracy. “Aim at that, my lads; if you do it, you will save the ship.”

Twice the starboard broadside was fired, but the pirate’s masts and spars still appeared to be uninjured.

The crew of the Research were about again to fire her guns, when the pirate, putting up her helm, ran her alongside.

“Boarders, be prepared to repel boarders!” shouted Captain O’Brien, sticking a brace of pistols in his belt, and seizing a cutlass and pike. “We must drive them back, my lads, if they attempt to get on our deck.”

The mate and other officers followed his example, and the crew armed themselves with the weapons to which they were most accustomed. The next instant the pirates were seen swarming in their own rigging, led by one of their officers—a bearded, dark man, who was encouraging them by his shouts and gestures. The first mate sprang forward to encounter him, and the next moment was brought to the deck by a blow from his cutlass. In vain the two old captains endeavoured to prevent the ruffians from setting foot on the deck of the Research; on they came, far outnumbering her crew.

The pirate captain had cut down the gunner and boatswain, and the rest of the diminished crew found themselves opposed to four times their own number. They well knew beforehand that it would be useless to ask for quarter, and to the few who cried out for it, none was given. The remainder, though fighting desperately, were quickly overpowered. The two old captains had wonderfully escaped being wounded; standing shoulder to shoulder, they were driven back to the companion-hatch, when the pirate captain made his way close in front of them.

“Yield, old men!” he shouted.

“Not while we have cutlasses in our hands,” answered Captain O’Brien, warding off a blow made at his friend, who was wielding his own weapon with all the vigour of youth.

Just then the pirate captain exclaimed, “Yield, Captain Tracy, yield! all further resistance is useless. Your present ship is ours, as is your former craft. If you will drop your weapons, I will save your life and that of your companion. It is mad of you to hold out longer.”

“He speaks the truth,” said Captain O’Brien. “Tracy, we have lost the day. For the sake of your child, listen to his offers. He can but kill us at last, and we may if we live be able to protect her.”

“Say what you like, and I’ll agree to it,” answered Captain Tracy.

“We will give in if we have your word that we and all the survivors on board will be protected from further injury or insult. We have a lady passenger, and I plead especially on her account. Will you promise that she is in no way injured or molested?” said Captain O’Brien.

“If you will take the word of a man who fights under yonder dark flag, you have it,” answered the pirate.

“We yield, then,” said Captain O’Brien, dropping his sword.

Captain Tracy did the same, though both felt very uncertain whether the next instant they might not be slaughtered by the savage miscreants, who had now entire possession of the deck of the Research.

“Go below, my friend, before the pirates find their way there. Tell Norah what has happened, and urge her to prepare for what may occur,” whispered Captain Tracy. “I will try, meantime, to engage the attention of the pirate.”

The latter made no remark when he saw the old captain disappearing down the hatchway.

“We have met before, Captain Tracy,” he said. “I owe my life to the good services rendered me on board your ship, and I should be loth to have your death on my conscience. I have enough on it already. I know your friend, too; he is one of the few people to whom I have cause to be grateful.”

“If you are the man I take you for,” said Captain Tracy, intently regarding the pirate, “you owed a heavier debt to the master of the ship which I now find in your possession. You know how I regarded him, and you will relieve my mind if you can tell me where he is to be found.”

“You will probably meet in a few days,” answered the pirate. “He is well in health, though I considered it necessary to keep him a prisoner. You and Captain O’Brien will now have the opportunity of solacing him in his confinement.”

“I thank you for the information,” answered Captain Tracy. “We shall be ready to share his lot, whatever that may be.”

The pirates, though they had obtained possession of the deck, had hitherto not made their way below; for they were all fully engaged, some in the barbarous work of putting the wounded out of their misery and heaving the dead overboard, and others in clearing the two ships. The wind had suddenly increased, and, as they had a dangerous reef aboard, it was necessary as quickly as possible to get them under command. Captain O’Brien had thus time to make his way into the hold and to break the intelligence of what had occurred to Norah. She, poor girl, had been intently listening to divine by the sounds which reached the hold how affairs were going. She knew too well that the engagement her father was so anxious to avoid was taking place; and the rapid firing of the guns told her that the crew of the Research were gallantly defending themselves. Then came the crashing sound as the pirate ran alongside. The shrieks and cries which arose informed her of the desperate hand-to-hand struggle that was going on. The comparative silence which ensued when the remnant of the British crew were cut down, alarmed her even more than did the occasional shouts of the pirates engaged in clearing the ship which reached her ears. She dreaded the worst, and had sunk down on her knees praying for strength to endure whatever trial might be in store, when, by the faint light of the lantern which hung in the hold, she saw Captain O’Brien standing before her.

“Is my father safe? Oh, tell me!” she exclaimed, grasping his hand.

“Yes; thank Heaven, he has escaped without a wound,” he answered. “But affairs have not gone as we should wish,” he continued, in as calm a voice as he could command. “The pirates have possession of the Research, but their captain, who appears to be an Englishman, has spared our lives and promised that we shall not be molested. I have hopes that he will keep his word, and you must not be cast down. We will not be separated from you, whatever may occur; but it is useless remaining longer in this dark place. We will go back into the cabin, where I will stay with you till your father comes down.”

Saying this, Captain O’Brien, taking the lantern, led Norah up from the hold through a passage, by which they reached the state cabin without going on deck.

Norah’s agitation made her scarcely able to stand, so Captain O’Brien led her to a sofa and took a seat by her. The next instant Captain Tracy entered. She sprang up, and, throwing her arms round his neck, burst into tears. While he was supporting her a step was heard, and the pirate leader appeared at the doorway. He gazed for a moment at Norah.

“Miss Tracy,” he exclaimed, “had I known that the shot fired from my ship were aimed at the one which you were on board of, I would sooner have blown up my own craft or sent her to the bottom. I trust that you will pardon me for the alarm and anxiety I have caused you.”

Norah gazed at the speaker with a look of terror as she clung to her father’s arm. His countenance had been too deeply impressed upon her memory for her ever to forget it. She recognised in him the once second mate of the Ouzel Galley, when he had gone under the name of Carnegan—the man who had attempted to carry her off, and who had afterwards audaciously presented himself, when an officer on board the French privateer under the command of Thurot. Now he was the acknowledged captain of a band of pirates, and she and her father were in his power. He had spared the lives of the two old captains, but of what outrage might he not be guilty when he found that the love he professed was rejected? She endeavoured to recover herself sufficiently to answer him, but her efforts were for some time vain. Her limbs trembled under her; her voice refused to utter the words she would have spoken. Her father could not fail to observe her agitation.

“Retain your presence of mind, my child,” he whispered, “but don’t offend our captor.”

By a strong effort, while the pirate stood gazing at her, she recovered herself.

“I claim nothing beyond the mercy any helpless woman might ask for on board a captured vessel,” she answered at length; “and if you would save me from further suffering, I would pray that you would put my father and me, with our friend, on shore at the nearest spot at which you can land us. The vessel and cargo are yours, by right of conquest, but you can gain nothing by keeping us prisoners.”

“You are mistaken, Miss Tracy,” said the pirate; “I can gain everything which for long years it has been my fond desire to obtain. You recognise me, I am sure, and you cannot have forgotten the deep—the devoted love I have expressed for you. Promise me that you will no longer despise it, and your father and his friend shall not only be protected, but treated with every respect and attention they can require.”

This address increased rather than allayed Norah’s alarm.

“Oh, what shall I say to him?” she whispered to her father. “For your sake and Captain O’Brien’s, I would not, if I can help it, arouse his anger.”

Norah was, however, saved from the difficult task of answering the pirate by the appearance of one of his officers, who came to summon him on deck, that he might give his orders for the management of the two vessels. He hurried away, and left the trio to consult as to the best mode of treating him. He was for some time absent, the shouting of the officers and the tramping of the men’s feet overhead showing that various operations were going forward on deck.

“You spoke well and bravely, Norah,” exclaimed Captain O’Brien, after her father had placed her on the sofa, that she might the better attempt to recover from the fearful agitation she was suffering; “keep to that tone. Don’t tell him how you fear and dislike him, but don’t let him suppose that you are ready to consent to any proposals he may make. Humour him as much as you can, and above all things don’t allude to Owen, or let him discover that he has a rival in the affection he asks you to bestow on him.”

“Oh no, indeed I will not,” said Norah; “and for my father’s sake and yours, I will do all I can to soften his temper and make him treat you well.”

“I wish you to do as Captain O’Brien suggests, for your own sake rather than for ours,” observed her father. “We may defy him, as he can only murder us; but we wish to live that we may protect you. At present he appears to be in a tolerably good humour, and well he may, after capturing our good ship and her valuable cargo. He would rather have found her laden with ingots and chests of dollars; but she’s a richer prize to him than the Ouzel Galley could have been, laden with hogsheads of sugar.”

“The Ouzel Galley!” exclaimed Norah. “Has she fallen into that man’s hands? Oh, father! has he, then, got Owen in his power?”

“He’s not likely to have taken Owen’s ship without capturing Owen too; but we know that he could not have put him to death, or Owen couldn’t have sent us the message we received,” answered her father.

“Perhaps our capture may, after all, be the means of our discovering Owen,” observed Captain O’Brien. “You will not regret it then so much, Norah; and if we can regain our liberty, we may, by some means or other, carry him off also. It’s an ill wind that blows no one good, depend on that.”

Terribly alarmed as Norah felt, the idea suggested by Captain O’Brien somewhat cheered her.

The two captains sat, with Norah between them, endeavouring to prevent her spirits from sinking. Silence, by all means, was to be avoided, Captain O’Brien taking upon himself to be the chief spokesman. He did his best not to allude to the battle, or the slaughter of their brave crew. Little did Norah think that of all those she had seen that morning on deck, full of life and activity, not one was then in existence. She herself felt no inclination to speak of the fight, and she asked no questions about it. It was sufficient for her to know that the Research had been captured, and that the great object of the voyage—the recovery of Owen and Gerald—had come to nought. Weary and sad, she could not even venture to seek for the consolation of sleep. The lamp, which had been lighted at sundown, still hung from the beam above their heads, shedding a subdued light over the cabin. Some time thus passed. Occasionally the two old captains exchanged a few words in low tones, but they could not say all they thought, for they were unwilling to alarm Norah more than was necessary. They must act according to the pirate’s conduct. As he had spared their lives, he might behave generously towards them and Norah, but of this they had but slight hopes.

It flashed across Captain O’Brien’s mind that he was one of the O’Harralls, whom he had saved, when a boy, from drowning, while serving on board a ship he had commanded, he having jumped overboard in a heavy sea, and supported the lad till a boat came to their assistance. He had afterwards had cause to regret having done so, when O’Harrall became notorious for his evil deeds. “It would have been better to let him drown, than allow him to gather the sins on his head for which he has to answer,” thought the old captain. “But no, I did what was right; for the rest he alone is answerable. If he’s the man I suspect, he may have been prompted by the recollection of the services I rendered him to spare my life, and it may induce him still to act decently towards us.”

Though these thoughts passed through Captain O’Brien’s mind, he did not express them aloud, or tell his friend that he believed the pirate to be any other than the outlawed ruffian, O’Harrall.

Captain Tracy was addressing a remark to him, when the cabin door opened, and the man he had been thinking about stood before them. As he examined the pirate’s features, he was sure that he had not been mistaken, but he thought it prudent to keep the idea to himself.

The pirate stood for a moment gazing at Norah.

“I have come to summon you on board my vessel,” he said. “Your old craft has been too much knocked about, I find, to proceed before her damages are repaired. This can be done under the lee of the island, where we will leave her while we return into port. I wish you to prepare at once to accompany me. Anything you desire to take with you shall be brought on board, but I cannot allow you much time for your preparations, Miss Tracy. Your father or Captain O’Brien will assist you in packing your trunk.”

Captain Tracy, knowing that it would be useless to remonstrate, replied that they should be speedily ready; and the pirate left the cabin.

Norah, endeavouring to calm her agitation, immediately set to work to pack up the things she knew that she should most require, while her father and Captain O’Brien tumbled theirs into a couple of valises; so that in a few minutes, when the pirate again entered the cabin, they were prepared to obey his orders. He was accompanied by a couple of men who, taking up their luggage, followed them on deck, to which he led the way. The darkness fortunately prevented Norah from seeing the marks of blood which stained the planks; she could only distinguish a number of dark forms moving about, engaged in repairing the damages the ship had received. She lay hove to, with the other vessel a short distance from her. A boat was alongside, into which the pirate desired the two old captains and Norah to descend, he offering his hand to assist her. She thanked him in as courteous a tone as she could command, and, the boat shoving off, the crew pulled away for the Ouzel Galley.

“You are not a stranger to this ship, Miss Tracy,” observed the pirate, as he handed Norah on deck. “I regret that I was compelled to capture her, and to deprive her former master, my worthy friend Owen Massey, of his command.” He spoke in a somewhat sarcastic tone, which Norah observed, but she wisely made no reply. “You will be safer in the cabin, where you will find yourselves at home,” he continued; “my brave fellows are somewhat lawless, and it is as well to keep out of their sight.” The pirate, as he spoke, led the way into the cabin. As they entered it, he requested that she would consider herself its mistress. “My black steward will attend to your wants, and will bring you whatever you may order. I have now to see to the navigation of the ship, so that I cannot for the present enjoy your society,” he said.

Having led Norah to a sofa and desired his other guests, as he choose to call them, to be seated, he hurried from the cabin.

The light from a handsome silver lamp hung in the usual position showed them that no change had been made in its arrangements since the Ouzel Galley had sailed from Waterford.

“We might have been worse off, faith! but it’s somewhat trying to find one’s self on board one’s own ship in the character of a prisoner,” observed Captain Tracy. “However, our captor appears inclined to behave with as much courtesy as can be expected, and as I hope we shall not again be interrupted, I wish, Norah, you would try to obtain some sleep. O’Brien and I will watch by you, and you will be the better able to endure what you may have to go through.”

“I cannot sleep; I don’t wish to sleep,” murmured poor Norah. “I should only dream of the dreadful events which have occurred.”

After some persuasion, however, she consented to try and obtain the rest she so much needed, and in spite of her assertions, her father saw that she had dropped off into a calm slumber. He and Captain O’Brien could now speak more freely than they had hitherto done. Their firm resolution was not, on any account, to be parted from her. They had each retained their pistols, which they had concealed in their pockets, and Captain O’Brien vowed that, should any violence be threatened, he would shoot O’Harrall, and trust to win over the piratical crew by promising them the most ample rewards.

“If we kill their chief, the fellows will be awed, and we shall have time to throw the bait in their mouths; for the chances are that many of them will be glad enough to escape from the perilous course they are now compelled to follow, and if we can gain over some, the rest will not long hold out,” he observed.

Captain Tracy thought his friend’s plan too desperate, but he was at length won over to consent to it should O’Harrall’s behaviour render some such proceeding necessary.

By a compass fixed in the forepart of the cabin, they saw that the vessel was standing to the westward, and that the wind must have shifted, as she appeared to be directly before it. After running on this course for some distance, they found that she was then hauled up to the northward. From this she appeared to deviate but slightly, sometimes a point or two to the eastward, and sometimes to the westward. They thus surmised that she was threading her way between reefs with which the pirates must have been well acquainted. Daylight at length streamed through the cabin windows, and as the sun rose above the horizon, they saw his rays glancing across the tiny wavelets which rippled the surface of the water, showing that a moderate breeze was blowing, and that the ship was under the lee of an island, which impeded the progress of the undulations rolling in from the wide ocean.

“Wherever we are going, it would be a hard matter, I suspect, without an experienced pilot, to get out again,” observed Captain O’Brien.

“We must trust to protection from above, and we may hope to find the means of escape,” answered Captain Tracy.

In spite of their intentions to keep awake, the two old captains could not avoid dozing off, till they were aroused by the entrance of a black, who announced himself as the steward.

“Me Jumbo—come to lay breakfast, and cappen say you hab what you like ask for, especially someting nice for de young lady.”

“We shall be thankful for anything you are able to bring us, Jumbo,” said Captain O’Brien. “We do not wish to give you more trouble than necessary.”

“Dat berry good,” answered the black, nodding as he went out of the cabin.

Before long he returned with an ample repast, consisting of several West Indian dishes and some others, the materials of which had probably been brought from the Research. The prisoners in reality cared but little for the food, but it was satisfactory to believe that the pirate intended to treat them with courtesy. Norah, who had taken nothing for many hours, was persuaded to eat some breakfast.

“You will feel all the better for it, my dear,” said Captain O’Brien. “I never saw any use in starving one’s self, even though one might be in the midst of an ocean of troubles. Matters always look worse when people are hungry, and perhaps now that we have had some food, we shall be able to see things in a brighter light. I have been thinking a good deal about Owen Massey, and should not be at all surprised that we, after all, accomplish the object of our voyage and find him. We shall have paid a high price, to be sure, by the loss of our good ship, but even that you will, at all events, not think too much if we get him back safe.”

Norah smiled faintly. She almost dreaded the effect her presence might produce on the treatment of Owen, should he be in the pirate’s power. The terrible thought had even occurred to her mind that the pirate might offer her the dreadful alternative of becoming his wife or seeing Owen murdered before her eyes. The idea, however, was too horrible to allow her to give it utterance.

Captain O’Brien endeavoured to amuse Norah by talking on in his usual way. He succeeded but ill in his attempts. Impossible was the task to draw her thoughts from present circumstances. “I wonder if we are to be kept prisoners below all day, or whether our piratical captor will take it into his head to invite us on deck?” he continued. “I should have no objection to smoke my pipe and enjoy a little fresh air. When Jumbo next appears, I’ll send our compliments and request the favour.”

The old captain carried out his intentions, and Jumbo returned with a message from the pirate captain, to the effect that they were welcome to come on deck if they chose.

Norah would have far rather remained in the cabin, but, as she dreaded being left alone, she agreed to accompany her father and Captain O’Brien. The pirate bowed as she appeared, and placed a seat for her on the poop, inquiring simply whether she had been supplied with everything she required. She briefly thanked him, and turned aside her head to avoid the gaze of the ruffianly crew, as they moved towards the after-part of the deck in the prosecution of their various duties. O’Harrall merely nodded to the two old captains, who stood by her side. The wind was baffling, and he was continually engaged in trimming sails, so that he was prevented for some time from again addressing her.

The Ouzel Galley had now got into a more open part of the sea, though neither of the old captains could tell exactly where they were. Again the wind became steady, and O’Harrall was coming up, apparently to speak to Norah, when the look-out from the mast-head shouted, “A sail on the starboard quarter!”

One of the chief officers was immediately sent aloft. On coming down, he reported the stranger to be a large ship running free.

“Does she look like a merchantman?” inquired O’Harrall.

“Much more like a man-of-war, judging by the cut of her canvas,” was the answer, in a low voice.

“Perhaps she will take no notice of us,” remarked O’Harrall. “It will be time enough if she gives chase to make sail; but it would only be drawing her attention towards us, if we were to do so now.”

Captain Tracy overheard these remarks, but endeavoured to look as unconcerned as possible, though, as may be supposed, he earnestly hoped that the officer’s surmise was correct, and that the stranger would endeavour to overhaul them.

The pirate continued to walk the deck, every now and then turning his glass in the direction the stranger had been seen, while the officer again went aloft. Presently he hurriedly came down and spoke a few words to the pirate captain, who instantly issued orders to the crew to make all sail.

Royals were set, and even lighter sails above them. The studding-sails were rigged out, and various strange-shaped sails were set between the masts and above and below the bowsprit. The studding-sails, however, were quickly taken in again, as the wind was too much abeam to enable them to be carried.

Captain Tracy managed, whenever the pirate’s glance was turned the other way, to take a look over the quarter, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing the lofty sails of a large ship appearing above the horizon. It was pretty evident that the stranger was suspicious of the character of the Ouzel Galley, and was coming in chase of her.

O’Harrall and his crew seemed to be of the same opinion. They turned many an angry glance towards the old captains and Norah, as if they considered them the cause of the risk they were running of being captured. Though the Ouzel Galley was a fast vessel, the stranger was evidently much faster.

“What do you think she is, O’Brien?” asked Captain Tracy.

“A frigate or a large sloop of war; and though it is a difficult matter to judge of her nationality, she looks more like an English ship than a foreigner,” he answered.

“Grant Heaven it may be so, and that the pirates may see the uselessness of fighting, should she come up with us,” said Captain Tracy.

“They are not likely to give in without a desperate struggle, when they know that halters are in store for most of them if they are captured,” replied Captain O’Brien.

O’Harrall was pacing the deck with hurried strides. He could only depend on the speed of his ship for escaping, and he well knew that no British man-of-war would engage him without doing her utmost to make him her prize. Suddenly he walked up to his prisoners, his countenance exhibiting a more ferocious aspect than they had hitherto seen it wear.

“You must go below,” he said in a harsh tone; “your presence has brought us ill luck. At all events, my people think so, and I don’t know how they may behave, should they see you on deck when yonder ship gets up to us.”

“We will of course obey you,” said Captain Tracy, taking Norah’s hand; and, followed by Captain O’Brien, they descended to the cabin.

The latter would gladly have remained to watch the progress of the stranger, which he was more than ever convinced was a man-of-war. Some hours must, however pass, before she could get the Ouzel Galley within range of her guns. Should darkness come on, the latter would still have a chance of escaping without fighting. The eagerness of the pirate to avoid a contest showed clearly enough that they were only ready to fight when they had the hope of booty before them.

Jumbo appeared as the prisoners returned to the cabin, and placed a repast on the table. It was in every respect equal to the breaks fast. Even the old captains, however, could not do justice to it, as they were too anxious about their prospect of a speedy deliverance from captivity. They knew very well, also, that considerable danger must be run should the pirate engage the man-of-war. Shot might enter the cabin, or the ship might catch fire, or blow up, or be sent to the bottom; or the pirates, when they had lost all hope of escaping, might, in their rage, revengefully put them to death.

Jumbo had removed the dinner things, and Captain O’Brien managed to project his head far enough from the stern windows to get a sight of the stranger.

“She may overtake us before dark, but I very much doubt it,” he observed. “If she does not, these fellows will manage to make their escape by running in among reefs and islands, with which they, depend on it, are well acquainted, and where the man-of-war will not venture to follow them.”

As the time went by there appeared every probability that Captain O’Brien’s surmise would prove correct. A ruddy glow cast across the ocean showed that the sun was sinking low, and presently the glow faded away and a grey tint alone remained. By this time the hull of the stranger appeared above the water, and Captain O’Brien declared that he was more than ever convinced she was a British frigate. The compass in the cabin showed, however, that the Ouzel Galley was following a devious course—now hauling up round a reef, now running for a short distance before the wind.

A shot came flying over the water from the frigate. Several others followed, but they all fell short. She was then seen to keep away before the wind to the south-west.

“She has given up the chase,” exclaimed Captain O’Brien, “and our chance of liberty for the present is gone. I was afraid it would be so, but it cannot be helped.”

Norah, perhaps, felt the disappointment less keenly than her companions. The thought that she was about to meet Owen was uppermost in her mind. She fancied that, once having found him, they should be able to devise a plan for their escape. Shortly after this, O’Harrall came into the cabin. “You expected the tables to be turned, and that the Ouzel Galley would be captured by yonder man-of-war,” he observed, as he stood with his arms folded, leaning carelessly against the bulkhead. “It is as well for you, however, that we had not to engage her, for my fellows are not men who would consent to be taken alive. Had we not escaped from her, they would to a certainty have blown up the ship, when all hope had abandoned them.”

“Then, sir, we may congratulate you and ourselves on having avoided a fight,” said Captain O’Brien. “We may wish you a better fate, and it is certainly one we are thankful to have escaped.”

“I hope to enjoy greater happiness for many years to come than has hitherto been my lot,” said the pirate, gazing at Norah, who cast down her eyes to avoid his glance. “Circumstances have made me what I am, but I intend to abandon my present course, and to engage in some service where I may gain an honourable name and retrieve the years which have passed. I already possess sufficient wealth to satisfy my utmost desires. My only wish is to share it with one whose affections I may hope to gain.”

The pirate continued for some time speaking in this strain. Norah did her utmost to pretend that she did not understand him, while Captain O’Brien stood fuming with rage at what he mentally called the audacious impudence of the villain. Poor Captain Tracy’s heart sank, and though not less indignant than his friend, he endeavoured to conceal his feelings. Happily O’Harrall was again summoned on deck. No sooner was he gone than Norah gave way to hysterical sobs.

“Oh, father! father! kill me sooner than let him take me from you,” she exclaimed. “I know too well what he means; but I would pray for death sooner than become his wife.”

“If he really wishes to obtain an honourable name he will offer no violence, my child,” said Captain Tracy, endeavouring to comfort her. “Heaven will find some way for you to escape.”

The cause of the pirate’s being summoned on deck was soon apparent. The wind had fallen, and the Ouzel Galley lay becalmed, surrounded by the reefs amid which she had taken shelter. Though the passage occupied her some time, she was still at no great distance from the open channel.

“Why, as I live, there is the frigate, not more than three or four miles off,” exclaimed Captain O’Brien, who had been looking through the cabin window. “Depend on it, she has kept us in sight, and when she finds that we are still within reach, and not able to get away, she’ll be sending her boats in to take us during the night. I heartily hope that she may, and we shall run much less risk of injury than we should have done had she attacked the Ouzel Galley with her heavy guns. I believe that the pirate’s threat of blowing up the ship was all bombast. These fellows, hardened villains as they are, are seldom in a hurry to go out of the world, if they can by any means prolong their miserable existence. Each man fancies that he may have a chance of escaping by turning king’s evidence or getting out of prison. I doubt whether even O’Harrall himself would have the nerve to set fire to the magazine, though his capture were certain.”

The darkness was now settling down on the water, and at length shrouded the stranger from view.

The pirates had evidently not been idle, and the old captains surmised that they were engaged in tricing up boarding-nettings and making all the usual preparations in case of being attacked during the night by the boats of the frigate, which they must of course have expected.

The sound of a boat lowered into the water reached the cabin, and the next minute she was seen through the stern window pulling in the direction of the frigate, probably to row guard and to give due notice should the man-of-war’s boats be heard approaching: Although, during the last two nights, the inmates of the cabin had obtained but a few minutes of sleep at a time, their anxiety prevented them from closing their eyes. Even Norah, though her father urged her to try and obtain some rest, could scarcely bring herself to shut hers for a moment. They listened eagerly, expecting every minute to hear the pirate’s boat return, followed by those of the man-of-war.

Several hours passed away, when Captain O’Brien, who had been watching at the stern window, exclaimed, “Here she comes!” and the next moment the boat dashed up alongside.

The ship had not been brought to an anchor, showing that the pirate entertained a hope of avoiding a fight and making his escape, should the breeze spring up before the boats could get alongside. The night was dark, and from the lighted cabin it was impossible to see objects at any distance. Captain O’Brien, however, listened, expecting to hear the boats approach. Presently he rejoined Captain Tracy and Norah.

“Here they come,” he whispered. “It would be folly to be shot by our friends, and as the pirates have forgotten to close the dead-lights, the bullets may be making their way into the cabin. We shall do well to lie down under shelter. Here, Norah, your own cabin will afford you the safest place, and your father and I will sit on the deck by your side. Should the attacking party succeed, at I have no doubt they will, we shall then avoid the risk of being shot by friends or foes.”

The advice was too sensible not to be followed. Scarcely had they gained the shelter which Captain O’Brien advised, than both the broadsides of the Ouzel Galley were discharged, succeeded by a rapid fire of musketry, and a loud cheer from the crews of the boats.

“They will be alongside in another minute,” cried Captain O’Brien.

The fluttering of some curtains hung in front of Norah’s cabin showed that a strong breeze was blowing through the stern windows, and it soon became evident that the ship was moving rapidly through the water.

The crew of the pirate cheered, and several of her guns were fired. They were replied to by musketry, but the reports came one after the other, apparently from different directions.

“The villains will escape after all,” exclaimed Captain O’Brien, who was on the point of jumping up to take another look through the stern window, when his friend, holding him down, observed—

“A chance bullet may come through the port, or if your head were seen, a marine would be certain to aim at it, believing that he was firing at an enemy.”

The Ouzel Galley glided rapidly over the smooth sea, the firing on both sides ceased, and though the boats were probably still continuing the chase, they were eventually left far astern.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The Research sails towards the pirate’s island—Owen’s conversation with Michael O’Harrall—The Research enters the pirate’s harbour—Gets alongside the Ouzel Galley—Boards her—Desperate fight—O’Harrall escapes—Lieutenant Foley and Owen, with a party, land to search for Norah and her father—A joyful meeting—The pirate village set on fire—Booty carried off—The ships sail—Reach Jamaica—Welcomed by old friends—The voyage home and its results—Formation of “The Ouzel Galley Society”—Happy marriages—Norman and Gerald again sent to sea—Engagement with a French squadron—Deaths of Thurot and O’Harrall—Owen recovers his property—Conclusion.

Gerald and Norman Foley did their utmost to comfort Owen Massey, who was almost in despair, as he thought of the fearful danger to which Norah and her father would be subjected in the power of O’Harrall. To what extremities might he not proceed? His rage, too, would be great on finding that Owen and his companions had escaped from the island, and he might vent it on the hapless prisoners in his power.

“Should he dare to ill-treat them, swift vengeance will overtake him,” observed Norman.

“Yes; but the fear of that will not influence the man,” exclaimed Owen, pressing his hand to his brow. “Would that I had remained on the island! I might in some way have afforded them protection—or the kind black woman would have done so.”

“Bad as he is, he will not surely venture to injure my young sister and fine old father,” said Gerald.

Owen, however, who had witnessed the fierce bursts of passion to which O’Harrall was accustomed to give way, still feared the worst.

He, with the lieutenant and Gerald, was walking the deck, when his eye fell on Dillon, with the boatswain standing on the watch new him.

“Why, that is one of the fellows who betrayed the Ouzel Galley into the hands of the enemy!” said Owen.

“He is a deserter from the Champion,” observed Norman Foley, “and is the man who has now undertaken to pilot us into the pirate’s harbour. When did he join the Ouzel Galley?”

“At Kingston, with some other fellows of the same stamp,” answered Owen; “and I have good cause to regret having received them.”

“They must have been with you, then, when I boarded the Ouzel Galley as you went out of Port Royal,” Gerald took the opportunity of observing, after Norman Foley had left them.

Owen confessed that such was the case. “If you had done your duty, you would have discovered them,” he could not refrain from adding.

“You are right, Owen,” said Gerald. “I now see that every neglect of duty must produce bad consequences, but I suppose, as it was your business to conceal them from me because you wanted a crew, so it was mine to have discovered them. However, the less we say about the matter the better just now.”

Owen felt a strong inclination to speak to the man Routh, or Dillon, to learn how O’Harrall had behaved towards his prisoners before they were taken on board the Ouzel Galley.

With the greatest effrontery, Dillon nodded to him as he approached. “So, Captain Massey, you managed to get away, after all,” he said, quite coolly. “It is more than any one else has done for a long time, and several have lost their lives in making the attempt, so you are fortunate.”

“That is not the matter about which I wish to speak to you,” said Owen. “You were treated well while under my command, and in return I ask you to tell me how Captain O’Harrall behaved towards those he took from this ship?”

“As to that, I know very little,” answered Dillon. “We killed most of the people, but the two old captains and the young lady were unhurt. They did not look very happy at finding themselves prisoners, but in other respects they had nothing to complain of, and they were allowed to take their traps with them. And now, Captain Massey, let me ask you, how do you happen to know that the real name of the pirate captain is O’Harrall? He is generally called Bermudez among us.”

“I knew him long before he took to his present evil courses,” said Owen. “I then hoped better things of him, and I will now ask why you are ready to betray him.”

“To save my own life, and to revenge myself for the way he has treated me,” answered Dillon. “He chose to consider me as his inferior, when I am his equal in every respect. Has it never occurred to you, Owen Massey, who I am? I will tell you, for I care not who knows it. I am Brian O’Harrall’s younger brother Michael, whom you also once knew. Our family ousted yours; and as I conclude that neither of us is very likely to return to Ireland, and we are the last of our race, you may possibly manage to recover the property. If Brian is killed, I may perhaps assist you, and if you will promise me a sufficient recompense I am ready to do so.”

From what the pirate said, Owen had no doubt that he was the person he represented himself to be; still he hesitated about entering into any engagement with a villain of his stamp.

“I must consider the subject,” he answered; “much must depend upon the success of our undertaking. Should Captain Tracy and his daughter be rescued by your means from your brother’s hands, whatever your motive, I shall be more deeply indebted to you than I should feel were you to assist in restoring the property of which your family deprived my father. Indeed, I cannot understand how you can be instrumental in doing that. In the mean time I can make no promise with regard to the matter.”

The subject the man Dillon, or rather Michael O’Harrall, had mentioned had one beneficial effect in somewhat turning Owen’s thoughts, although only occasionally, from the contemplation of Norah’s and her father’s position.

Two more anxious days were passed, when, towards evening, land was seen ahead, mostly lying low, with a slight elevation in the centre. The wind was favourable, and Dillon undertook to carry the ship into harbour before nightfall, declaring that he could pilot her towards the latter part of the way as well in the dark as during the daylight.

It is impossible to describe Owen’s feelings. In a short time Norah might be safe, or he should hear that she had suffered a fate he dare not contemplate.

Every preparation was made for surprising the pirates and recovering the prisoners. A dozen men were dressed to look as much as possible like the pirates who had been on board when the Research was captured; the black flag was hoisted at her peak. The rest of the men and the officers concealed themselves, some below, and others under the bulwarks. Dillon was ordered to take his post as if in command. A party of men, well armed, were selected and placed under the orders of Norman Foley, who, accompanied by Gerald, with Owen, Dan, and Pompey as guides, were to shove off from the ship as soon as the pirates had discovered their object, and to endeavour to find out where the prisoners were confined.

Everything went well. The wind continued favourable, the bar was crossed, and the Research glided up through the channel leading into the lagoon. The sun had set, and darkness was rapidly coming on; Owen and Gerald were lying down, anxiously looking out from one of the bow ports. There floated the Ouzel Galley, right ahead, in the centre of the lagoon. The Research was steered towards her, so that it might be supposed by the pirates that the new arrival was about to bring up. Instead of letting go her anchor, however, the Research was to run alongside the Ouzel Galley, which the British crew was immediately to board. As the boats on the larboard side of the Research could not be seen by the pirates, they were lowered into the water, and Lieutenant Foley and his party were directed to leap into them the moment concealment was no longer necessary.

The Research approached the Ouzel Galley. “What are you about, you lubbers?” shouted a voice from the latter ship. “Starboard your helm, or you will be running foul of us.”

It was O’Harrall who spoke. Owen recognised his voice.

“There is something wrong,” cried another man.

“Treachery! treachery!” exclaimed several of the pirates, and two guns from the Ouzel Galley were fired at the approaching ship. They were well aimed. One of the shots struck the bulwarks, the splinters from which wounded several persons; the other flew more aft, and the traitorous pirate, Michael O’Harrall, was seen to fall. Not a groan escaped him. The officers and crew sprang to their feet, those who were below leaping on deck.

Though the wind had fallen almost to a calm, the ship had way enough on her to bring her up alongside the Ouzel Galley. Grappling-irons were thrown on board. At the same time two more shots were fired by the pirates, and although, surprised as they had been, they were seen rapidly mustering on deck, still there was evident confusion among them. The British seamen, led by their officers, pistol and cutlass in hand, were the next instant leaping down on the deck of the Ouzel Galley. For a few seconds the pirates fought desperately; but, bold as most of them were, they saw that their chance of success was gone. Then, with fierce oaths and cries of terror and rage, they retreated to the opposite side of the ship, and those who could threw themselves overboard with the intention of trying to swim to the shore.

One of the last to make his escape was O’Harrall. He had been hard-pressed by Lieutenant Tarwig, who shouted to him to yield; but, springing on a gun and aiming a desperate cut at the lieutenant’s head (fortunately the cut was parried, or it would have finished the gallant officer), the pirate leaped over the bulwarks, and disappeared beneath the dark waters. Mr Tarwig jumped up on the gun, and eagerly looked over the side to ascertain what had become of his late antagonist. He could make out through the gloom several persons swimming away from the ship, but whether or not one of them was O’Harrall, it was impossible to say.

Not a pirate now remained alive on the deck of the Ouzel Galley. A dozen or more had been cut down, and so effectually had the British seamen wielded their cutlasses that every one of them had been killed outright. The marines had followed the boarders, and now began firing away at the pirates in the water; but, the darkness concealing the swimmers, no effective aim could be taken. As the boats on the starboard side could not be lowered while the two ships were close together, and those on the other had gone away under Lieutenant Foley, the pirates could not be pursued, or probably several would have been captured.

Commander Olding, knowing the treachery of which the pirates were capable, at once ordered a search to be made below, in case they might have tried to blow up the ship; he himself hurrying into the cabin, where he thought it possible that the prisoners might still be confined. He soon ascertained that they were not there, but he discovered a door leading to the main hold. Obtaining a light, he, followed by the master and Crowhurst, made his way to the part of the hold which had before served as a refuge to Norah and her friend Ellen.

In the mean time, Norman Foley’s party, with Owen, had pulled for the western side of the lagoon. As soon as the boats reached the beach, the whole of the party leaped on shore, with the exception of a few hands left to guard the boats.

“This way,” cried Owen, dashing forward in the direction of the building which had so long been his prison. His fear was that O’Harrall might have reached the shore, and would carry off Norah. Of one thing he felt nearly sure, that O’Harrall would have imprisoned her and her father there as the most secure place in which he could leave them; still even that was doubtful, and he might have a long search before they could be discovered.

Norman and Gerald did their best to keep the men together, and to follow close at his heels. At any moment they might be attacked by the pirates. They could not tell how many of the outlaws were collected on the island; it was probable, they thought, that there were the crews of other vessels besides O’Harrall’s followers. Firing could be heard from the side of the harbour, and they concluded therefore that fighting was taking place in that direction.

It had not occurred to Owen that the prisoners might have been kept on board the Ouzel Galley, and that after all he might be disappointed by not finding Norah. Dan and Pompey sprang forward to his side, and assisted him in keeping to the right path, with which they were far better acquainted than he was. They had got close to the building, when a voice shouted in Spanish, “Who goes there?” The flash and report of a musket followed; the bullet whistled over their heads.

“Bedad, it’s thim Spanish rascals who had charge of us,” cried Dan. “Faix, but it’s all right, for the captin is sure to be there. Give a cheer, lads, and they will know we are coming.”

The seaman, without stopping to receive the order from their officers, uttered a true British cheer, which had the effect of making the Spanish guard take to their heels; and the next instant Owen, bursting open the outer door, was mounting the ladder which led to the loft, followed by Gerald, Dan, and Pompey, the others pressing after them. Quickly reaching the top, Owen found his hand grasped by that of Captain Tracy. The next moment Norah was in his arms, while the old captain was almost overcome with joy and astonishment at seeing his son. For some seconds their feelings prevented them from uttering a word, when Captain O’Brien, coming forward, exclaimed—

“I am delighted to see you, lad, for we had well-nigh given you up as lost. How have you managed to make your way here? Tell us all about it. From hearing the firing we guessed that the pirates must have been attacked.”

Before Gerald could reply, Dan and Pompey had come up the ladder. Mr Foley quickly made his appearance, and gave a more succinct account of the events which had occurred than the rest of the party would probably have been able to do.

While the lieutenant was recounting what had happened, Gerald had time to tell Norah how thankful he was to find her again. She could even now, however, with but difficulty utter a word. On being brought to the loft, she had discovered that it had been occupied by Owen, and, not knowing that he had escaped, her fears for his safety had been unspeakable, although her father and Captain O’Brien had endeavoured to persuade her that he must have got away during O’Harrall’s absence. O’Harrall himself refused to afford any information on the subject, apparently feeling satisfaction at the agony the poor girl was suffering. He had paid his prisoners two visits, but had not, as far as they could judge, made up his mind how he should dispose of them—although, from some hints he had let drop that very evening, they were apprehending the worst.

Norman Foley, who was ignorant of the number of persons on the island, fearing that his party might be attacked, thought it prudent at once to return to the boats and get on board the Research. Norah and the two captains were perfectly willing to accompany him; and the seamen shouldering their trunks, the party at once set off, guided by Dan and Pompey—Owen very naturally preferring to escort Norah instead of taking the lead. Her father and Captain O’Brien walked on either side of them, with cutlasses in their hands and pistols in their belts, the only articles belonging to the pirates which they had carried off. A sharp look-out was kept on either hand, lest any of the pirates lying in ambush might spring out and attempt to recover the prisoners. They, of course, supposed that the Spaniards, who had made their escape, would give the alarm.

Owen breathed more freely when they at length reached the boats. As he looked along the shore, he observed that all the lights in the huts had been extinguished, the inhabitants, expecting to be attacked by the English, having probably fled. The men in charge of the boats reported that none had approached them, nor had they seen any persons swimming to shore.

The party quickly embarked, and were received with loud cheers, as they got alongside the Research, when it was known that the old captain and his daughter had been recovered.

With feelings of intense satisfaction and thankfulness, Owen once again trod the deck of the Ouzel Galley, which, though a lawful prize to the Champion’s crew, Commander Olding assured him should be delivered up to him. The cargo with which he had sailed from Montego Bay had long since been removed, but a large amount of, treasure was found on board which, from its character, it was known must have been pillaged from some Spanish ship. It would therefore now become the property of Commander Olding and his ship’s company.

Lieutenant Foley, with thirty men, was sent on board the Ouzel Galley, and every preparation was made for her defence should the pirates venture to attack her during the night. No attempt of the sort, however, was made, nor indeed was a single boat seen moving across the calm waters of the lagoon, nor could any of the inhabitants be discerned on shore. The morning found the two ships floating peaceably in the centre of the lagoon; and except a few huts scattered here and there along the beach, and the dismasted vessels further up the harbour, no sign existed of its being the pirates’ stronghold. It owed its security entirely to its remote position and the intricacy of the channel leading to it. Before quitting it, the commander considered it his duty to search the vessels and to destroy the pirates’ dwellings. Perhaps, too, he had hopes of discovering some of their booty.

An expedition was therefore sent on shore, under the command of the first lieutenant. The vessels, having been examined, were found to be empty; none of the huts contained any articles of value. All met with having been burnt to the ground, the party proceeded inland, until they reached the large building which had so long served as the prison of Owen and his companions. A secret door was discovered, opening from the outer room in which old Mammy had lived. On bursting it open an inner room was found, nearly full of booty of various descriptions. Among it were bales of rich silks, muslins, and cloths, cases of cutlery and casks of wine, boxes of preserves, gold and silver ornaments, caskets of jewels, and numerous other articles. Those of most value, which could easily be carried off, were at once shouldered by the men, who forthwith returned with them to the boat. On their arrival on board, another party was despatched to bring off the greater part of the remainder, when the store was set on fire and the rest consumed.

By this time a breeze had sprung up, and as it was important to take advantage of it, sail was made, and the Research leading, under the pilotage of the master and Owen, assisted by Dan and Pompey, the two vessels began to thread their way along the channel. The lead was of course kept going; and as they neared the more intricate part, the wind being light, a boat was sent ahead to sound. Thus, all dangers being avoided, they at length, just before sunset, got clear out to sea. Fair breezes now wafted them rapidly along. Owen had remained on board the Research that he might enjoy the society of Norah, who would not willingly have again been parted from him.

The weather continued fine, and after a run of ten days the two ships entered Port Royal harbour, and stood on until they dropped their anchors before Kingston. They were immediately boarded by numerous persons from the shore. Among the first who reached the Ouzel Galley was Mr Ferris. He was greatly astonished, at finding Norman Foley in command, and still more so at hearing what had befallen her.

“Your reappearance, my dear fellow, will restore life and animation to my poor girl. Although she would not believe you were lost, we had given you up, for it was generally supposed that the Champion had gone down in a hurricane, or been sunk by an enemy, or driven on shore without any one escaping to give an account of the catastrophe. We only arrived here a few days ago, and have been waiting for a vessel to return home, with several other persons. One of them is Miss Pemberton, Ellen’s great friend. Poor girl! she had a severe trial, and she and Ellen have sympathised with each other. You saw her at Bellevue with that fine soldier, Major Malcolm. They were engaged to marry, having been smitten at first sight, but he and young Belt, who so gallantly defended Bellevue, were sent in pursuit of the rebel blacks. They had followed the rascals into their mountain fastnesses, and, regardless of the danger to which they exposed themselves, pushed on ahead of their own men into a defile, where they were both shot down by a party of negroes lying in ambush. For some time we thought Fanny would never get over it; but she has been advised change of scene and air, so we are taking her with us to Ireland. Archie Sandys, that brave young fellow whom you had on board the Champion, also forms one of the party. He has lately come into a good property, so he has given up his situation out here. And now, what are you going to do?”

Norman Foley, eager at once to see Ellen, replied that he must first deliver up the Ouzel Galley to the prize agents, and as soon as that duty had been performed he would accompany Mr Ferris on shore.

“By-the-by, I was forgetting she was no longer my ship, though I conclude that after the regular forms have been gone through, she will be restored to us at a nominal value,” observed Mr Ferris.

“The commander has already made an arrangement with her former master, Captain Massey, on the subject,” answered the lieutenant.

From the Ouzel Galley Mr Ferris proceeded on board the Research to congratulate his friends on their escape, when he invited them all to his house in Kingston, where those who were able to do so at once accompanied him.

Commander Olding and his officers had, of course, to report themselves to the admiral, and to give an account of the loss of the Champion. They had to undergo the usual court-martial, and were, as was expected, honourably acquitted.

In the mean time the Ouzel Galley, having been restored to her former owners, was quickly fitted for sea, while the Research was purchased into the navy, and the command given to Lieutenant Tarwig.

Commander Olding and several of his officers had made up their minds to return home by the first opportunity, but most of the rest, as well as a portion of the Champion’s crew, joined the Research. Of the captured booty, a handsome share was made over to Owen Massey, in consideration of his having been instrumental in securing it.

A fleet of merchantmen being ready to sail, the Thetis frigate, on board which Commander Olding had taken a passage, was appointed to convoy them, accompanied by the Research. Lieutenant Foley and Gerald very naturally preferred going home in the Ouzel Galley, The weather was fine, and there was every prospect of a prosperous voyage.

Much of the time which Ellen might otherwise have spent in comforting her friend Fanny was, as may be supposed, passed in the society of Norman Foley. Norah, also, had less time to bestow on her than might have been the case if Owen Massey had not been on board. To Archie Sandys, therefore, fell the duty of offering such consolation as he was able, to bestow on the young lady. Consequences which might not altogether have been unexpected ensued. Before the voyage was over Fanny had greatly recovered her spirits, and had consented, when her friend Ellen Ferris married, to become Archie’s bride. This was the most important event of the voyage.

On a fine bright morning the Ouzel Galley sailed into the Bay of Dublin, with flags flying at her mast-heads and mizen-peak. She was quickly recognised as she ran up the Liffey, and Mr Ferris’s partners and the underwriters who had insured her were soon collected on board to welcome her long-lost master and their other friends. A dinner was shortly afterwards given to all who had returned in her, when, to commemorate the event, and to show their satisfaction at the result of the arbitration to which they had agreed, it was determined to form a society, the members of which should be called the captain, officers, and crew of the “Ouzel Galley,” the president taking the title of captain, and the other office-bearers that of officers; and it was wisely resolved, instead of going to law, to submit in future any disputes which might arise connected with underwriting to their arbitration. As a mark of respect to Captain Tracy, he was elected the first captain, Owen Massey being appointed his lieutenant.

Before many weeks had elapsed the three proposed marriages took place, Archie Sandys departing with his bride for Scotland, while Norman Foley and Owen Massey made a tour through the south of Ireland before going to Waterford, where they had agreed to remain for some time, to be near Mrs Massey and Captain Tracy. Owen would, however, have again to go to sea, but neither he nor Norah liked to talk of the subject, and wisely forebore thinking about it.

Norman was expecting to enjoy some months on shore, when he and Gerald received orders to join the Aeolus, 32-gun frigate, which was at that time cruising off the Irish coast. On getting on board they found several of their old shipmates. They had been at sea for some time when the Aeolus was joined by the Pallas and Brilliant frigates, soon after which a gale coming on compelled the squadron to put into Kinsale harbour. Here they were lying repairing some slight damages they had received, when a courier arrived in hot haste with the information that a French squadron of three frigates, under the command of Captain Thurot, had attacked the town of Carrickfergus and plundered the place, and had had the audacity to demand contributions from Belfast, which he threatened to treat in the same way. Captain Elliott, who commanded the Aeolus, and was senior captain, immediately put to sea with the other frigates in search of the Frenchmen. He soon gained information that they had left Carrickfergus, and were apparently intending to return to France. As far as force was concerned his ships carried the same number of guns as the Frenchmen, but the latter had many more men on board. He, however, felt confident of victory.

The three frigates were standing towards the Isle of Man, when, early in the morning, the French squadron was seen approaching from the northward. Thurot could not possibly escape without an action had he wished it. He commanded the Marshal Belleisle, of forty-four guns, and had with him the Blonde and Terpsichore. Nor was he a man to yield as long as a hope of victory remained: his character was well known to all on board the British ships.

Norman Foley and Gerald had taken part in not a few actions, but they felt that this was likely to prove, though short, as severe as any in which they had fought.

The crews were piped to breakfast as usual. It was quickly got over, and then every man went to his gun and stood ready for the fight. At nine o’clock the first shot was fired, and the Aeolus, ranging up alongside the brave Thurot’s ship, hotly engaged her. The battle lasted for upwards of an hour, the English firing with a rapidity which told fearfully on their enemies.

The Blonde and Terpsichore at length struck their colours, but Thurot held out to the last. The Aeolus, discharging another broadside, ran her aboard, when grappling-irons were secured and the boarders called away, led by Norman Foley and Gerald Tracy. Her deck already presented the appearance of a perfect shambles, so many of her crew lay dead and dying in all directions. A determined band still held out, headed by an officer who, by his shouts and gestures, encouraged his men to fight till the last. Gerald at first supposed that he must be Thurot, but a second look convinced him that he was a much taller and darker man. Just as the British crew sprang on board a rifle bullet struck him on the chest, and, throwing up his sword-arm, he fell backward on the deck, when the rest of the crew, retreating, shouted out that they yielded. One of the men aft immediately hauled down the French flag.

Among the slain was Thurot, who had been struck down just before the ship got alongside.

Gerald then approached the officer he had seen killed. A glance convinced him that he was no other than O’Harrall. This was confirmed by Tim Maloney, who had joined the Aeolus with him, and corroborated by some of the French prisoners, who stated that he had only a short time before come on board the ship, having lately arrived from the West Indies.

“This will not be unsatisfactory news to Owen Massey,” observed Gerald to Norman Foley. “It is my belief that he is the last of the O’Harralls, and Owen will have a good chance of recovering the property of which they so unjustly deprived his family.”

The prizes were towed into Ramsay Bay, in the Isle of Man, for the brave Thurot’s ship had not struck until her hold was half full of water, and she was in an almost sinking state.

The French commodore was buried with the honours due to a gallant foe, and many who had formerly known him mourned his fate.

The Aeolus being paid off, Lieutenant Foley obtained his commander’s rank. When the war was over his young wife would not allow him again to go to sea.

Gerald stuck to the service and became an admiral.

Owen Massey, having regained his paternal property, remained on shore, although he joined the representative crew of “The Ouzel Galley,” of which for many years he held the honourable post of captain.

The End.